It is the first day of the year 1517 A.V.W., and the first day of spring; Varbod, as the northerners call it, or “Springfest” in the common tongue. Our story begins on this holiday, at the mead hall of the coastal town of Hedmark. The hall is brightly lit by torches hanging from sconces on the walls and columns. Rows of long tables filled with humans, dwarves, and the odd halfling or two, pack the hall tightly, and it’s all the servants can do to try and navigate through the excitable crowd to bring plates heaped with meats, cheeses, and bread to those who have finished their first or second serving, and mead to those who are already deep in their cups.
You watch the excitement from a place of privilege, seated at the head table to the left of the host. Tonight, you sup on only the finest cuts of lamb, and drink only the best aged mead. But even separated from the crowd, it is still difficult to hear yourself think over the noise; the shouting, the cheering, the belching.
Over the last year, you’ve had the opportunity to get to know some of the faces you see before you. You see Tanyr Trueanvil, the dwarven blacksmith getting into an arm-wrestling competition with Erland Leifson, one of the town’s livestock farmers. You see Else, a local weaver’s apprentice and her many suitors. And you see Bemboello Perdenge, the halfling jewelry-maker. For this occasion, you could very well be wearing some of the gifts that she has given to you as thanks for your service.
Notably absent is Helga, the town’s shaman who helped the townsfolk get through a hard winter.
The noise of the crowd suddenly dies down, as you see your host, Jarl Sigrid Vradnrdottir, standing atop the table, demanding everyone's attention. She is a tall woman, thickly built, with long and braided brown hair. As soon as the hall goes quiet, save for the errant belch, she looks over the people in the hall and says, with a straight face, "I don't think I've ever met a sorrier sack of gluttons and lushes than you lot in my life."
The silence continues for a moment. Then, from the crowd, there is a slight chuckling. The jarl's face cracks into a grin, and soon the hall is filled with uproarious laughter. Sigrid holds her horn high and declares, "Happy Varbod, you sorry lot! You crafters!" A cheer from the crowd. "You builders!" Another cheer. "You drinkers!" A third cheer that dwarfs the first two. "Of course, none of this would be possible without the guests of honor for today's feast!" She gestures to you. "Without them, I would not be where I am tonight, and you would still be fighting over who is to rule you now. Of course, you've heard the stories, but let us hear them again tonight!" Another cheer rises from the crowd, and Sigrid turns to you. "Come on, then! It's custom for guests to share stories of their adventures when invited to a feast!"
Take this moment to describe yourself, and we will get into the "flashback" afterwards.
Sigrún Hervör is seated with the party wearing her newly cleaned leathers, a fine red tunic beneathen, and her two hand axes at her sides. She has made it a point to bathe this evening before the festivities then perfumed her skin and hair. Her dark auburn hair she has braided elaborately into a fish tail that reaches down the middle of her back bound with leather ties. Her skin is fair but weathered by the elements and tattooed with symbols of her rites of passage like all the woman of her tribe. When standing Sigrún Hervör is 6'3" tall with broad shoulders and a shapely figure. Her piercing gray eyes are jovial while holding her horn of mead up to the jarl the young druid looks at her companion with a smile seemingly proud of her surrounds.
“But no living man am I! You look upon a woman...You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.” ― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King
Aslaug Hagensdotter lifted the horn of ale in celebration as performers drew to a close and made their bows. Over the past year she had become more comfortable in Hedmark. The city was very different to the small hamlet where she had grown up. The numbers of people and plentiful food still surprised her.
In the hamlet of Brekka her flaxen braids and pale skin did not stand out in any way. Just the light sprinkle of freckles across her nose distinguished her from many of the girls she grew up with. Here however the variety of people was a feast for her eyes. At 5’2”, Aslaug did not present an imposing figure, yet she had proven her worth many times, both on the mountains and with a blade. Her slight frame seemed at odds with the warpaint she almost never removed and the mark of the hammer that showed on her neck and shoulder. Beside her a battleaxe -never far from her side - leaned against the table
She looked around the room once more for Helga. The shaman’s absence was a cloud over an otherwise joyous evening. Helga had been the first person she met when she arrived in Hedmark. In fact it was Helga’s name whispered in Alsuag’s dreams that had brought her to Hedmark in the first place. She hadn’t realised at the time why Dura had brought her here, but the past year had made that abundantly clear.
