Standing aboard the Iron Crown, Alaric’s beard is crusted with salt and frost, a white mask that makes him look a score of years older than his thirty winters. He grips the ice-slicked rail of the foredeck, his knuckles as white as the foam churning on the surface of this endless ocean.
Behind them lies the world’s ending. He can still see it when he closes his eyes: the sky turning the colour of bruised flesh, the great ash tree splintering, and the fires, oh gods, the fires that licked the very stars until the oceans rose up to drown the screams. Ragnarök was not a single blow, but a long, bloody feast, and Alaric’s people were but the scraps left upon the plate.
"Steady!" he roars, though the wind tears the word from his lips and tosses it into the maw of the storm. "Hold our course! If the All-Father has abandoned us, then we sail by our own light!"
The fleet is a broken thing, a string of blackened pearls tossed upon a grey velvet shroud. For months they have drifted, eating boiled leather and the barnacles scraped from the hulls. They have buried the weak in the deep, and the strong have grown hollow-eyed and feral.
The storm screams with a banshee wail that heralds the end of all life. Beside the Iron Crown sails the Sunder-Shield, laden with three hundred souls. It lurches suddenly atop a cresting wave. For a heartbeat, Alaric sees the faces of the men on her deck, pale as maggots. Then the sea simply opens its mouth. The Sunder-Shield doesn't just sink; she is crushed, her timbers snapping with the sound of a giant’s ribs breaking.
"She’s gone, Sire!" shouts Hake, his shield-bearer, pointing a trembling hand into the sleet.
Alaric looks, but there is only the white spray and the uncaring roar of the gale. Half his kingdom is down there now, settling into the silt and the dark. The lords of the high seats, the weavers of song, the babes who have never known a spring—all are swallowed by the gullet of the storm.
Then comes the grind. It is not the soft embrace of sand, but the scream of iron against stone.
"Breakers!" a lookout shrieks, a moment before the world tilts on its axis.
The Iron Crown shudders, a bone-jarring impact that throws Alaric to the freezing deck. He tastes copper, blood from a bitten tongue. Around him, the fleet is dying its final death. Ships are driven like nails into the jagged teeth of the coastline. The Valiant is cloven in two; the Northstar capsizes, her crew spilled into the surf like grain from a torn sack.
Alaric hauls himself up, his fingers numb, his breath coming in ragged plumes. He looks toward the shore. It is a grim, grey land of towering pines and obsidian cliffs, cloaked in a blanket of crisp white snow.
Glancing down, the king sees Hake sprawled unconscious on the deck. A nasty gash marks his head where falling timber has struck. The ship lurches once more as the shallows take hold, and Alaric roars his orders into the night.
“Lower anchors, set down the boats and make for land!”
In the frozen agony of the storm, the crew sets to work and within the hour Alaric finds himself wading through the waist-high surf, dragging Hake’s limp body by the collar until he hits the shingle. He looks back at the churning wreckage. Of the hundred ships that fled the breaking of Midgard, perhaps fifty remain, battered and listing in the shallows. The rest are splinters and corpses.
Alaric sinks to his knees in the black sand, the weight of his crown—now just a cold band of iron—pressing heavy on his brow. He has saved his people from the Ragnarök, only to deliver them to an uncertain fate on this uncharted land.
"We are here," he whispers, his voice a dry rasp. "Wherever 'here' may be."
And so the game begins. Describe how your character gets ashore, use the skills at your disposal to aid you in the efforts and at the end of your post make an athletics check (The DC to be decided by the actions you take and the resources you expend) the roll is at a -1 if you wear or carry medium armour and -3 if you wear or carry heavy armour.
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Leif had been aboard the Northstar with his last two surviving family members, an elderly mother and a barely off the tit sister. The jolt upon hitting the shoals followed by a transverse wave was too much for the ship. She rolled almost immediately. Leif was cast into the sea along with all hands on deck. The icy salt water took his breath away and most of his strength. The weight of his gear and minimal possessions was too much. He struggled to stay afloat and just narrowly was able to cast Guidance on himself. It was then by the assistance of others and the luck to find a string of flotsam and jetsam that allowed him to wash ashore. He looked back where the ship had capsized but it was gone. Nearby survivors relayed to him that none below deck were saved.
Leif hid his face and sobbed. To others, the convulsions could be interpreted as coughing up seawater, but for Leif, there was precious little left to live for.
Athletics (-1 STR and -1 medium armor): 0 plus guidance: 4
Spluttering and gasping for air, Kora heaves herself up on the rocky, black sand shore. She shoves the end of her staff hard into the sand as the tide tries to drag her back out to sea. Casting Shillelagh on it, she hopes the growing vines along the length of it help it grasp some purchase. She feels the pull of the water along her dark brown leathers, hoping they are still intact, as well as her bag that is strapped securely to her bag. Kora knows it is still there as she felt it collide against her spine when she first hit land.
Her typically wild, almost silver hair was hanging in her face, filled with seaweed, sand and who knows what else, but she brushes it out of her face once she is fully out of the water so she can look around. She sees many others on the shore near her, not that she knows anyone. Hell, she didn't even know what the ship's name was that she was taking refuge in, just that she was able to get away. She sits there, bedraggled, soaked to the bone and clinging to her staff as she catches her breath.
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Halp was rowing, not 15 feet from the actual king (if you can believe it!), when the Iron Crown hit the rocks.
He saw the King’s man, Hake, go down.
Well, no need to make a fuss about it with all the hullabaloo and fuss already in the air, he thought. From where he sat at his oar in the listing longboat he cast Spare the Dying on the poor bastard, may that his soul had time to prepare itself for the feast halls.
Next thing, everyone’s shouting, “She’s taking on water! Swim as swim can!” and more. The oar, snapped in half and loose from its mooring was in Halp’s hands, and people were grabbing their gear and abandoning ship like rats in the shallows.
Halpsaw the king taking things more calmly, issuing orders. He's surveying the scene, he's not rushed. A good leader, Halp thought. Mayhap, the Iron Crown isn’t in too much trouble, after all.
Very well then.
Halplooped the straps of his pack, his shield and the strap of his crossbow around the oar and tied them fast as best he could.
Then, makeshift staff/floating aid in hand, he leapt from the deck into the foam and fury.
Keeping grim hold of the thick oar, weighed down by his chainmail, he clung to the oar for his life. He was not afraid, he was determined.
That’s what he told himself, but of course, he was afraid too.
His feet, weighed down as he was, hit the bottom from time to time, gaining purchase, propelling him shoreward. When he hit a trough, went in over his head, it was only his grip on the mighty, makeshift staff that kept him afloat, that he could pull himself back up onto for a moment before plunging back under.
In the end, he made it to shore.
Even if they wrote it before they died, he thought, he is sure the gods had a plan for him.
He spits salt and blood on the sand. He berates himself for his lack of humility. Looking to his left and right, seeing his fellows crawling up the beach, out of the surf, Halp knows:
The gods have a plan.
For all of them.
Athletics (incl -3 for heavy armour and +2 for STR, ATHLETCIS for a total of -1) =16
(OOC: DM, if you wanted to, Halp has a +3 for Survival if you think his use of the oar counts in that regard, in which case his roll would be one point higher, your call...)
Eldon jumps into action where he had been frantically making repairs on the ship "Ships had it! Everyone abandon ship!"
He rushes to his workbench scooping all of his tools into his backpack and throwing some supplies in. He bounds toward the railing and holding his bag close he jumps landing in a splash.
He gasps and splutters as he swims for shore constantly being towed for the bottom by his heavy scaled armor and bulging workmans suit. Eventually he crawls onto the beach coughing as he recovers. As his strength returns he pulls himself up and looks around "They need help..."
He surveys the scene and starts to build, tools in hands he starts building shelters, looking for things in need of repair and trying to fill camp needs
Death. Death was all around him. Screaming gales, roaring waters of bonechilling black, starvation, sickness, fire, fear - the gates of Hel had opened. For Richter. Alaric. Borrs. Fjolgeir. Anders. One by one, the Skald watched almost all of them ebb away, their eyes pulled, their faces slack. Only his King remained. Yet even as the churning maelstrom saw fit to chew the boards away beneath him, old Richter - once championed "The Revelry" - could only sink pitifully into the cold grasp of churning brine.
