Beyond the Ragnarök

As the pyres ignite and flames began to lick vigorously upwards, Leif maneuvered to where his friends were gathered.

To Halp, “Well done, I’m sure your words have brought solace to many this eve.”

To Sólmyrkvi and Kora, “I imagine that was rather gruesome. Glad I didn’t have to witness that.”

To all, “The proceedings here were watched, in part, by our Ratatoskr neighbors. They skittered off just before the fires were lit.”

As he speaks, he is not concentrating on the faces of those he’s addressing. Instead, he continues to crane his neck to watch the crowd. He also does not indicate the location of where he saw the squirrel folk, just in case inquisitive eyes were upon their little group.

Having made his way to Sólmyrkvi and Kora, Halp says to them, "She did not suffer."  It is statement, not a question.

Yet he finds himself awaiting confirmation, looking to each of them. And back again.

He will wait to get that confirmation. 

Halp finds that he needs that confirmation. Any other answer would, he feels, be... unsatisfactory. 

Quote from Dreamhobbit>>

With Merros... 

Once they get their answers, Sólmyrkvi nods and wishes Glimgriss well.  He offers to help bear the stretcher with the body back to the pyres. 

At the funeral service, Sólmyrkvi just feels numb: he has already lost so much.  The smell of the burning bodies is awful, though not entirely unfamiliar to him -- there was more than one funeral pyre during the years of Ragnorök and more than one village set aflame.  Once the fire is lit and the headless corpse is added to the pyre, he makes his way back to Leif and Halp.  If possible, he walks around the downwind side of the fire so that he can walk through the smoke.  The smoke stings his eyes until tears run down his cheeks.  

Quote from PlotArmored >>

To Sólmyrkvi and Kora, “I imagine that was rather gruesome. Glad I didn’t have to witness that.” 

Quote from Godster1 >>

Having made his way to Sólmyrkvi and Kora, Halp says to them, "She did not suffer." 

Sólmyrkvi rubs away the tears and then tries to adopt an impassive expression.  He figures that it's the safest option here, and anyone observing him would just think that he's holding his emotions inside.  He's not sure whether anyone else is close enough to hear them speaking, and he doesn't think that they need to know the truth right away.  He gives them honest but vague answers. 

To Leif: "I'm glad that we went to bear witness.  I didn't know what to expect, but it wouldn't have mattered.  I couldn't have imagined...um...what we saw.  Give me a little time: I will be able to say more.  Later."

To Halp: "No. You are right, Halp: she did not suffer.  That is a comfort."

Quote from PlotArmored >>

To all, “The proceedings here were watched, in part, by our Ratatoskr neighbors. They skittered off just before the fires were lit.”

"Oh?!"  Sólmyrkvi is definitely interested in that news.  "We should definitely talk.  After the ceremony is over?"  He figures that once the funeral is done, their group can gather together away from the crowds, possibly by his tent.  Or maybe they should first slip away to wherever Leif saw the red squirrels to see whether they're still there. 

Once the funeral is over and he's sure that no one is nearby, Sólmyrkvi is happy to tell Leif and Halp what actually happened with Glimgriss, getting Kora to corroborate the unexpected outcome.  He tries to relate everything that happened, but he doesn't really know any details beyond what Merros and Glimgriss said.  He makes them both promise not to tell anyone else: "Merros swore us to secrecy, only permitting us to share her fate with the two of you." 

Quote from Dreamhobbit >>

As the pyres are lit and the bodies burn you all have a few moments to catch up before the kings closes the ceremony.  

If nothing else demands their attention at the end of the ceremony, Sólmyrkvi proposes that they swing by the spot where Leif saw the red squirrelfolk before heading back to their tents. 

As satisfied as she can be, Kora heads back towards the pyres and is silent as the ceremony takes place.  When the group reconvenes afterwards, she nods to Sol's words, not adding anything to them. 

But she definitely perks up when she hears about the squirrels.  "Did they see you?  Did they do anything?  Please, show us which way they went!"

OOC: We now prepare ourselves to move on to the second week with a small time jump. Halp and Leif consider how you respond to the subterfuge regarding Griss. All of you please post once to describe your activities for the remainder of this week and I will then start us of into the next chapter. All characters can level up and start the second week at level 2 :)

The smoke from the pyres clings to the damp sand, thick with the aroma of salt and honey weed. King Alaric stands atop a jagged outcrop of basalt, his fine wool cloak now a salt-stained rag whipped by the rising wind. Before him, the survivors huddled like beaten hounds.

"Look not to the horizon for the ships the Drowned God has claimed," Alaric bellows, his voice rasping through a throat raw from sea-water. "The sea has had its fill of our blood. We do not burn our kin in defeat; we burn them to claim this shore and the hope it brings. Their ashes shall be the foundation of our kingdom. Tomorrow, we claim this land."