Patrin Kelson, seated on a booster cushion to make sure he's at a reasonable table height given his 3'6" stature, sips at his mead horn, his eyes distant even as they look out over the room full of celebrants. Absentmindedly he reaches up to scratch his head, his rough-cut auburn hair sparkling gold in the torchlight, and the cuff of his smart set of clothes (probably the only set he owns - you know he likes to 'under-dress' so that people will underestimate him) falls away revealing both the slenderness of his wrist (some might say gaunt) and some of his intricate runic tattoos that gleam with an inner golden light when he is angered, or working with his power. If you were to look at them too closely however, they might well blur, as though they breathed beneath his skin.
With a sigh he looks back down at his plate and, seeing it empty, looks around for more venison. Seeing it out of reach, he gestures - a familiar one after the past year - and whispers a word of power. A shimmering golden hand materialises over the venison, taking a sizeable piece and bringing it back to Patrin before disppearing under the table to pet one of the Jarl's dogs. 'A hungry storyteller is a poor storyteller, my grandpa always used to say.' he pauses to take another, more sizeable, drink from the horn,'Followed by telling us, a thirsty storyteller is a poorer storyteller.' he laughs at his own joke, but you can tell despite his usual easy way there's something still distracting him - though whether in the past, the future, or both you cannot tell.
The revelry of Varbod provided cover for Fenwick Fiddlefen this time as he hurried into the hall, late as usual, and tripped, sending not only his stout frame but an assortment of personal items crashing to the floor. Quickly hopping up, patting himself off and collecting his various quills, books, and tiny leather pouches of Gods know what the gnome was undaunted as he made his way to the large chair waiting for him at the table of honor. With a squeak he slowly pulled the chair out and the short, although tall for a gnome at 4'1", wizard began the labor of climbing into his seat.
Finally arriving at his destination, Fenwick didn't acknowledge his companions right away. He was too busy fussing about, cleaning the dust from the floor off with Prestidigitation and then tying his long, thick brown hair back with three hands for efficiency, the third being spectral and arcane in nature. While his clothing, pouches and other personal items were littered with holes, no one could claim Fenwick was not quite clean, at least. With a thick, brown beard to accompany his hair one might have thought Fenwick a dwarf if it weren't for his rosy red nose and large, long, pointy ears. Pulling a pipe out from under his preferred but tattered thick wool wrapping he used magic once again to light the pipe before wiggling a little in his chair and fiddling with the pin holding the wool about his neck and shoulders. Finally he pressed a finger into the center of his large round spectacles three times before looking up and finally acknowledging his friends.
"Oh, hello Sigrún, Aslaug, Ógleð, Patrin!" It was as if he hadn't even noticed them until just now, but he took turns acknowledging each with a nod and a smile. For these four that had gotten to know him over the past year they knew even this display was a vast improvement. When they had met he had nervously stammered and his obsessive tics were endless.
Turning to Patrin, Fenwick now says excitedly "I may have done it." "I've been trying to find the right words and runes to repair small items, to start at least." The proud Fenwick holds up his glasses and waves them around, the long standing break in the middle seemingly magically repaired. When the spectacles suddenly snap and one large, round lens falls to the table, however, Fenwick remarks "oh dear, well, ah, perhaps I'm close, at least, eh?" Fenwick picks up the pieces and pulls an assortment of items out from under his cloak. Soon wads of pitch, cloth wrappings and a few twigs hold the two large lenses on Fenwick's face in an absurd fashion while the tiny wizard cleans the pitch off of his hands with a bit of magic. The gnome looks up and just shrugs at Patrin.
Ógleð, seated at the center of a crowd, tells the story of a warrior-poet. Reaching the hero's death and the story's end, he stands up and makes his way to his seat and the food. When his venison is finished, he spends a minute repairing it with a verse and begins to reeat his food. Ógleð is a tall and mostly ordinary looking man with curly black hair. His clothes are brown and plain, but his armor is well treated and used. He replies to Patrin, "And a full storyteller is finding an excuse to finish his tale and go to bed."