He was fit to allow himself be swept away, were it not for the gnawing clawing familiar sensation pushing him for air. He was alive. He was alive then and alive now. He wanted to live, was going to live. The Valiant was gone. The women and the young he'd been keeping calm were gone, washed away with the tide. And he remained. That is how it must be, how it would be.
Rather than swim, the Skald clawed and tore his way to the surface, treating his foray to shore as a desperate struggle against a faceless creature. All the while, he cursed and spat, swearing ills upon the vile Trickster, the gluttonous Wolves, and the wretched Fool that sired them both, knowing full well their touch was all but gone from this world and the next. Their wiles were not his concern before Surtr wrent the sky in the fires of Muspelheim, but as their influence had torn his life asunder, he made due to learn their names, every one.
The moment his fingers too slipped into frigid sand, and he at last stumbled to shore, furs dripping and foot wrappings soaked, Richter's voice boomed in wrathful crescendo and he began to chant the praise of Tyr and Thor; memories now, but ones he could cling to - him and others - for what semblance of comfort they could dare to have needed. Death was all around them. His voice, roaring over the crash of tides, pierced the gloom around him, drawing those lost among the waves to the beach. Perhaps his voice might draw his countrymen to sanctuary.
(OOC: You can skip down to "Arrival." This first part is mostly just my attempt to get into this character.)
Before the arrival
Sólmyrkvi looked into teeth of the storm. "I have no hope left," he thought, "nothing else to hope for other than a brave death." With no hope of his own, he rode along on the hope and determination of King Alaric, much the same as he was riding on this ship, letting it pull him along to an uncertain future. He felt numb. He wrapped his fine cloak more tightly around himself and stamped his feet, but it wasn't just numbness from the cold. His mind seemed blank after all that had happened. Just blank and numb. Trying to think or plan felt like staring into the howling, blank whiteness of a blizzard. He blinked and looked away from the stormy sea and back to the deck of the ship. He shook the ice from his cloak and squinted through the sleet, searching the deck for King Alaric.
After the world seemed to end in fire and death, King Alaric persisted, struggled against doom, determined to save some remnant of humanity. Sólmyrkvi wondered what drove the king on. Duty? Stubbornness? Hope? "Bereft!" The word leapt unbidden to top of his mind. He was bereft of hope, thinking that this must be the End of All Things. He admitted to himself, "The skalds always had the best words," and he wondered whether he'd ever hear another song. Sólmyrkvi felt like a lost soul, and this awful journey was just the last of humanity, crossing Gjöll to their final grave. "Maybe this storm is how the world finally ends, and all that will be left is an ever-stormy, frozen sea."
King Alaric was at the aft of the ship with Hake, his man. When King Alaric accepted his oath as a sworn protector of the king, Sólmyrkvi knew that the king only accepted him out of loyalty to his dead father. Loyalty and pity - that's why he was allowed to ride on the flagship, the Iron Crown, with King Alaric. Hróðulf was one of Alaric's longest-serving commanders and one of his earliest supporters. Sólmyrkvi wished that he had applied himself better, that he had more to offer. When he had sworn the oath, he expected to die in his first fight. But he had survived that battle...somehow. And then the next. And then the scramble for the ships. He was surprised to be alive. He wished that he had more time, more life. The thought stirred feelings of self-pity...and anger.
Sólmyrkvi suddenly realized that he was holding the strange greatsword again, leaning on its point and squeezing the hilt until his hands hurt. The pain pulled him out of his morbid reverie and back to the present. "I want to live!", he thought. It seemed obvious: of course he did! To live and breath and struggle and experience. His life had been too short.
Arrival
Sólmyrkvi had been standing on the deck of the Iron Crown, brooding about his fate. He's in his early 20s, handsome in a sort of roguish, youthful manner, but the events of Ragnorök have taken some of the light and fun out of his pale blue eyes. He's dressed in an expensive cloak and warm clothes (no armor) and leans on a strange greatsword with a blade the color of seafoam.
The wind howls. People howling? He realizes that people are shouting, "Breakers!", above the shrieking wind. Then the ship lurches to a sudden, grinding stop. Sólmyrkvi loses his balance and tumbles against the rail, his previous thought still in his mind, "I want to live!"
The ship lists as people and timbers go flying. Sólmyrkvi quickly casts Mage Armor to help protect himself from the debris. A sudden flurry of activity erupts on the deck as men leap to their orders to lower the boats, but before he can move toward the nearest boat, a wave breaks over the side, and suddenly Sólmyrkvi is falling, the water dragging him from the ship. The surprise and the freezing water knocks the breath out of him.
Sólmyrkvi loses his sword in the fall. Or maybe the sword vanished before he fell? But he has no time to think about the strange sword because water this cold is deadly dangerous. He fights back to the surface but inhales salt water when a wave hits him just as he tries to breathe. Now he's coughing and choking as he struggles to keep his head above the rough water long enough to get a full breath of air.
Seconds pass and then a minute. Sólmyrkvi wishes that he had some wood -- anything -- to help him keep afloat in the rough surf. Just as he's thinking that, a sturdy quarterstaff is in his hand as though someone put it there. He looks at the glossy, black wood in wonder. The staff doesn't give him much more buoyancy, but he finds that he can use it as a kind of rudder to keep himself oriented in the water. The turbulent waves push him first toward the rocks and then back toward the ship, and he finds that he can use the staff as a long pole to push himself away from any hazards.
Sólmyrkvi tries to look around to figure out the safest route to the shore without being thrown upon the rocks by the waves. Now that the initial shock is over, he won't survive much longer in the frigid water. The cold is already sapping his strength. Sadly, he cannot make out much between the storm and waves and now boats, and the cold makes it hard to think clearly. The waves are pushing him back toward the rocks again, and he again thinks,"I want to live!"
Sólmyrkvi doesn't believe that he can make it to the shore safely, but he spots a boat nearby in the water. He makes one last, desperate attempt to swim toward it. He has an odd sort of luck. The boat had been thrown into the rocks and is now taking on water, so the sailors were too busy bailing out the boat to row toward the shore. As he gets close, they finally hear him calling. He holds out his staff, and a couple of the men use it to drag him closer. Sólmyrkvi is now thankful that he was much smaller than all of his brothers and had a lot of experience escaping from them by dodging around, over, or under the nearest obstacle. Once he makes it to the boat, Sólmyrkvi is able to scramble gracefully aboard as a couple of men lean the other way to steady the boat.
But then there's the problem of the gash in the side of the boat! The boat continues to take on water as fast as they bail it out, and a few of the men are arguing about whether to just row for the shore and hope for the best, continue bailing, or dive into the surf and try to swim the rest of the way to shore. Knowing that if they all opt to swim, he's done for, Sólmyrkvi is able to convince them to keep bailing for now. "Just give me a minute to see what I can do about this gash in the boat!"
Sólmyrkvi casts Mending, chanting and gesturing, waving his dark staff and tapping the edges of the hole with it. The men who were bailing out the boat are happy to see that Sólmyrkvi must have some Power. Every time he taps around the edges of the the hole in the side of the boat, the gash seems to be a little smaller. After a minute of this work, the hole is mended! Tired, wet, and shaking with the cold, Sólmyrkvi collapses onto one of the boat's benches. "I'm going to live," he thinks to himself firmly as the men row the boat toward the shore. He just hopes that they're too busy rowing to notice that his staff has been replaced by a spear with a straight shaft of dark wood and a gleaming blade at the head.
When the boat finally gets close, Sólmyrkvi hops out to help push it up onto the shingle. He's still shaking with cold, so he finds a clear spot on the strand and casts Create Bonfire. He stands near the flames to warm himself and dry off as much as he can and encourages others share the warmth. He can only maintain the fire for 1 minute, but if some of the others can gather dry wood and find a sheltered spot to make a firepit, he can use his bonfire to start the fire.
As Sólmyrkvi warms himself at the fire and sees others coming toward the warmth of the fire, he thinks, "We're going to live!"
Actions
Athletics check and other (speculative) skill rolls in game log. I hoped that he could just swim to shore, but that seemed unlikely with these awful rolls.
Trying to convince the sailors to let him try Mending the boat, Persuasion: 10(I assumed that it was sufficient since half of them wanted to keep bailing anyway.)