In the days that follow, the raw grief turns to a dull, aching hunger. The people strip the blackened ribs of the wrecks, raising crude hovels of driftwood and tattered sailcloth while the wind howls through the dunes. It is warmer now, but the relentless wind drags at your nerves. Scouts return from the dark treeline with tales of brackish water and bitter, copper-tasting berries that leave bellies cramping. They speak too of feathered shadows watching from the canopy with eyes like polished obsidian. There is no further sign of the strange squirrel folk of legend. By week’s end, a cold rain has washed the brine from your skin, but the salt remains in your hearts. Your people have swapped the terror of the waves for the slow toil of the earth, and as you watch the first hearth-fires flicker in a timber shacks, you know the true cost of your survival has only begun to be tallied.

During the remainder of the week:

Leif let it be known, only to his allies, of his skepticism regarding Merros releasing Griss. It remains unthinkable to him. He more than once had muttered under his breath that he would not be surprised if King Alaric was not aware of Merros’ doings.

He described or took his compatriots to where he saw the squirrel folk and explained how he looked away but for a glance and they had disappeared. They had seen Leif and had waved before departing.

Leif countless times aided in the establishment of the settlement. Guidance, Mage Hand, Mending, Prestidigitation, Create or Destroy Water, Goodberry, and Purify Food and Drink were called upon many times over the days.

Leif would have asked if the litter bearers that left with Griss have been seen back in camp. Or is there at least three people living elsewhere, possibly near the cliffs.

More than once, he ventured to the stand of trees and called out in Druidic, to no avail. And on at least one occasion at dawn, he ventured down the beach towards the imposing cliffs looking for footprints. He stopped well short of the cliffs for lack of backup.

Then the morning came when he felt new powers unlock within his Nature. It had followed dreams of wildshapes and wild companions that he could summon. He awoke anxious to see if these new powers were real.

During the remainder of the week:

Sólmyrkvi spends much of the rest of the week among the people, helping to fix things up with Mending or his Weaver's Tools.  But anyone who observes him closely would see that he spends quite a lot of time just socializing with the people he had met during those first few days on the beach.  It's true that the young warlock isn't diligent: he tends toward recreation and fun, and he shirks any "work" that he finds boring. 

It's also true that Sólmyrkvi has a charming, easy manner.  He's generally well-liked, and he tries to meet as many of the survivors as he can.  While he may not have a mind for books or warfare or even Eldon's crafts, Sólmyrkvi seems to remember the name of everyone he meets.  By the end of the first week, he seems to be on a first-name basis with half of the survivors, and he knows the basic "story" of scores of them.  Given the difficult circumstances and close quarters of the temporary encampment on the beach, Sólmyrkvi often finds himself stepping in to smooth over disagreements among the survivors.  His presence probably helps to prevent a dozen disagreements from turning into real fights that first week.  

Sólmyrkvi spends part of every day and basically every evening with Leif, Kora, and/or Halp -- all three of them when the whole group is available.  He sometimes brings a few people to their fire from elsewhere in the camp, just to share the fire over dinner.  On those occasions, he introduces the survivors to the rest of the party, but he "carries" the conversation to prevent anyone from having to talk if they don't want to and to avoid any awkward lulls in the conversation.  Sometimes the strangers bring instruments and play some music.  Other times, they bring dice or playing cards.  

(OOC: Now, some fiction about how he swapped from the Pact of the Blade invocation to Pact of the Tome.)

Sólmyrkvi also spends some time practicing with some of the other warriors, trying to learn to use his summoned weapons better.  Unfortunately, he finds the fighters' techniques difficult to learn.  (Perhaps because he has a unique way of using his summoned weapons, or perhaps just because he's not very diligent at practicing the drills they show him.)  In fact, by the end of the week, he finds it increasingly difficult to summon his weapons at all.  Ever since the first time it happened, he had simply found one of the strange, dark weapons in his hand -- unbidden -- whenever he felt like he was in danger.  But now that he's trying to learn to do it on purpose, he seems to slowly lose the ability to summon the strange weapons at all!  By the end of the week, he's feeling increasingly frustrated and desperate, worried what will happen if something new attacks the camp.  

After all of the violence of Ragnorök and the recent fight with the zombies, Sólmyrkvi feels strangely vulnerable with just his dagger.  He eventually scrounges up a spear and quarterstaff from some of his aquaintences in the camp, but he finds the weapons clumsy to use compared to his summoned weapons.  He finds some time when Leif is out and he has his tent all to himself.  Other times, he sneaks away from the camp on his own.  Once he's alone, he closes his eyes and reaches out to the unknown Power who had answered his plea before.  Had the fickle Power abandoned him?  Had he scared it away like the Ratatoskr?