Shouts from the crowd demand to hear your tale, with those familiar with the story demanding to hear their favorite parts. “Tell us how you slew the witch Bikke!” “No, give us the battle at the Reapers’ hideout!” But as with any good story, this one starts at the beginning. With your bellies full and your horns empty (for now), you begin to recount the tale…
It was the last days of 1515 A.V.W., towards the end of the month of Endivetr. The snow on the ground had begun to melt, muddying the dirt roads of Hedmark. You march through the mud behind two other individuals--huscarls in the service of Jarl Vrandr Ivarson, one of them a tall, plain human woman with shoulder-length brown hair--Lile, you heard her name was--and the other a stocky male dwarf named Thorgren, with a shaved bald head and a glorious black beard decorated with rings and jewels.
“Thank you, strangers, for answering our call,” Thorgren says. “The jarl would like to have a word with you.”
You each found yourselves in Hedmark for your own reasons, and your presence had been noted. The jarl keeps an eye on all the strangers in town, and he could tell that you were not just average passers-through. Lile and Thorgren had specifically sought you out.
Your group of seven approaches a small, unassuming building with a symbol of an herb painted over the door. You recognize the symbol as being that of Eira, one of the lesser Aesir, the goddess of healing and medicine. Lile opens the door and stands to the side, gesturing for you to enter the building. There, you see the jarl, lying down on a table. He is a well-built man, with braided black hair and a beard to match. One of his legs is sticking out, and you see a nasty black wound on his calf, with black running through the visible veins. He is being tended to by two human women, but he brushes them aside when he sees you enter. He sits straight up--the motion obviously causing him great pain--and says, matter-of-factly: “A purse of one hundred shields for the safe return of my daughter. Double that if she’s unharmed.” You recognize the term “shields” as referring to gold coins, which have Tiwas’ holy symbol on the back. “And another twenty for each Reaper head you bring back with you.” His speech is laborious, and you can see sweat glistening on his forehead, despite the cool, late-winter temperatures.
Shouts from the crowd demand to hear your tale, with those familiar with the story demanding to hear their favorite parts. “Tell us how you slew the witch Bikke!” “No, give us the battle at the Reapers’ hideout!” But as with any good story, this one starts at the beginning. With your bellies full and your horns empty (for now), you begin to recount the tale…
It was the last days of 1515 A.V.W., towards the end of the month of Endivetr. The snow on the ground had begun to melt, muddying the dirt roads of Hedmark. You march through the mud behind two other individuals--huscarls in the service of Jarl Vrandr Ivarson, one of them a tall, plain human woman with shoulder-length brown hair--Lile, you heard her name was--and the other a stocky male dwarf named Thorgren, with a shaved bald head and a glorious black beard decorated with rings and jewels.
“Thank you, strangers, for answering our call,” Thorgren says. “The jarl would like to have a word with you.”
You each found yourselves in Hedmark for your own reasons, and your presence had been noted. The jarl keeps an eye on all the strangers in town, and he could tell that you were not just average passers-through. Lile and Thorgren had specifically sought you out.
Your group of seven approaches a small, unassuming building with a symbol of an herb painted over the door. You recognize the symbol as being that of Eira, one of the lesser Aesir, the goddess of healing and medicine. Lile opens the door and stands to the side, gesturing for you to enter the building. There, you see the jarl, lying down on a table. He is a well-built man, with braided black hair and a beard to match. One of his legs is sticking out, and you see a nasty black wound on his calf, with black running through the visible veins. He is being tended to by two human women, but he brushes them aside when he sees you enter. He sits straight up--the motion obviously causing him great pain--and says, matter-of-factly: “A purse of one hundred shields for the safe return of my daughter. Double that if she’s unharmed.” You recognize the term “shields” as referring to gold coins, which have Tiwas’ holy symbol on the back. “And another twenty for each Reaper head you bring back with you.” His speech is laborious, and you can see sweat glistening on his forehead, despite the cool, late-winter temperatures.
"Is the bounty on Reaper heads also doubled if your daughter is unharmed? I'll do it no even if they aren't, but good pay is important."
‘What happened, Jarl, if I might ask?’ Patrin asks, giving the man next to him a firm look, in respect of priorities ‘And what do we need to know about the Reapers?’
The jarl looks at Ógleð, while also seeming to look past him. "I'll bloody triple it, just get her back." The two attendants attempt to get Vrandr to lie down, and he cooperates.
The jarl looks at Ógleð, while also seeming to look past him. "I'll bloody triple it, just get her back." The two attendants attempt to get Vrandr to lie down, and he cooperates.