Casting Mending for 1 minute to repair the boat, using his Pact Weapon as a spellcasting focus
Bonus Action to conjure/change his pact weapon: Spear
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Sólmyrkvi your efforts are valiant and together with the use of your burgeoning powers you gain the land and life where so many others did not. (with a 5) you take 2 bludgeoning damage from the cruel battering of the ocean and the black jagged rocks that guard this shore. You also lose on item (of your choice) from your inventory.
As you now warm yourself next to your fire and think those heartening words; "We're going to live!" As if in response, the cold wind gathers and blows with a sudden violence that threatens to douse your flames. For the briefest of moments you hear laughter on that wind, cold and merciless. Laughter that sends an even deeper chill to your damp wet bones.
Richter the heavy words of the chant escape your lips with a grim solemnity that drives back the cold and fear, syllable by syllable, like a hammer against granite. (With a 22) You hear in the darkness as others rise and join you in the familiar dirge. To your left a warrior slams her sword to a sodden shield, carrying the beat of the chant into the darkness before you. The dead gods give no answer this night, but it matters not, the song still draws you on. Soon you are surrounded by your fellow survivors, all making your way toward a flickering light in the darkness, where some enterprising soul has managed to light a fire. Another small act of defiance in the face of death and despair. (With a 20) By some miracle of fate you make the landing without injury and with your equipment in tact.
Eldon (With a 9) you escape the waves with your life, but not without cost. You take 2 bludgeoning damage and lose one item of your choice from your inventory. Seeing the press of humanity emerging from the waves and recognising the danger still ahead you brush aside your fear and pain moving into action. You begin the long bitter work of creating shelters, resisting the pull of the nearby fire. Others take your lead and begin gathering driftwood and debris from the battered ships. Many will live tonight that might otherwise have died without your efforts, but again not without cost. Take inspiration for your heroic efforts, but also take 3 cold damage as you remain exposed and vulnerable as you work.
Halp (with an 8) You take 3 bludgeoning damage and lose one item of your choice from your inventory. It was one of the most harrowing experiences of your long life, and without the aid of this old piece of timber that still remains gripped in your cold shaking hands, it may have been your last experience. Your heart is heavy and your limbs feel like lead but up ahead you see fire and the promise of warmth, and around you, you hear the low chant of the last of all men, praising the dead gods and defying the bitter cold. You nod, the gods have a plan! and as you start to move forward, leaving the terror of the ocean behind you, you can not help but wonder. Which gods?
Kora (with a 16) the sea delivers you to the land, and though its handling is rough and the reception is cold and unyielding, you are surprised to find yourself healthy and whole. Sitting in the sand, just out of reach of the foaming surf you take one ragged breath after another, watching the wretched remnant of humanity trudge by toward a nearby fire. Your shillelagh remains a fixed point in the sand, keeping you steady and feeding you strength and assurance. Where ever this new land may be, your connection to the earth remains strong. Around you a chant starts to build as some brave soul defies the cold with his voice and others begin to follow. Do you?
Leif (with a 12) you take 3 bludgeoning damage as you are thrown from the deck of the Northstar. You barely feel the cold and damp. Grief overwhelms all. "None survived." the words reverberate in your mind and you simply stand, an empty shell in the frozen darkness. Men and women pass by you like ghosts in the night and the flickering warmth of a fire in the distance barely registers, it is but a distant detail in the horror of the moment. Around you survivors begin to chant. The words sound alien and hollow. The urge to scream out, to throw yourself back into the waves in a desperate attempt to change what you know to be true. They are dead. They are gone. You are lost. What will you do?
Those at the fire may introduce themselves. Those who are not have decisions to make. Have fun and dont die :)
The chill winds threaten to topple Leif. He tries to steady himself on the uneven stones upslope from the crashing shore behind him. The smell of brine is heavy in his nostrils and his eyes sting as if his tears are partially frozen near the lids. He hastily wipes his face and expels the snot and sea from his nose. This action begins to clear some of the fog, the disbelief, the horror. He notices a pain in his left rib cage that supersedes the cold and wet he now perceives as well. His vision slowly clears to see that the shadowy procession of phantoms that had passed before him materialize into survivors woundfully staggering to a fire further inland.These were remarkable people. Over the tumult of gale and surf he could even hear chants from these defiant souls.
Surprisingly, he also notices that the land was not completely without life. Although no seabirds’ screech could be heard, what had at first appeared to be only a grayscale of churning sky and sea clashing incessantly over the destruction of cold and mercilessly sharp jutting rocks, he could now see small tufts of long broad-bladed sea grass whipped furiously by the winds. Somehow in the crevasses, life was hanging on.
With renewed vigor, he too begins his own march uphill towards purpose, towards the remnant, towards the light and warmth of the only community remaining on this god forsaken earth.
Eventually he stumbles uneasily into a gap in the encircled fire. He searches the faces of those nearby, lit by the dance of orange firelight and shadow.
”Did king Alaric survive?” He shouts to those nearby. I must find him or whoever is in charge to offer my service. For what it’s worth.
Eldon exhaustedly builds one last shelter as he whispers "Just one more" Then he forces himself to walk the perimeter and check for danger or possible disturbances. If there is a clear spot this may be he casts Alarm. Then he pulls himself beside the fire to warm up before he flops into bed. He whispers to himself "At least I got in a good days work".
As soon as he's had a chance to warm up a little he engages in the conversation "So hey everyone! Nice to see that there are others! I'm Eldon, craftsman, magic enthusiest."
Shimmering gold. His eyes spotted the light in the distance. A beacon, a symbol to the faithful of their brothers and sisters yet lived. Richter let his voice recede, and the chants of the faithful swelled to engulf his lead. He need not shout of praise or feat - for the young warriors to have survived, no story is greater than the promise of the warmth that flame would assure against the cold, black sea. He sees it, hope in their gaunt faces. It's a welcome sign, one he'd not seen in what felt like ages.
The old Skald stopped, letting his faithful walk past him. They had deserved their time to rest. But he was not done. Reaching out, he tenderly grabbed the shoulder of one stepping past him - the young woman with her shield and blade. Good. "Take heed, child." His voice was graven, tired and cold. Yet stern, like grinding stone. "I have need of you." He could tell she craved the inviting warmth of the flame ahead. He did not blame her. But he was not done.
"We find solace by Njord's blessing, yet our brothers and sisters still in the tide struggle against Rán's hungry maw." He reached within his satchel, clammy hands wrapping round damp iron. Setting his lantern within her hands, his voice once more ground against her hunger for fire, as cold stone quenches heat. "Take two whom you trust and shine this upon the beach. Let others find your voice-" his hand waved about, indicating the staunch chanting echoed upon the shore. "-Be a beacon to those dying in the water. And if any yet come, who still struggle to live, help them to the fire. By the Allfather's eye, we will save as many as we can." Even as his words sought to light a fire in her very soul, his hands softly lit the flickering wick of the lantern, casting a gentle golden glow upon the two.
As she turned, the old bard played one final hand, his lips invoking upon old Jotunn words, and poured his courage within her, as oil to a wick. [Cast Heroism] Turning and hobbling to the fire, Richter sank to his knees with a dull moan, and lifted his arms before him, palms turned to the black sky. There he would wait, prepared to save any he could.
[Prepares to cast Spare the Dying on anyone the young warriors bring to the flame. Hopefully, someone.]
Halpsees the fire. See the silhouettes of folks gathering around it.
The fire, it's building now. Looks good.
He'll be no good to others if he doesn't get warm.
On the other hand, he'll be no good to others if he does no good.
Halp wraps his shoulders in the shredded remains of his robes , for all the good that'll do then he starts walking the water line, looking for souls carried to shore, but unconscious. Where he finds one he first casts Spare the dying, then if needed, or if their wounds are particularly grievous, uses a dose from his Healing Kit to tend their injuries. When/if they wake he asks whoever's able to help them to the fire.
(OOC: DM, let me know how many uses to remove)
Then he continues his search.
Eventually, when he's found all he could, he heads to the fire himself.
"Bless us all," is all he says to those gathered around. He throws the tattered cloth into the fire, the water will steam away in a second or two and the cloth will add... something to the flame, he figures.
Then he hunkers down as close as he can get to the fire. He grits his teeth and waits for his shivering to ease.
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Leif you cry out, ”Did king Alaric survive?”
In the flickering firelight, some faces turn toward you, some turn away. Only one speaks. A young fellow wearing robes of blue and grey, with a steak of white in his otherwise thick dark hair. His face is somewhat familiar but you can not yet place him.