No.  The Power is still there.  Sólmyrkvi can sometimes still sense its presence.  And then, near the end of the first week on the beach, he feels like he can almost hear it!  It's like some imagined voice is speaking to him even though the only sound is the endless rhythm of the surf hitting the beach and the distant music and conversation of the people in the camp.  When he opens his eyes, a small book with dark cover is lying on the sand just in front of him!    

Startled, Sólmyrkvi jumps up and backs away!  He stares at the book for a long time, breathing heavily.  Finally, slowly, carefully, he squats down to pick up the book.  As he turns it over in his hands and leafs through he pages, he remembers Glimgriss and what she said about "something" working through her: "When I am scared or angry I can not always hold it back."  This Power isn't just his imagination.  It's real.  But what if it starts to work through him and he loses control?  What if he cannot "hold it back"? 

Sólmyrkvi takes the book back to his tent.  It's not written in any language that he has never seen before, but he finds that he can understand it.  The next morning, his curiosity gets the better of him.  He begins studying the strange, dark tome and practicing the magic that it contains.

Halp would rather, as he had in his small smithy back home, since his retirement from the front, hammer a horse shoe into shape. Or polish steel. Or try to craft a worthy scabbard for a great blade. Anything rather than talk. He is not, he knows, a great thinker. His words ought carry no more weight than anyone else's, are worth no more of this battered community's attention than the words or thoughts of any other one here. 

But, since the pyre, folks have started dropping by to see him. Admitting to small wrongs, seeking to alleviate their small guilts, asking advice, even asking for blessings. Blessings if you can credit it!

And Halp would prefer, if he could, to offer what ever straightforward thinking he can that might help them with their situation. After all, it is not nothing that some one should seek him out, should chose to admit of their various vulnerabilities to him.

It takes a kind of courage to do that. It deserves what respect he can offer.

So it is, over that week, that he finds himself making time for each one who comes his way. He stops tying off guy ropes or pitching in to scrub pots or cauldrons or collect drift wood or whatever to listen. Listen and, in the end, to encourage them to be their best selves, to serve in the way that they are best able this struggling community and its king. 

Sometimes he thinks on Kora and Leif's news, of the lass' secret pardon. Sometimes he allows himself a moment's frustration that, even here, King Alaric must see a need to play at politics. Secrecy be damned. Cunning be thrice damned. 

Would it not have been some small solace if they had been at last able to put lies and malice behind them? 

But more often than not, when he muses on it, he has a word with himself. Remembers himself his station. And that he knows not the needs of a king. 

And... and he is glad for the girl that she yet lives. That she has another chance to make right of her life. 

Halp finds himself of an evening... giving thanks. Though he does not know exactly to who. Yet he gives thanks. 

(OOC: Halp has changed from his path from fighter to that of a cleric and will likely go forward as a fighter-1/cleric-x from now on) 

Quote from PlotArmored >>

Leif let it be known, only to his allies, of his skepticism regarding Merros releasing Griss. It remains unthinkable to him. He more than once had muttered under his breath that he would not be surprised if King Alaric was not aware of Merros’ doings.

Sólmyrkvi seems less suspicious, but he understands Leif's concern.  King Alaric seems to trust Merros, but most of the actions that they've seen Merros take have involved Merros acting on his own (and in the king's name) out of sight of the king.  He ponders this problem and how to communicate something to the king without revealing the secret of Glimgriss's fate or arousing Merros's suspicion.  One of his silent requests to the Power is assistance with getting a secret message to the king.

As the second week starts, Sólmyrkvi says, "I think that I have a way to ensure that the king knows what Merros did with Glimgriss."  He explains that he has learned (in his Tome) of a way to magically conceal the contents of a page of writing.  He suggests that he could write the king a letter, congratulating the king for sparing Glimgriss's life and commending Merros for giving nothing away until the last moment.  Then he can use magic to make the letter look like some innocuous status update about one of Eldon's construction projects.  That way, they won't accidentally reveal the secret if anyone other than King Alaric intercepts the message.  But if the king gets and reads the letter, they will at least know that he's aware of Glimgriss's fate.

(OOC: @Dreamhobbit - Since Sólmyrkvi has proficiency with Calligrapher’s Supplies, could he also spend 5 gp and 1 day of time at the end of week 1 to craft 10 gp worth of ink for the spell Illusory Script?)

Kora spends most of her time helping Leif purify food and drink and helping wherever is needed.  She wasn't used to spending so much time around people, but being as busy as they all were, she didn't have much time to dwell on it.

When she could, she found a little time to head back to the area where she found the words from the squirrel-folk and wrote again in druidic, We are friends, want to learn more about you.  Still looking for acorns.  She is holding out hope to see them as Leif did, though even the glowing bits of light would be nice!  