The jarl turns toPatrin. "Me, my daughter, and my huscarls decided to finally teach the Reapers a lesson. Have a hideout, not far from here." His breathing is heavy, and his speech becomes a bit mumbled. "Ten or so miles, along the coast, you'll find them." One of the attendants presses a cloth to the would on his leg, and he hisses, but bears the pain and continues. "Not ordinary bandits, like we thought. They have a witch. Magic. Evil."
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Patrin nods to the Jarl. 'We'd best get started then, they won't be expecting company so quickly. Rest assured we'll bring her back. I have light to match the witch's darkness.'
He holds up a hand, with a rune emblazoned on the palm and speaks a word of power. A holy radiance spreads outwards from him, brightening the room to perhaps 5 feet around him. No-one here is harmed, but it should bring some reassurance to the Jarl. (Persuasion: 18)
He turns to the others. 'We can make proper introductions while we travel, but I'm Patrin and I bear the gift of Valda within me. The way may be tough, but we shall prevail...'
Fenwick had followed Lile and Thorgren, eager for, although also terrified of, the opportunity to speak to the jarl of Hedmark.
Now in the small building dedicated to the healing of Eira, the gnome stands behind the others quietly muttering to himself. "Oh dear, that doesn't look good. Perhaps it's a bad time to inquire about my research. Maybe they can find a cure on their quest. Wait, did he say witch? Magic?"
When Patrin turns to the rest of the group and looks at him as well as the others, Fenwick points to himself and begins to panic. "Me? Oh no, you see, I'm no adventurer or hero. You don't want me. I'm just here to meet the jarl, although..." He glances at the injured jarl and continues "perhaps now is a bad time. Did he say...magic?"
Aslaug stood quietly at the back of the group, watching and listening carefully as the Jarl spoke. She had seen him a couple of times since arriving in Hedmark. It this was the first time she had been this close. As he spoke, the wind blew and Aslaug saw the clouds start to drift down the coast in the direction that the Jarl had indicated. Clearly Dura meant for her to travel in that direction. This must be why she had been brought to Hedmark a few weeks ago.
Suddenly, amongst the group, a half long raised their hand speaking to the Jarl as a light radiated out and washed the group. Another person touched by the gods? Aslaug mused. They didn’t need to know yet what had brought her here. Gold was enough of a believable motivation for now.
Oh dear, that doesn't look good. Perhaps it's a bad time to inquire about my research. Maybe they can find a cure on their quest. Wait, did he say witch? Magic?"
Aslaug stepped forward as the gnome spoke. “My lord, we will find your daughter. The gods are with us so we cannot fail.” She pounded on her chest twice in salute to show commitment to the cause.
"Yes, I will help find your daughter. I would also like to speak to you about another matter which is serious but I will aid you in any way as long as I am guaranteed an audience afterward," Sigrún Hervör replies nodding at the others.
These Reapers...could they be the murders she's looking for...
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
“But no living man am I! You look upon a woman...You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.” ― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King
“Gods be with you…” the jarl almost sighs. Suddenly, he grabs the arm of one of his attendants. “Give them… potions…”
“My lord!” Lile pipes up. “Surely you’re in need of--”
“No questions. Take them.” He nods to the attendant, who nods back, and goes to grab a small wooden coffer. She opens it up, revealing six vials filled with shimmering red liquid. “Lile, Thorgren, go with,” Vrandr orders. “Magic. Indeed. Dark, and vile business. Not like the light… Audience… Yes… After my daughter.”
Thorgren nudges Lile. “You and the others take those potions. I can take a few more hits than most, so I’ll be fine.” Lile nods in response, and takes one of the vials. “We should go. The jarl needs his rest, and time is not on our side. Follow the coast for ten miles, right? Should be easy enough.” He turns to you all. “Are you ready?”
"Yes," Sigrún replies taking the offered potion and putting it away. "Take heart jarl. We will return with your daughter," she adds nodding at him.
OOC: potion of healing? A regular?
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
“But no living man am I! You look upon a woman...You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.” ― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King
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It is the first day of the year 1517 A.V.W., and the first day of spring; Varbod, as the northerners call it, or “Springfest” in the common tongue. Our story begins on this holiday, at the mead hall of the coastal town of Hedmark. The hall is brightly lit by torches hanging from sconces on the walls and columns. Rows of long tables filled with humans, dwarves, and the odd halfling or two, pack the hall tightly, and it’s all the servants can do to try and navigate through the excitable crowd to bring plates heaped with meats, cheeses, and bread to those who have finished their first or second serving, and mead to those who are already deep in their cups.