"Aye he lives." says the man, gesturing out into the darkness. "I saw him come ashore. He'll be out there."
Other fires have begun to spring up now as more survivors make the shore and seek warmth and shelter.
Eldon you sink next to the fire and offer your greetings to your country men. The blue robed fellow turns to you with a grim smile and offers a hand in greeting, "Well met Eldon, the name's Merros. We were watching you working on the shelters back there. You have my thanks."
Richter it is not long before the first unconscious body is dragged to the fireside and you work your skills upon them. First one then another soul is rescued from the clutch of death by your efforts.
Halp you set about your own work as you snake your way toward the fire. You use 4 used of your kit before your work is done and as you finally slump down next to the fire you are surprised to hear the familiar cantrip being spoken by the nearby Richter who has just saved a young woman from the cold grasp of the grave.
As Eldon settles in, his breathing coming less quickly he turns to Merros "Well, your welcome. Always looking for a way to help"
He lets out a sigh and un-slings his pack. He pulls out a piece of driftwood and some carving tools and begins to work as he speaks to the others.
"So, what do we know about our resources and environment? What do I have to work with for building materials? Is there any known dangers in the area?"
He lets out a few more sighs as he begins to settle in "What I'm asking is what can I do to help and what is our situation? I can create much anything with the right materials, and I could be carving torches or arrows right now if we need them. Oh yeah! And do we know if a forge survived? I can't craft with metal unless I have a forge or make a flame hot enough"
Kora wipes the freezing water from her face and looks around at her surroundings.
Perception: 10; but doesn't see much in the dark other than the people moving towards the chant and fire.
She sighs as she knows the best course of action is to join the rest and well, get warm. She grabs hold of her Shillelagh staff and uses it to help her up. Taking stock of her body and her inventory, she is pleased to find out she isn't harmed and has everything in their place. She wrenches her staff free and starts trudging towards the chant, wondering how the rest of the people faired.
As she reaches the fire, she nods towards the others and finds a spot to sit and join in. She starts wringing out her hair to try and get it dry.
Sólmyrkvi....As you now warm yourself next to your fire and think those heartening words; "We're going to live!" As if in response, the cold wind gathers and blows with a sudden violence that threatens to douse your flames. For the briefest of moments you hear laughter on that wind, cold and merciless. Laughter that sends an even deeper chill to your damp wet bones.
Sólmyrkvi gasps when he hears the laughter as a chill runs down his spine. His breathing comes a bit quicker as he turns his back to the fire and scans the seashore. He doesn't know what he's looking for. A frost giant? A malevolent "dark elf"? Some sort of evil spirit? (Perception6, in game log) Not seeing anything other than the remnant of King Alaric's people, he decides that he must have imagined it. Then he hears the booming voice down near the water, leading some of the survivors in song. "Some trick of the wind," he mutters to himself and puts the strange laughter out of his mind.
As warmth and feeling are return, Sólmyrkvi realizes that he's bleeding. While he gets help from someone to bandage his wound, he starts to see lights bobbing along the shoreline. "People looking for loved ones or helping the other survivors," he thinks. It would be awful for someone to make it to dry land but then die from the cold and their injuries. He realizes that they're going to need more fires. And, remembering the cold laughter in the wind, he thinks, "And we need to make sure that the fires don't go out."
Once some of the sturdier men and woman gather some wood and make a fire pit, Sólmyrkvi uses his flames to light the wood. But then he also asks for their help to gather more wood. "There could be hundreds of survivors coming ashore," he says. "They cannot all gather around this one fire! Could you try to gather wood for more fires? I'll send who is uninjured to help if you can show them where to look for dry wood." (Persuasion: 12, in game log) Sólmyrkvi is generally well liked and pretty persuasive, but he's not used to telling people twice his age what to do!
While they start to gather more wood, Sólmyrkvi spends a minute to light his bullseye lantern. He realized that he didn't have time to grab any gear that he wasn't wearing before he was swept off of the ship. He assures the people around the fire that he will return soon to help light the other bonfires, and then he takes his lantern and spear -- the one he was holding when the boat came ashore -- walks down to the water. He hurries down the beach, scanning the debris, looking for his lost items.
While he's at it, Sólmyrkvi also tries to gather up any scraps of cloth or canvas, such as blankets or torn pieces of the sails, any straight pieces of lumber that area at least 4-ft long, and any pieces of rope that are 8-ft or longer. If he sees any other able-bodied people down by the water, he asks them to look for the same sorts of materials. He asks them to bring the items to him at the bonfire (pointing) and explains, "It's going to be a long, cold night, and I think that I can help us fashion some shelter from the scraps." (Persuasion: 14, in game log)
When Sólmyrkvi comes across a craftsman (Eldon), who is already diligently working on a makeshift shelter, he introduces himself and says, "I have some people bringing more materials for building tents to that bonfire over there. You should join us when you're done."
Using one of his 2nd Wind abilities to recover hit points, Halpfinally feels warm. Well, warm enough.
He starts walking through the wounded and recovering and lets folks know he has but one healing spell he can muster, that it would be best used on that person closest to their end. And for folks to come grab him if they'd found such a worthy.
Time away from the fires was not the worst thing, Halpthought. Up close, lit in the fires, he could see how much needed doing, how many folk needed tending. Being so ill equipped to help so many in need, it called to mind the battlefield. It reminded him of all those he'd failed to help before now. It was not a good feeling.
Someone would come get him and bring him where they thought he was of most use. Let someone else decide who he would help.
Let someone else decide all the people he would not.
When Sólmyrkvi returns to the fire about 40-minutes later, he's dragging a large section of one of the ship's sails behind him. It's loaded with as much scrap material as he could find in the short time and, most importantly, his tent! (He couldn't find his sack that held all of his torches and almost a week's worth of rations!) Once he's done helping to light wood for more fires, he returns to the first bonfire he made so that he can start setting up the tent, but he finds that more people have gathered around its warmth in his absence. He arrives just in time to hear Leifreceive confirmation that King Alaric is alive. He introduces himself as Sólmyrkvi and asks Leiffor help in setting up his tent. He has to get the the growing crowd to scoot over so that he can set up the tent upwind from the fire. "That way, it will hopefully shield the fire from some of the wind and sleet, and the smoke won't blow toward the tent."
When he's done with the tent, Sólmyrkvi is happy to see that the Eldon has joined the fire, but he has to fight back some jealousy for the praise that Eldon receives from Merros. When he gets a chance, he declares that he will help with building shelters. He explains to Eldon that his has some practice as a tailor. (He does not say that he was motivated to learn the craft one summer once he learned that he could sew secret folds or pockets in his clothes and sneak "contraband" past his mother and various other nosey neighbors.) He also explains that he knows a simple spell to mend items from the ship that were ripped or broken in two: "As long as the damage isn't too large, send them over to me so that I can patch them up for you!"
Sólmyrkvi gets to work in front of his tent. By the light and warmth of the fire, he starts to sort the scraps of canvas and other cloth. He uses his dagger to cut pieces and his Weaver's Tools to sew scraps together to make standard-sized panels for tents and wind-screens. He consults with Eldon on the most useful size for the panels.
When Father Halp finally makes his way back to the fire, Sólmyrkvi cries out happily, "Uncle! I mean...um...Father Halp, sir. I'm so glad that you made it off of the ship!" (It was about 4 years ago when Halp delivered the news of Hróðulf's death to "Drekise," but they had certainly met again when they both left the old world on King Alaric's ship, the Iron Crown, if not in the years before that.)
If Leif and Eldonare still around the fire and near him, Sólmyrkvi introduces them to Father Halp. He tells them both that Father Halp was an old soldier friend of his father, Hróðulf, one of King Alaric's commanders. (He says it as though he expects you to recognize the name.)
Sólmyrkvi tells Halp that Eldon is the one "leading the charge" on constructing the shelters for the survivors. Then he says proudly, "And I helped to light the other bonfires...well, some of them." Speaking of the fires reminds him of something else.
Sólmyrkvi asks Halp, "Did you see King Alaric when you were out walking among the other fires? Leif was looking for the king earlier, weren't you?"
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3rd Eirwind ~ Year 0 BtR
Week One : The Landing
Standing aboard the Iron Crown, Alaric’s beard is crusted with salt and frost, a white mask that makes him look a score of years older than his thirty winters. He grips the ice-slicked rail of the foredeck, his knuckles as white as the foam churning on the surface of this endless ocean.