As the others bring up Glimgriss and their displeasure on how the outcome was, she just sighs and attempts to change the subject.  It is done in her mind, why dwell on it?  And yes, if the girl comes back around?  It will be dealt with then.

She sees Halp help people by listening as this chisels a bit of the coldness off of her.  She thinks she would never open up to the man, but she sees how he is helping others.  As Sol brings people to their fire, she is both alright with it and annoyed by it.  She finds herself starting to think on how to find a spot that she can call her own so she can slip away as she likes to.  Constantly being surrounded on this forlorn piece of land... it was starting to get to her.

She too starts to dream of not only being with animals, which was normal, but being the animal, in their skin.  This was new and exciting, she found she enjoyed all aspects of it, even the hunting.

10th Eirwind ~ Year 0 BtR

The scent of pine smoke and wet wool clings to the air inside the royal pavilion. Alaric pauses by the furs, watching the steady rise and fall of his sons’ chests. Even in sleep, their faces carry the pinched look of the starving, but for now, the nightmare of the sea is distant. With a smile and a heavy sigh he steps out into the chill morning air, his boots crunching over the gritty sand.

He finds Hake’s tent at the edge of the camp, where the salt spray still mists the canvas. Inside, the shield-bearer lies motionless, a pale shadow of the man who once broke shield-walls in the bloody battles of Ragnarök. The gash on his temple is a jagged, angry seam of red against milk-white skin. Alaric sinks onto a low stool, the iron crown feeling like a leaden weight.

"The boys are safe, Hake," Alaric whispers, his voice barely audible over the distant crash of the waves. "But this new land seems so silent. No ravens caw in the black woods to the west, and while the snow has melted I can not escape the chill. I have led them from the fire into the shadow, and I do not know if I have the strength to pull them through what must come." He reaches out, his calloused thumb brushing the edge of Hake's sleeve. "Wake up, old friend. I need a man who doesn't look at me like I am a god, but like the fool I am." he reaches into his pocket then and retrieves a carefully folded letter, re-reading it in silence before speaking again, "I think you would like this Sólmyrkvi, he is young but shows promise, as do his companions. I think perhaps I disappointed them by giving way to Merros regarding the girl. I was perhaps not strong enough to do what must be done? Or perhaps..."

The tent flap twitches aside. Merros, his advisor, stands there, his blue robes frayed and stained with brine.

"The King is needed," Merros says softly, his eyes reflecting the grey light of the morning.

Alaric quickly returns the letter to his pocket and stands, his joints popping like dry kindling. He follows Merros away from the shoreline and further inland in the company of several guards. Ahead, the chaos of the landing is hardening into something resembling a settlement. Rough-hewn timber frames rise from the muck, and a central clearing has already become a makeshift marketplace. 

Alaric’s eyes narrow as they pass a row of supply crates. Men in the crimson-slashed tunics of the Firewing stand nearby, leaning on their spears with a casual, predatory grace. They are not helping with the saws or the hammers; they are watching the the people. His people.

"The merchants have hired the Firewing’s crew as guards," Merros observes, noting Alaric’s stare.

"Vultures," Alaric grunts. "They were trouble before we left Midgard, and they are wolves now. I do not trust a man who seeks profit while his brothers are still burying their dead.. and that business with the girl."

They reach the skeletal frame of what will soon be a larger structure, the smell of fresh cedar sharp and sweet. Merros leads him inside to a man draped in furs that have survived the voyage better than most. Master Gaelran is hunched over a map of vellum, his fingers stained with ink. He looks up, a thin, sharp smile touching his lips. The King notes Valdir standing behind the man, an insolent sneer on his treacherous face. 

"My King," Gaelran says, bowing just low enough to be polite. "I am glad you have come. Survival is a costly business, and I have a small favor to ask that might ensure we all see the next moon rise."

 Week Two: The Favour

YOU ARE  ALL SUMMONED...

The call comes early. You are all breaking your fast on the second day of the second week in this new land, as an out of breath guard come running up to your fire pit. "The King..." he manages through a gulp of breath, "The King has summoned you. He waits at the new market."

Halp hears the messenger's summons. He looks at the bucket of nails he's already straightened. Useful work. He looks at the sack of recovered nails, rescued from wrecked ships' timbers, still in need of being hammered true. They can wait.

He looks at the oat gruel he had been planning to reward himself with once he had done with a dozen dozen nails. That can wait too, he supposes, though his grumbling belly has another opinion on the matter. 

He dusts off his hands, stands, straightens his kit and looks to those he has come to think of as his companions. Not such a bad development amongst all this... this trial, he thinks.  

"So. Shall we then to the King?"