You watch the excitement from a place of privilege, seated at the head table to the left of the host. Tonight, you sup on only the finest cuts of lamb, and drink only the best aged mead. But even separated from the crowd, it is still difficult to hear yourself think over the noise; the shouting, the cheering, the belching.
Over the last year, you’ve had the opportunity to get to know some of the faces you see before you. You see Tanyr Trueanvil, the dwarven blacksmith getting into an arm-wrestling competition with Erland Leifson, one of the town’s livestock farmers. You see Else, a local weaver’s apprentice and her many suitors. And you see Bemboello Perdenge, the halfling jewelry-maker. For this occasion, you could very well be wearing some of the gifts that she has given to you as thanks for your service.
Notably absent is Helga, the town’s shaman who helped the townsfolk get through a hard winter.
The noise of the crowd suddenly dies down, as you see your host, Jarl Sigrid Vradnrdottir, standing atop the table, demanding everyone's attention. She is a tall woman, thickly built, with long and braided brown hair. As soon as the hall goes quiet, save for the errant belch, she looks over the people in the hall and says, with a straight face, "I don't think I've ever met a sorrier sack of gluttons and lushes than you lot in my life."
The silence continues for a moment. Then, from the crowd, there is a slight chuckling. The jarl's face cracks into a grin, and soon the hall is filled with uproarious laughter. Sigrid holds her horn high and declares, "Happy Varbod, you sorry lot! You crafters!" A cheer from the crowd. "You builders!" Another cheer. "You drinkers!" A third cheer that dwarfs the first two. "Of course, none of this would be possible without the guests of honor for today's feast!" She gestures to you. "Without them, I would not be where I am tonight, and you would still be fighting over who is to rule you now. Of course, you've heard the stories, but let us hear them again tonight!" Another cheer rises from the crowd, and Sigrid turns to you. "Come on, then! It's custom for guests to share stories of their adventures when invited to a feast!"
Take this moment to describe yourself, and we will get into the "flashback" afterwards.
DM:
Reign of Winter I Curse of the Crimson Throne
Hell's Vengeance | Giantslayer
Varisian Hexalogy: Rise of the Runelords
Player:
Lucille Underfoot, lv. 1 Halfling Storm Sorcerer | Janna Farooq, lv. 1 Human Celestial Warlock
I strive to post at least once per day on all my PbPs. I ask my players to do the same.
More active on weekdays than weekends.
Assume all of my characters are gay.
Sigrún Hervör is seated with the party wearing her newly cleaned leathers, a fine red tunic beneathen, and her two hand axes at her sides. She has made it a point to bathe this evening before the festivities then perfumed her skin and hair. Her dark auburn hair she has braided elaborately into a fish tail that reaches down the middle of her back bound with leather ties. Her skin is fair but weathered by the elements and tattooed with symbols of her rites of passage like all the woman of her tribe. When standing Sigrún Hervör is 6'3" tall with broad shoulders and a shapely figure. Her piercing gray eyes are jovial while holding her horn of mead up to the jarl the young druid looks at her companion with a smile seemingly proud of her surrounds.
“But no living man am I! You look upon a woman...You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.” ― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King
Aslaug Hagensdotter lifted the horn of ale in celebration as performers drew to a close and made their bows. Over the past year she had become more comfortable in Hedmark. The city was very different to the small hamlet where she had grown up. The numbers of people and plentiful food still surprised her.
In the hamlet of Brekka her flaxen braids and pale skin did not stand out in any way. Just the light sprinkle of freckles across her nose distinguished her from many of the girls she grew up with. Here however the variety of people was a feast for her eyes. At 5’2”, Aslaug did not present an imposing figure, yet she had proven her worth many times, both on the mountains and with a blade. Her slight frame seemed at odds with the warpaint she almost never removed and the mark of the hammer that showed on her neck and shoulder. Beside her a battleaxe -never far from her side - leaned against the table
She looked around the room once more for Helga. The shaman’s absence was a cloud over an otherwise joyous evening. Helga had been the first person she met when she arrived in Hedmark. In fact it was Helga’s name whispered in Alsuag’s dreams that had brought her to Hedmark in the first place. She hadn’t realised at the time why Dura had brought her here, but the past year had made that abundantly clear.