Behind them lies the world’s ending. He can still see it when he closes his eyes: the sky turning the colour of bruised flesh, the great ash tree splintering, and the fires, oh gods, the fires that licked the very stars until the oceans rose up to drown the screams. Ragnarök was not a single blow, but a long, bloody feast, and Alaric’s people were but the scraps left upon the plate.
"Steady!" he roars, though the wind tears the word from his lips and tosses it into the maw of the storm. "Hold our course! If the All-Father has abandoned us, then we sail by our own light!"
The fleet is a broken thing, a string of blackened pearls tossed upon a grey velvet shroud. For months they have drifted, eating boiled leather and the barnacles scraped from the hulls. They have buried the weak in the deep, and the strong have grown hollow-eyed and feral.
The storm screams with a banshee wail that heralds the end of all life. Beside the Iron Crown sails the Sunder-Shield, laden with three hundred souls. It lurches suddenly atop a cresting wave. For a heartbeat, Alaric sees the faces of the men on her deck, pale as maggots. Then the sea simply opens its mouth. The Sunder-Shield doesn't just sink; she is crushed, her timbers snapping with the sound of a giant’s ribs breaking.
"She’s gone, Sire!" shouts Hake, his shield-bearer, pointing a trembling hand into the sleet.
Alaric looks, but there is only the white spray and the uncaring roar of the gale. Half his kingdom is down there now, settling into the silt and the dark. The lords of the high seats, the weavers of song, the babes who have never known a spring—all are swallowed by the gullet of the storm.
Then comes the grind. It is not the soft embrace of sand, but the scream of iron against stone.
"Breakers!" a lookout shrieks, a moment before the world tilts on its axis.
The Iron Crown shudders, a bone-jarring impact that throws Alaric to the freezing deck. He tastes copper, blood from a bitten tongue. Around him, the fleet is dying its final death. Ships are driven like nails into the jagged teeth of the coastline. The Valiant is cloven in two; the Northstar capsizes, her crew spilled into the surf like grain from a torn sack.
Alaric hauls himself up, his fingers numb, his breath coming in ragged plumes. He looks toward the shore. It is a grim, grey land of towering pines and obsidian cliffs, cloaked in a blanket of crisp white snow.
Glancing down, the king sees Hake sprawled unconscious on the deck. A nasty gash marks his head where falling timber has struck. The ship lurches once more as the shallows take hold, and Alaric roars his orders into the night.
“Lower anchors, set down the boats and make for land!”
In the frozen agony of the storm, the crew sets to work and within the hour Alaric finds himself wading through the waist-high surf, dragging Hake’s limp body by the collar until he hits the shingle. He looks back at the churning wreckage. Of the hundred ships that fled the breaking of Midgard, perhaps fifty remain, battered and listing in the shallows. The rest are splinters and corpses.
Alaric sinks to his knees in the black sand, the weight of his crown—now just a cold band of iron—pressing heavy on his brow. He has saved his people from the Ragnarök, only to deliver them to an uncertain fate on this uncharted land.
"We are here," he whispers, his voice a dry rasp. "Wherever 'here' may be."
And so the game begins. Describe how your character gets ashore, use the skills at your disposal to aid you in the efforts and at the end of your post make an athletics check (The DC to be decided by the actions you take and the resources you expend) the roll is at a -1 if you wear or carry medium armour and -3 if you wear or carry heavy armour.
DM - Caves of the Kobold Slave Masters
Leif had been aboard the Northstar with his last two surviving family members, an elderly mother and a barely off the tit sister. The jolt upon hitting the shoals followed by a transverse wave was too much for the ship. She rolled almost immediately. Leif was cast into the sea along with all hands on deck. The icy salt water took his breath away and most of his strength. The weight of his gear and minimal possessions was too much. He struggled to stay afloat and just narrowly was able to cast Guidance on himself. It was then by the assistance of others and the luck to find a string of flotsam and jetsam that allowed him to wash ashore. He looked back where the ship had capsized but it was gone. Nearby survivors relayed to him that none below deck were saved.
Leif hid his face and sobbed. To others, the convulsions could be interpreted as coughing up seawater, but for Leif, there was precious little left to live for.
Athletics (-1 STR and -1 medium armor): 0 plus guidance: 4
Mana - Verdan Bard - Dragon Heist
Leif Pedersen - Human Druid - Beyond the Ragnarök
”I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.” - Douglas Adams
”I’ve suffered a great many catastrophes in my life. Most of them never happened.” - Mark Twain
”I am not young enough to know everything.” - Oscar Wilde
Spluttering and gasping for air, Kora heaves herself up on the rocky, black sand shore. She shoves the end of her staff hard into the sand as the tide tries to drag her back out to sea. Casting Shillelagh on it, she hopes the growing vines along the length of it help it grasp some purchase. She feels the pull of the water along her dark brown leathers, hoping they are still intact, as well as her bag that is strapped securely to her bag. Kora knows it is still there as she felt it collide against her spine when she first hit land.
Her typically wild, almost silver hair was hanging in her face, filled with seaweed, sand and who knows what else, but she brushes it out of her face once she is fully out of the water so she can look around. She sees many others on the shore near her, not that she knows anyone. Hell, she didn't even know what the ship's name was that she was taking refuge in, just that she was able to get away. She sits there, bedraggled, soaked to the bone and clinging to her staff as she catches her breath.
Athletics: 16
Halp was rowing, not 15 feet from the actual king (if you can believe it!), when the Iron Crown hit the rocks.
He saw the King’s man, Hake, go down.
Well, no need to make a fuss about it with all the hullabaloo and fuss already in the air, he thought. From where he sat at his oar in the listing longboat he cast Spare the Dying on the poor bastard, may that his soul had time to prepare itself for the feast halls.
Next thing, everyone’s shouting, “She’s taking on water! Swim as swim can!” and more. The oar, snapped in half and loose from its mooring was in Halp’s hands, and people were grabbing their gear and abandoning ship like rats in the shallows.
Halp saw the king taking things more calmly, issuing orders. He's surveying the scene, he's not rushed. A good leader, Halp thought. Mayhap, the Iron Crown isn’t in too much trouble, after all.
Very well then.
Halp looped the straps of his pack, his shield and the strap of his crossbow around the oar and tied them fast as best he could.
Then, makeshift staff/floating aid in hand, he leapt from the deck into the foam and fury.
Keeping grim hold of the thick oar, weighed down by his chainmail, he clung to the oar for his life. He was not afraid, he was determined.
That’s what he told himself, but of course, he was afraid too.
His feet, weighed down as he was, hit the bottom from time to time, gaining purchase, propelling him shoreward. When he hit a trough, went in over his head, it was only his grip on the mighty, makeshift staff that kept him afloat, that he could pull himself back up onto for a moment before plunging back under.
In the end, he made it to shore.
Even if they wrote it before they died, he thought, he is sure the gods had a plan for him.
He spits salt and blood on the sand. He berates himself for his lack of humility. Looking to his left and right, seeing his fellows crawling up the beach, out of the surf, Halp knows:
The gods have a plan.
For all of them.
Athletics (incl -3 for heavy armour and +2 for STR, ATHLETCIS for a total of -1) = 16
(OOC: DM, if you wanted to, Halp has a +3 for Survival if you think his use of the oar counts in that regard, in which case his roll would be one point higher, your call...)
Eldon jumps into action where he had been frantically making repairs on the ship "Ships had it! Everyone abandon ship!"
He rushes to his workbench scooping all of his tools into his backpack and throwing some supplies in. He bounds toward the railing and holding his bag close he jumps landing in a splash.
He gasps and splutters as he swims for shore constantly being towed for the bottom by his heavy scaled armor and bulging workmans suit. Eventually he crawls onto the beach coughing as he recovers. As his strength returns he pulls himself up and looks around "They need help..."
He surveys the scene and starts to build, tools in hands he starts building shelters, looking for things in need of repair and trying to fill camp needs
Athletics Check: 10-1 = 9
He uses materials from the broken ships
DnD is awesome!
Death. Death was all around him. Screaming gales, roaring waters of bonechilling black, starvation, sickness, fire, fear - the gates of Hel had opened. For Richter. Alaric. Borrs. Fjolgeir. Anders. One by one, the Skald watched almost all of them ebb away, their eyes pulled, their faces slack. Only his King remained. Yet even as the churning maelstrom saw fit to chew the boards away beneath him, old Richter - once championed "The Revelry" - could only sink pitifully into the cold grasp of churning brine.