Patrin Kelson, seated on a booster cushion to make sure he's at a reasonable table height given his 3'6" stature, sips at his mead horn, his eyes distant even as they look out over the room full of celebrants. Absentmindedly he reaches up to scratch his head, his rough-cut auburn hair sparkling gold in the torchlight, and the cuff of his smart set of clothes (probably the only set he owns - you know he likes to 'under-dress' so that people will underestimate him) falls away revealing both the slenderness of his wrist (some might say gaunt) and some of his intricate runic tattoos that gleam with an inner golden light when he is angered, or working with his power. If you were to look at them too closely however, they might well blur, as though they breathed beneath his skin.
With a sigh he looks back down at his plate and, seeing it empty, looks around for more venison. Seeing it out of reach, he gestures - a familiar one after the past year - and whispers a word of power. A shimmering golden hand materialises over the venison, taking a sizeable piece and bringing it back to Patrin before disppearing under the table to pet one of the Jarl's dogs.
'A hungry storyteller is a poor storyteller, my grandpa always used to say.' he pauses to take another, more sizeable, drink from the horn, 'Followed by telling us, a thirsty storyteller is a poorer storyteller.' he laughs at his own joke, but you can tell despite his usual easy way there's something still distracting him - though whether in the past, the future, or both you cannot tell.
The revelry of Varbod provided cover for Fenwick Fiddlefen this time as he hurried into the hall, late as usual, and tripped, sending not only his stout frame but an assortment of personal items crashing to the floor. Quickly hopping up, patting himself off and collecting his various quills, books, and tiny leather pouches of Gods know what the gnome was undaunted as he made his way to the large chair waiting for him at the table of honor. With a squeak he slowly pulled the chair out and the short, although tall for a gnome at 4'1", wizard began the labor of climbing into his seat.
Finally arriving at his destination, Fenwick didn't acknowledge his companions right away. He was too busy fussing about, cleaning the dust from the floor off with Prestidigitation and then tying his long, thick brown hair back with three hands for efficiency, the third being spectral and arcane in nature. While his clothing, pouches and other personal items were littered with holes, no one could claim Fenwick was not quite clean, at least. With a thick, brown beard to accompany his hair one might have thought Fenwick a dwarf if it weren't for his rosy red nose and large, long, pointy ears. Pulling a pipe out from under his preferred but tattered thick wool wrapping he used magic once again to light the pipe before wiggling a little in his chair and fiddling with the pin holding the wool about his neck and shoulders. Finally he pressed a finger into the center of his large round spectacles three times before looking up and finally acknowledging his friends.
"Oh, hello Sigrún, Aslaug, Ógleð, Patrin!" It was as if he hadn't even noticed them until just now, but he took turns acknowledging each with a nod and a smile. For these four that had gotten to know him over the past year they knew even this display was a vast improvement. When they had met he had nervously stammered and his obsessive tics were endless.
Turning to Patrin, Fenwick now says excitedly "I may have done it." "I've been trying to find the right words and runes to repair small items, to start at least." The proud Fenwick holds up his glasses and waves them around, the long standing break in the middle seemingly magically repaired. When the spectacles suddenly snap and one large, round lens falls to the table, however, Fenwick remarks "oh dear, well, ah, perhaps I'm close, at least, eh?" Fenwick picks up the pieces and pulls an assortment of items out from under his cloak. Soon wads of pitch, cloth wrappings and a few twigs hold the two large lenses on Fenwick's face in an absurd fashion while the tiny wizard cleans the pitch off of his hands with a bit of magic. The gnome looks up and just shrugs at Patrin.
Ógleð, seated at the center of a crowd, tells the story of a warrior-poet. Reaching the hero's death and the story's end, he stands up and makes his way to his seat and the food. When his venison is finished, he spends a minute repairing it with a verse and begins to reeat his food. Ógleð is a tall and mostly ordinary looking man with curly black hair. His clothes are brown and plain, but his armor is well treated and used. He replies to Patrin, "And a full storyteller is finding an excuse to finish his tale and go to bed."
I have a weird sense of humor.