He was fit to allow himself be swept away, were it not for the gnawing clawing familiar sensation pushing him for air. He was alive. He was alive then and alive now. He wanted to live, was going to live. The Valiant was gone. The women and the young he'd been keeping calm were gone, washed away with the tide. And he remained. That is how it must be, how it would be.
Rather than swim, the Skald clawed and tore his way to the surface, treating his foray to shore as a desperate struggle against a faceless creature. All the while, he cursed and spat, swearing ills upon the vile Trickster, the gluttonous Wolves, and the wretched Fool that sired them both, knowing full well their touch was all but gone from this world and the next. Their wiles were not his concern before Surtr wrent the sky in the fires of Muspelheim, but as their influence had torn his life asunder, he made due to learn their names, every one.
The moment his fingers too slipped into frigid sand, and he at last stumbled to shore, furs dripping and foot wrappings soaked, Richter's voice boomed in wrathful crescendo and he began to chant the praise of Tyr and Thor; memories now, but ones he could cling to - him and others - for what semblance of comfort they could dare to have needed. Death was all around them. His voice, roaring over the crash of tides, pierced the gloom around him, drawing those lost among the waves to the beach. Perhaps his voice might draw his countrymen to sanctuary.
[Athletics: 19+1, Performance: 18+4, Thaumaturgy (booming voice)]
(OOC: You can skip down to "Arrival." This first part is mostly just my attempt to get into this character.)
Before the arrival
Sólmyrkvi looked into teeth of the storm. "I have no hope left," he thought, "nothing else to hope for other than a brave death." With no hope of his own, he rode along on the hope and determination of King Alaric, much the same as he was riding on this ship, letting it pull him along to an uncertain future. He felt numb. He wrapped his fine cloak more tightly around himself and stamped his feet, but it wasn't just numbness from the cold. His mind seemed blank after all that had happened. Just blank and numb. Trying to think or plan felt like staring into the howling, blank whiteness of a blizzard. He blinked and looked away from the stormy sea and back to the deck of the ship. He shook the ice from his cloak and squinted through the sleet, searching the deck for King Alaric.
After the world seemed to end in fire and death, King Alaric persisted, struggled against doom, determined to save some remnant of humanity. Sólmyrkvi wondered what drove the king on. Duty? Stubbornness? Hope? "Bereft!" The word leapt unbidden to top of his mind. He was bereft of hope, thinking that this must be the End of All Things. He admitted to himself, "The skalds always had the best words," and he wondered whether he'd ever hear another song. Sólmyrkvi felt like a lost soul, and this awful journey was just the last of humanity, crossing Gjöll to their final grave. "Maybe this storm is how the world finally ends, and all that will be left is an ever-stormy, frozen sea."
King Alaric was at the aft of the ship with Hake, his man. When King Alaric accepted his oath as a sworn protector of the king, Sólmyrkvi knew that the king only accepted him out of loyalty to his dead father. Loyalty and pity - that's why he was allowed to ride on the flagship, the Iron Crown, with King Alaric. Hróðulf was one of Alaric's longest-serving commanders and one of his earliest supporters. Sólmyrkvi wished that he had applied himself better, that he had more to offer. When he had sworn the oath, he expected to die in his first fight. But he had survived that battle...somehow. And then the next. And then the scramble for the ships. He was surprised to be alive. He wished that he had more time, more life. The thought stirred feelings of self-pity...and anger.
Sólmyrkvi suddenly realized that he was holding the strange greatsword again, leaning on its point and squeezing the hilt until his hands hurt. The pain pulled him out of his morbid reverie and back to the present. "I want to live!", he thought. It seemed obvious: of course he did! To live and breath and struggle and experience. His life had been too short.
Arrival
Sólmyrkvi had been standing on the deck of the Iron Crown, brooding about his fate. He's in his early 20s, handsome in a sort of roguish, youthful manner, but the events of Ragnorök have taken some of the light and fun out of his pale blue eyes. He's dressed in an expensive cloak and warm clothes (no armor) and leans on a strange greatsword with a blade the color of seafoam.
The wind howls. People howling? He realizes that people are shouting, "Breakers!", above the shrieking wind. Then the ship lurches to a sudden, grinding stop. Sólmyrkvi loses his balance and tumbles against the rail, his previous thought still in his mind, "I want to live!"
The ship lists as people and timbers go flying. Sólmyrkvi quickly casts Mage Armor to help protect himself from the debris. A sudden flurry of activity erupts on the deck as men leap to their orders to lower the boats, but before he can move toward the nearest boat, a wave breaks over the side, and suddenly Sólmyrkvi is falling, the water dragging him from the ship. The surprise and the freezing water knocks the breath out of him.
Sólmyrkvi loses his sword in the fall. Or maybe the sword vanished before he fell? But he has no time to think about the strange sword because water this cold is deadly dangerous. He fights back to the surface but inhales salt water when a wave hits him just as he tries to breathe. Now he's coughing and choking as he struggles to keep his head above the rough water long enough to get a full breath of air.
Seconds pass and then a minute. Sólmyrkvi wishes that he had some wood -- anything -- to help him keep afloat in the rough surf. Just as he's thinking that, a sturdy quarterstaff is in his hand as though someone put it there. He looks at the glossy, black wood in wonder. The staff doesn't give him much more buoyancy, but he finds that he can use it as a kind of rudder to keep himself oriented in the water. The turbulent waves push him first toward the rocks and then back toward the ship, and he finds that he can use the staff as a long pole to push himself away from any hazards.
Sólmyrkvi tries to look around to figure out the safest route to the shore without being thrown upon the rocks by the waves. Now that the initial shock is over, he won't survive much longer in the frigid water. The cold is already sapping his strength. Sadly, he cannot make out much between the storm and waves and now boats, and the cold makes it hard to think clearly. The waves are pushing him back toward the rocks again, and he again thinks,"I want to live!"
Sólmyrkvi doesn't believe that he can make it to the shore safely, but he spots a boat nearby in the water. He makes one last, desperate attempt to swim toward it. He has an odd sort of luck. The boat had been thrown into the rocks and is now taking on water, so the sailors were too busy bailing out the boat to row toward the shore. As he gets close, they finally hear him calling. He holds out his staff, and a couple of the men use it to drag him closer. Sólmyrkvi is now thankful that he was much smaller than all of his brothers and had a lot of experience escaping from them by dodging around, over, or under the nearest obstacle. Once he makes it to the boat, Sólmyrkvi is able to scramble gracefully aboard as a couple of men lean the other way to steady the boat.
But then there's the problem of the gash in the side of the boat! The boat continues to take on water as fast as they bail it out, and a few of the men are arguing about whether to just row for the shore and hope for the best, continue bailing, or dive into the surf and try to swim the rest of the way to shore. Knowing that if they all opt to swim, he's done for, Sólmyrkvi is able to convince them to keep bailing for now. "Just give me a minute to see what I can do about this gash in the boat!"
Sólmyrkvi casts Mending, chanting and gesturing, waving his dark staff and tapping the edges of the hole with it. The men who were bailing out the boat are happy to see that Sólmyrkvi must have some Power. Every time he taps around the edges of the the hole in the side of the boat, the gash seems to be a little smaller. After a minute of this work, the hole is mended! Tired, wet, and shaking with the cold, Sólmyrkvi collapses onto one of the boat's benches. "I'm going to live," he thinks to himself firmly as the men row the boat toward the shore. He just hopes that they're too busy rowing to notice that his staff has been replaced by a spear with a straight shaft of dark wood and a gleaming blade at the head.
When the boat finally gets close, Sólmyrkvi hops out to help push it up onto the shingle. He's still shaking with cold, so he finds a clear spot on the strand and casts Create Bonfire. He stands near the flames to warm himself and dry off as much as he can and encourages others share the warmth. He can only maintain the fire for 1 minute, but if some of the others can gather dry wood and find a sheltered spot to make a firepit, he can use his bonfire to start the fire.
As Sólmyrkvi warms himself at the fire and sees others coming toward the warmth of the fire, he thinks, "We're going to live!"
Actions
Athletics check and other (speculative) skill rolls in game log. I hoped that he could just swim to shore, but that seemed unlikely with these awful rolls.