I also make maps.(That's a link)
Shouts from the crowd demand to hear your tale, with those familiar with the story demanding to hear their favorite parts. “Tell us how you slew the witch Bikke!” “No, give us the battle at the Reapers’ hideout!” But as with any good story, this one starts at the beginning. With your bellies full and your horns empty (for now), you begin to recount the tale…
It was the last days of 1515 A.V.W., towards the end of the month of Endivetr. The snow on the ground had begun to melt, muddying the dirt roads of Hedmark. You march through the mud behind two other individuals--huscarls in the service of Jarl Vrandr Ivarson, one of them a tall, plain human woman with shoulder-length brown hair--Lile, you heard her name was--and the other a stocky male dwarf named Thorgren, with a shaved bald head and a glorious black beard decorated with rings and jewels.
“Thank you, strangers, for answering our call,” Thorgren says. “The jarl would like to have a word with you.”
You each found yourselves in Hedmark for your own reasons, and your presence had been noted. The jarl keeps an eye on all the strangers in town, and he could tell that you were not just average passers-through. Lile and Thorgren had specifically sought you out.
Your group of seven approaches a small, unassuming building with a symbol of an herb painted over the door. You recognize the symbol as being that of Eira, one of the lesser Aesir, the goddess of healing and medicine. Lile opens the door and stands to the side, gesturing for you to enter the building. There, you see the jarl, lying down on a table. He is a well-built man, with braided black hair and a beard to match. One of his legs is sticking out, and you see a nasty black wound on his calf, with black running through the visible veins. He is being tended to by two human women, but he brushes them aside when he sees you enter. He sits straight up--the motion obviously causing him great pain--and says, matter-of-factly: “A purse of one hundred shields for the safe return of my daughter. Double that if she’s unharmed.” You recognize the term “shields” as referring to gold coins, which have Tiwas’ holy symbol on the back. “And another twenty for each Reaper head you bring back with you.” His speech is laborious, and you can see sweat glistening on his forehead, despite the cool, late-winter temperatures.
DM:
Reign of Winter I Curse of the Crimson Throne
Hell's Vengeance | Giantslayer
Varisian Hexalogy: Rise of the Runelords
Player:
Lucille Underfoot, lv. 1 Halfling Storm Sorcerer | Janna Farooq, lv. 1 Human Celestial Warlock
I strive to post at least once per day on all my PbPs. I ask my players to do the same.
More active on weekdays than weekends.
Assume all of my characters are gay.
"Is the bounty on Reaper heads also doubled if your daughter is unharmed? I'll do it no even if they aren't, but good pay is important."
I have a weird sense of humor.
I also make maps.(That's a link)
Roll Persuasion for me, Ógleð.
DM:
Reign of Winter I Curse of the Crimson Throne
Hell's Vengeance | Giantslayer
Varisian Hexalogy: Rise of the Runelords
Player:
Lucille Underfoot, lv. 1 Halfling Storm Sorcerer | Janna Farooq, lv. 1 Human Celestial Warlock
I strive to post at least once per day on all my PbPs. I ask my players to do the same.
More active on weekdays than weekends.
Assume all of my characters are gay.
19
I have a weird sense of humor.
I also make maps.(That's a link)
‘What happened, Jarl, if I might ask?’ Patrin asks, giving the man next to him a firm look, in respect of priorities ‘And what do we need to know about the Reapers?’
The jarl looks at Ógleð, while also seeming to look past him. "I'll bloody triple it, just get her back." The two attendants attempt to get Vrandr to lie down, and he cooperates.
DM:
Reign of Winter I Curse of the Crimson Throne
Hell's Vengeance | Giantslayer
Varisian Hexalogy: Rise of the Runelords
Player:
Lucille Underfoot, lv. 1 Halfling Storm Sorcerer | Janna Farooq, lv. 1 Human Celestial Warlock
I strive to post at least once per day on all my PbPs. I ask my players to do the same.
More active on weekdays than weekends.
Assume all of my characters are gay.
"We'll do it. Anything we should know?"
I have a weird sense of humor.
I also make maps.(That's a link)
The jarl turns to Patrin. "Me, my daughter, and my huscarls decided to finally teach the Reapers a lesson. Have a hideout, not far from here." His breathing is heavy, and his speech becomes a bit mumbled. "Ten or so miles, along the coast, you'll find them." One of the attendants presses a cloth to the would on his leg, and he hisses, but bears the pain and continues. "Not ordinary bandits, like we thought. They have a witch. Magic. Evil."
DM:
Reign of Winter I Curse of the Crimson Throne
Hell's Vengeance | Giantslayer
Varisian Hexalogy: Rise of the Runelords
Player:
Lucille Underfoot, lv. 1 Halfling Storm Sorcerer | Janna Farooq, lv. 1 Human Celestial Warlock
I strive to post at least once per day on all my PbPs. I ask my players to do the same.
More active on weekdays than weekends.
Assume all of my characters are gay.
Patrin nods to the Jarl. 'We'd best get started then, they won't be expecting company so quickly. Rest assured we'll bring her back. I have light to match the witch's darkness.'
He holds up a hand, with a rune emblazoned on the palm and speaks a word of power. A holy radiance spreads outwards from him, brightening the room to perhaps 5 feet around him. No-one here is harmed, but it should bring some reassurance to the Jarl. (Persuasion: 18)
He turns to the others. 'We can make proper introductions while we travel, but I'm Patrin and I bear the gift of Valda within me. The way may be tough, but we shall prevail...'
Fenwick had followed Lile and Thorgren, eager for, although also terrified of, the opportunity to speak to the jarl of Hedmark.
Now in the small building dedicated to the healing of Eira, the gnome stands behind the others quietly muttering to himself. "Oh dear, that doesn't look good. Perhaps it's a bad time to inquire about my research. Maybe they can find a cure on their quest. Wait, did he say witch? Magic?"
When Patrin turns to the rest of the group and looks at him as well as the others, Fenwick points to himself and begins to panic. "Me? Oh no, you see, I'm no adventurer or hero. You don't want me. I'm just here to meet the jarl, although..." He glances at the injured jarl and continues "perhaps now is a bad time. Did he say...magic?"
Aslaug stood quietly at the back of the group, watching and listening carefully as the Jarl spoke. She had seen him a couple of times since arriving in Hedmark. It this was the first time she had been this close. As he spoke, the wind blew and Aslaug saw the clouds start to drift down the coast in the direction that the Jarl had indicated. Clearly Dura meant for her to travel in that direction. This must be why she had been brought to Hedmark a few weeks ago.
Suddenly, amongst the group, a half long raised their hand speaking to the Jarl as a light radiated out and washed the group. Another person touched by the gods? Aslaug mused. They didn’t need to know yet what had brought her here. Gold was enough of a believable motivation for now.
Aslaug stepped forward as the gnome spoke. “My lord, we will find your daughter. The gods are with us so we cannot fail.” She pounded on her chest twice in salute to show commitment to the cause.
"Yes, I will help find your daughter. I would also like to speak to you about another matter which is serious but I will aid you in any way as long as I am guaranteed an audience afterward," Sigrún Hervör replies nodding at the others.
These Reapers...could they be the murders she's looking for...
“But no living man am I! You look upon a woman...You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.” ― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King
“Gods be with you…” the jarl almost sighs. Suddenly, he grabs the arm of one of his attendants. “Give them… potions…”
“My lord!” Lile pipes up. “Surely you’re in need of--”
“No questions. Take them.” He nods to the attendant, who nods back, and goes to grab a small wooden coffer. She opens it up, revealing six vials filled with shimmering red liquid. “Lile, Thorgren, go with,” Vrandr orders. “Magic. Indeed. Dark, and vile business. Not like the light… Audience… Yes… After my daughter.”
Thorgren nudges Lile. “You and the others take those potions. I can take a few more hits than most, so I’ll be fine.” Lile nods in response, and takes one of the vials. “We should go. The jarl needs his rest, and time is not on our side. Follow the coast for ten miles, right? Should be easy enough.” He turns to you all. “Are you ready?”
DM:
Reign of Winter I Curse of the Crimson Throne
Hell's Vengeance | Giantslayer
Varisian Hexalogy: Rise of the Runelords
Player:
Lucille Underfoot, lv. 1 Halfling Storm Sorcerer | Janna Farooq, lv. 1 Human Celestial Warlock
I strive to post at least once per day on all my PbPs. I ask my players to do the same.
More active on weekdays than weekends.
Assume all of my characters are gay.
"Yes," Sigrún replies taking the offered potion and putting it away. "Take heart jarl. We will return with your daughter," she adds nodding at him.
OOC: potion of healing? A regular?
“But no living man am I! You look upon a woman...You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.” ― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King