Sólmyrkvi your efforts are valiant and together with the use of your burgeoning powers you gain the land and life where so many others did not. (with a 5) you take 2 bludgeoning damage from the cruel battering of the ocean and the black jagged rocks that guard this shore. You also lose on item (of your choice) from your inventory.
As you now warm yourself next to your fire and think those heartening words; "We're going to live!" As if in response, the cold wind gathers and blows with a sudden violence that threatens to douse your flames. For the briefest of moments you hear laughter on that wind, cold and merciless. Laughter that sends an even deeper chill to your damp wet bones.
Richter the heavy words of the chant escape your lips with a grim solemnity that drives back the cold and fear, syllable by syllable, like a hammer against granite. (With a 22) You hear in the darkness as others rise and join you in the familiar dirge. To your left a warrior slams her sword to a sodden shield, carrying the beat of the chant into the darkness before you. The dead gods give no answer this night, but it matters not, the song still draws you on. Soon you are surrounded by your fellow survivors, all making your way toward a flickering light in the darkness, where some enterprising soul has managed to light a fire. Another small act of defiance in the face of death and despair. (With a 20) By some miracle of fate you make the landing without injury and with your equipment in tact.
Eldon (With a 9) you escape the waves with your life, but not without cost. You take 2 bludgeoning damage and lose one item of your choice from your inventory. Seeing the press of humanity emerging from the waves and recognising the danger still ahead you brush aside your fear and pain moving into action. You begin the long bitter work of creating shelters, resisting the pull of the nearby fire. Others take your lead and begin gathering driftwood and debris from the battered ships. Many will live tonight that might otherwise have died without your efforts, but again not without cost. Take inspiration for your heroic efforts, but also take 3 cold damage as you remain exposed and vulnerable as you work.
Halp (with an 8) You take 3 bludgeoning damage and lose one item of your choice from your inventory. It was one of the most harrowing experiences of your long life, and without the aid of this old piece of timber that still remains gripped in your cold shaking hands, it may have been your last experience. Your heart is heavy and your limbs feel like lead but up ahead you see fire and the promise of warmth, and around you, you hear the low chant of the last of all men, praising the dead gods and defying the bitter cold. You nod, the gods have a plan! and as you start to move forward, leaving the terror of the ocean behind you, you can not help but wonder. Which gods?
Kora (with a 16) the sea delivers you to the land, and though its handling is rough and the reception is cold and unyielding, you are surprised to find yourself healthy and whole. Sitting in the sand, just out of reach of the foaming surf you take one ragged breath after another, watching the wretched remnant of humanity trudge by toward a nearby fire. Your shillelagh remains a fixed point in the sand, keeping you steady and feeding you strength and assurance. Where ever this new land may be, your connection to the earth remains strong. Around you a chant starts to build as some brave soul defies the cold with his voice and others begin to follow. Do you?
Leif (with a 12) you take 3 bludgeoning damage as you are thrown from the deck of the Northstar. You barely feel the cold and damp. Grief overwhelms all. "None survived." the words reverberate in your mind and you simply stand, an empty shell in the frozen darkness. Men and women pass by you like ghosts in the night and the flickering warmth of a fire in the distance barely registers, it is but a distant detail in the horror of the moment. Around you survivors begin to chant. The words sound alien and hollow. The urge to scream out, to throw yourself back into the waves in a desperate attempt to change what you know to be true. They are dead. They are gone. You are lost. What will you do?
Those at the fire may introduce themselves. Those who are not have decisions to make. Have fun and dont die :)
DM - Caves of the Kobold Slave Masters
The chill winds threaten to topple Leif. He tries to steady himself on the uneven stones upslope from the crashing shore behind him. The smell of brine is heavy in his nostrils and his eyes sting as if his tears are partially frozen near the lids. He hastily wipes his face and expels the snot and sea from his nose. This action begins to clear some of the fog, the disbelief, the horror. He notices a pain in his left rib cage that supersedes the cold and wet he now perceives as well. His vision slowly clears to see that the shadowy procession of phantoms that had passed before him materialize into survivors woundfully staggering to a fire further inland.These were remarkable people. Over the tumult of gale and surf he could even hear chants from these defiant souls.
Surprisingly, he also notices that the land was not completely without life. Although no seabirds’ screech could be heard, what had at first appeared to be only a grayscale of churning sky and sea clashing incessantly over the destruction of cold and mercilessly sharp jutting rocks, he could now see small tufts of long broad-bladed sea grass whipped furiously by the winds. Somehow in the crevasses, life was hanging on.
With renewed vigor, he too begins his own march uphill towards purpose, towards the remnant, towards the light and warmth of the only community remaining on this god forsaken earth.
Eventually he stumbles uneasily into a gap in the encircled fire. He searches the faces of those nearby, lit by the dance of orange firelight and shadow.
”Did king Alaric survive?” He shouts to those nearby. I must find him or whoever is in charge to offer my service. For what it’s worth.
Mana - Verdan Bard - Dragon Heist
Leif Pedersen - Human Druid - Beyond the Ragnarök
”I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.” - Douglas Adams
”I’ve suffered a great many catastrophes in my life. Most of them never happened.” - Mark Twain
”I am not young enough to know everything.” - Oscar Wilde
Eldon exhaustedly builds one last shelter as he whispers "Just one more" Then he forces himself to walk the perimeter and check for danger or possible disturbances. If there is a clear spot this may be he casts Alarm. Then he pulls himself beside the fire to warm up before he flops into bed. He whispers to himself "At least I got in a good days work".
As soon as he's had a chance to warm up a little he engages in the conversation "So hey everyone! Nice to see that there are others! I'm Eldon, craftsman, magic enthusiest."
DnD is awesome!
Shimmering gold. His eyes spotted the light in the distance. A beacon, a symbol to the faithful of their brothers and sisters yet lived. Richter let his voice recede, and the chants of the faithful swelled to engulf his lead. He need not shout of praise or feat - for the young warriors to have survived, no story is greater than the promise of the warmth that flame would assure against the cold, black sea. He sees it, hope in their gaunt faces. It's a welcome sign, one he'd not seen in what felt like ages.
The old Skald stopped, letting his faithful walk past him. They had deserved their time to rest. But he was not done. Reaching out, he tenderly grabbed the shoulder of one stepping past him - the young woman with her shield and blade. Good. "Take heed, child." His voice was graven, tired and cold. Yet stern, like grinding stone. "I have need of you." He could tell she craved the inviting warmth of the flame ahead. He did not blame her. But he was not done.
"We find solace by Njord's blessing, yet our brothers and sisters still in the tide struggle against Rán's hungry maw." He reached within his satchel, clammy hands wrapping round damp iron. Setting his lantern within her hands, his voice once more ground against her hunger for fire, as cold stone quenches heat. "Take two whom you trust and shine this upon the beach. Let others find your voice-" his hand waved about, indicating the staunch chanting echoed upon the shore. "-Be a beacon to those dying in the water. And if any yet come, who still struggle to live, help them to the fire. By the Allfather's eye, we will save as many as we can." Even as his words sought to light a fire in her very soul, his hands softly lit the flickering wick of the lantern, casting a gentle golden glow upon the two.
As she turned, the old bard played one final hand, his lips invoking upon old Jotunn words, and poured his courage within her, as oil to a wick. [Cast Heroism] Turning and hobbling to the fire, Richter sank to his knees with a dull moan, and lifted his arms before him, palms turned to the black sky. There he would wait, prepared to save any he could.
[Prepares to cast Spare the Dying on anyone the young warriors bring to the flame. Hopefully, someone.]
Halp sees the fire. See the silhouettes of folks gathering around it.
The fire, it's building now. Looks good.
He'll be no good to others if he doesn't get warm.
On the other hand, he'll be no good to others if he does no good.
Halp wraps his shoulders in the shredded remains of his robes , for all the good that'll do then he starts walking the water line, looking for souls carried to shore, but unconscious. Where he finds one he first casts Spare the dying, then if needed, or if their wounds are particularly grievous, uses a dose from his Healing Kit to tend their injuries. When/if they wake he asks whoever's able to help them to the fire.
(OOC: DM, let me know how many uses to remove)
Then he continues his search.
Eventually, when he's found all he could, he heads to the fire himself.
"Bless us all," is all he says to those gathered around. He throws the tattered cloth into the fire, the water will steam away in a second or two and the cloth will add... something to the flame, he figures.
Then he hunkers down as close as he can get to the fire. He grits his teeth and waits for his shivering to ease.
Leif you cry out, ”Did king Alaric survive?”
In the flickering firelight, some faces turn toward you, some turn away. Only one speaks. A young fellow wearing robes of blue and grey, with a steak of white in his otherwise thick dark hair. His face is somewhat familiar but you can not yet place him.
"Aye he lives." says the man, gesturing out into the darkness. "I saw him come ashore. He'll be out there."
Other fires have begun to spring up now as more survivors make the shore and seek warmth and shelter.
Eldon you sink next to the fire and offer your greetings to your country men. The blue robed fellow turns to you with a grim smile and offers a hand in greeting, "Well met Eldon, the name's Merros. We were watching you working on the shelters back there. You have my thanks."
Richter it is not long before the first unconscious body is dragged to the fireside and you work your skills upon them. First one then another soul is rescued from the clutch of death by your efforts.
Halp you set about your own work as you snake your way toward the fire. You use 4 used of your kit before your work is done and as you finally slump down next to the fire you are surprised to hear the familiar cantrip being spoken by the nearby Richter who has just saved a young woman from the cold grasp of the grave.
DM - Caves of the Kobold Slave Masters
As Eldon settles in, his breathing coming less quickly he turns to Merros "Well, your welcome. Always looking for a way to help"
He lets out a sigh and un-slings his pack. He pulls out a piece of driftwood and some carving tools and begins to work as he speaks to the others.
"So, what do we know about our resources and environment? What do I have to work with for building materials? Is there any known dangers in the area?"
He lets out a few more sighs as he begins to settle in "What I'm asking is what can I do to help and what is our situation? I can create much anything with the right materials, and I could be carving torches or arrows right now if we need them. Oh yeah! And do we know if a forge survived? I can't craft with metal unless I have a forge or make a flame hot enough"
DnD is awesome!
Kora wipes the freezing water from her face and looks around at her surroundings.
Perception: 10; but doesn't see much in the dark other than the people moving towards the chant and fire.
She sighs as she knows the best course of action is to join the rest and well, get warm. She grabs hold of her Shillelagh staff and uses it to help her up. Taking stock of her body and her inventory, she is pleased to find out she isn't harmed and has everything in their place. She wrenches her staff free and starts trudging towards the chant, wondering how the rest of the people faired.
As she reaches the fire, she nods towards the others and finds a spot to sit and join in. She starts wringing out her hair to try and get it dry.
Sólmyrkvi gasps when he hears the laughter as a chill runs down his spine. His breathing comes a bit quicker as he turns his back to the fire and scans the seashore. He doesn't know what he's looking for. A frost giant? A malevolent "dark elf"? Some sort of evil spirit? (Perception 6, in game log) Not seeing anything other than the remnant of King Alaric's people, he decides that he must have imagined it. Then he hears the booming voice down near the water, leading some of the survivors in song. "Some trick of the wind," he mutters to himself and puts the strange laughter out of his mind.
As warmth and feeling are return, Sólmyrkvi realizes that he's bleeding. While he gets help from someone to bandage his wound, he starts to see lights bobbing along the shoreline. "People looking for loved ones or helping the other survivors," he thinks. It would be awful for someone to make it to dry land but then die from the cold and their injuries. He realizes that they're going to need more fires. And, remembering the cold laughter in the wind, he thinks, "And we need to make sure that the fires don't go out."
Once some of the sturdier men and woman gather some wood and make a fire pit, Sólmyrkvi uses his flames to light the wood. But then he also asks for their help to gather more wood. "There could be hundreds of survivors coming ashore," he says. "They cannot all gather around this one fire! Could you try to gather wood for more fires? I'll send who is uninjured to help if you can show them where to look for dry wood." (Persuasion: 12, in game log) Sólmyrkvi is generally well liked and pretty persuasive, but he's not used to telling people twice his age what to do!
While they start to gather more wood, Sólmyrkvi spends a minute to light his bullseye lantern. He realized that he didn't have time to grab any gear that he wasn't wearing before he was swept off of the ship. He assures the people around the fire that he will return soon to help light the other bonfires, and then he takes his lantern and spear -- the one he was holding when the boat came ashore -- walks down to the water. He hurries down the beach, scanning the debris, looking for his lost items.
While he's at it, Sólmyrkvi also tries to gather up any scraps of cloth or canvas, such as blankets or torn pieces of the sails, any straight pieces of lumber that area at least 4-ft long, and any pieces of rope that are 8-ft or longer. If he sees any other able-bodied people down by the water, he asks them to look for the same sorts of materials. He asks them to bring the items to him at the bonfire (pointing) and explains, "It's going to be a long, cold night, and I think that I can help us fashion some shelter from the scraps." (Persuasion: 14, in game log)
When Sólmyrkvi comes across a craftsman (Eldon), who is already diligently working on a makeshift shelter, he introduces himself and says, "I have some people bringing more materials for building tents to that bonfire over there. You should join us when you're done."
(@HaydenWizard - regarding building materials, see my post / Sólmyrkvi's interaction with Eldon above.)
Using one of his 2nd Wind abilities to recover hit points, Halp finally feels warm. Well, warm enough.
He starts walking through the wounded and recovering and lets folks know he has but one healing spell he can muster, that it would be best used on that person closest to their end. And for folks to come grab him if they'd found such a worthy.
Time away from the fires was not the worst thing, Halp thought. Up close, lit in the fires, he could see how much needed doing, how many folk needed tending. Being so ill equipped to help so many in need, it called to mind the battlefield. It reminded him of all those he'd failed to help before now. It was not a good feeling.
Someone would come get him and bring him where they thought he was of most use. Let someone else decide who he would help.
Let someone else decide all the people he would not.
When Sólmyrkvi returns to the fire about 40-minutes later, he's dragging a large section of one of the ship's sails behind him. It's loaded with as much scrap material as he could find in the short time and, most importantly, his tent! (He couldn't find his sack that held all of his torches and almost a week's worth of rations!) Once he's done helping to light wood for more fires, he returns to the first bonfire he made so that he can start setting up the tent, but he finds that more people have gathered around its warmth in his absence. He arrives just in time to hear Leif receive confirmation that King Alaric is alive. He introduces himself as Sólmyrkvi and asks Leif for help in setting up his tent. He has to get the the growing crowd to scoot over so that he can set up the tent upwind from the fire. "That way, it will hopefully shield the fire from some of the wind and sleet, and the smoke won't blow toward the tent."
When he's done with the tent, Sólmyrkvi is happy to see that the Eldon has joined the fire, but he has to fight back some jealousy for the praise that Eldon receives from Merros. When he gets a chance, he declares that he will help with building shelters. He explains to Eldon that his has some practice as a tailor. (He does not say that he was motivated to learn the craft one summer once he learned that he could sew secret folds or pockets in his clothes and sneak "contraband" past his mother and various other nosey neighbors.) He also explains that he knows a simple spell to mend items from the ship that were ripped or broken in two: "As long as the damage isn't too large, send them over to me so that I can patch them up for you!"
Sólmyrkvi gets to work in front of his tent. By the light and warmth of the fire, he starts to sort the scraps of canvas and other cloth. He uses his dagger to cut pieces and his Weaver's Tools to sew scraps together to make standard-sized panels for tents and wind-screens. He consults with Eldon on the most useful size for the panels.
(Sólmyrkvi continued...)
When Father Halp finally makes his way back to the fire, Sólmyrkvi cries out happily, "Uncle! I mean...um...Father Halp, sir. I'm so glad that you made it off of the ship!" (It was about 4 years ago when Halp delivered the news of Hróðulf's death to "Drekise," but they had certainly met again when they both left the old world on King Alaric's ship, the Iron Crown, if not in the years before that.)
If Leif and Eldon are still around the fire and near him, Sólmyrkvi introduces them to Father Halp. He tells them both that Father Halp was an old soldier friend of his father, Hróðulf, one of King Alaric's commanders. (He says it as though he expects you to recognize the name.)
Sólmyrkvi tells Halp that Eldon is the one "leading the charge" on constructing the shelters for the survivors. Then he says proudly, "And I helped to light the other bonfires...well, some of them." Speaking of the fires reminds him of something else.
Sólmyrkvi asks Halp, "Did you see King Alaric when you were out walking among the other fires? Leif was looking for the king earlier, weren't you?"