War of the Burning Sky: IC

[Redshaw]

War of the Burning Sky

November

Desolation. Gray earth trod beneath boots on the march; snapped trees waiting for the flames. And soon, the victorious emperor knew, there would be that fire. There always was. Often enough he brought it, but even when he did not it arose. After every battle something burned — as if the universe followed some unwritten protocol that conflagration should be the epilogue to carnage. It was even more reliable than the crows.

Castle Korstull was taken. The mighty emperor figured he’d lost, at worst, one man in twenty. He’d known it would be so. Tonight, he would sleep on the sheets of a fallen prince, and the only cost had been a week’s planning and the blood of men he did not know. If the victory had meant anything to him, he would have called it a bargain.

When had conquest lost its luster? Was it just the ease, or was it something else? The glorious emperor stared into the flames of the torch he bore in his left hand, the famed artifact he had christened the Torch of the Burning Sky. Since the day he had acquired this strange token, born a century before in miracle and catastrophe, he had never lost a battle. It was as if he’d forgotten how.

He feared his own restlessness, and was all the more frustrated to realize that it might be the only thing he feared. What would the ache for challenge drive him to? The inscrutable emperor had begun to calculate the betrayal of his oldest ally; whether it was out of strategy, ambition, or boredom, he could not tell.

That ally, of course, planned to turn on him first. There had been no intelligence of such an act, but it went without saying. His ally went by the unlikely name of Shaaladel, and if the invincible emperor had forgotten how to lose, Shaaladel had forgotten how not to betray.

The all-knowing emperor’s foresight fatigued him. He’d spent the final hours of many brave men’s lives hoping for some surprise — a sudden ambush, unexpected reinforcements, even a mere change in tactics — that might lend the least excitement to this clash of nations. But like the planets in their courses, his enemies plodded, unwavering, along the path he had laid out to their defeat.

Fate’s arsenal had been emptied, it seemed, and no ordeals remained to try the blessed emperor. He had conquered Sindaire tonight, a nation that had already been his in all but name, for no better reason than that they had given him an excuse. Soon, he would test himself against his other neighbors — Ostalin and Dassen — but knew that they would fall just as quickly. He wondered what he’d done to anger the gods before his birth, that they should curse him by giving him only a single world to conquer. Perhaps, he mused, he should avenge himself on the heavens. He peered up through the gathering cloud-rack and contemplated this, until his view was obscured by a high-vaulted arch passing overhead. He trained his gaze forward now, as the warhorse he sat upon ambled through the yawning entryways of the castle.

Built to resemble the maw of some great beast, the front gates of Castle Korstull had impressed the magnificent emperor when he’d first seen them, but he had raised palaces of his own in the decades since. Now they looked to him like nothing more than the hastily assembled sets of some Wayfarers’ comedy. He remembered what Leska had told him before he’d left, that some young bard in Ragos had penned a play about his life, probably in an attempt to earn his patronage.

He’d laughed at the folly of that, yet he found himself wondering about it now, about how such a play might begin, about what soliloquies this crowing upstart had written into his mouth. Would there be a scene of his childhood, a half-orc raised among backwoods highlanders, tribesmen who wandered the mountains of the North seeking sacrifices for wise Uller, having no land to hold as their own? How many acts would it take him to carve out a nation for his kin, how many trumpets and alarums as he turned it into an empire? Which of his enemies would be judged worthy of their own death scenes, which allies would rhyme couplets after his dramatic exits?

He was certain Shaaladel would be the handsome scene-stealer, declaiming regally on the nature of their fragile peace as they debated the rebellion in Gate Pass, with no hint of the craven schemer beneath the regal facade. And surely Leska would be cheated of her rightful prominence, as misunderstood by a grasping playmaker as she was by all the rest of his subjects. They all looked at her and saw a frightful mask, unaware that the creature behind that grisly visage was far more human — and more terrifying — that they could have imagined. Leska should have been the subject of a play, he thought. She had all the makings of a tragedy, while he had none. His play would be boring, the legendary emperor decided. After all, he always won.

As soon as he dismounted his horse, he was frightfully attended. Jägare bodyguards in their horrific masks and blood-splattered lieutenants with word from General Magdus fell in step behind him as he walked. Within a few moments, they had ascended to the throne room, where he took his dinner and dispatched orders. The throne room and the royal bedroom adjoining it were appropriately princely, festooned with tapestries, murals, and other palatial regalia.

When the castle was built, these rooms had been prayed over by priests for three days. It was said no one could enter these rooms against the will of the one who sat upon the throne. The great emperor was unimpressed. He placed the Torch of the Burning Sky in a ruby-studded sconce, scraped his boot against the corner of the throne to remove a clump of gray mud, then sat down and called for the leaders of the force that had resisted him.

Hoping their deaths would provide some distraction, he ordered their executions on the spot. He watched attentively, eating stew from a brass tureen, as his bodyguards went about their work. Jägare all, trained in the art of torture by Leska herself, the men of his personal guard sensed the dread emperor’s apathy, and stretched their imaginations to make each prisoner’s end more entertaining than the previous one. But the spectacle soon descended into farce and common vulgarity; he grew listless again. He called for wine from the castle cellars and sat in silence, drinking 50-year-old vintages straight from their bottles. Before long, he grew lethargic and announced that he would retire.

All but a handful of his guards bowed deeply and left. The remaining three would stand outside his chamber as he slept. The immortal emperor extinguished the torch as he pulled it from its sconce and walked towards the bedroom, yet he stopped before the door, turned to one of his guards, and began to speak. He said, “I am more weary than I ever knew a mortal or immortal man could be. This world of half-men and vain posturing, this age of sheep who masquerade as lords, diminishes in my eyes by the day. I thought the gods would not long tolerate ambitions such as mine, but like a pack of beaten whores, they offer not defense but more accommodation. Everything that I once coveted turns stale. I grasp the fruits of conquest and each morsel tastes of ashes in my mouth. In seven months, my pennants could cast shadows over all the nations of the known lands, and yet this spent and whelping bitch they call the world cannot, for all my ravaging, yet birth a cur whose sharpest fangs don’t break against my skin. When I bid you to kill those men tonight, I found myself searching their eyes for signs that, in their fatal throes, their dying souls might glimpse Ysgard... another realm... any realm that better suited me. But I saw none. Did you see anything at all?”

The Jägaren, Daro, stared for a long time into those wild eyes, dumbstruck by this strange and sudden candor. In the end, shamed by his lack of a proper answer — or any answer at all — the bodyguard merely shook his head. Somehow disappointed, and knowing himself a fool for it, the doomed emperor walked away without a word and locked his bedroom door behind him.

His name was Drakus Coaltongue, and his curse was to be the most powerful man in the world.

* * * * *
The General of the Emperor’s First Army camped far from the castle that night. He did not eschew the comforts of the stronghold he had seized out of some sentimental desire to sleep in the same conditions as his soldiers. Even in the field, he had a larger tent, better food, assistants to see to his needs, and finery on which to rest.

He simply felt as though here, with his troops, he could get things done, and in the castle he would be up sending messages all night. General Magdus was a practical man, and from the camp he could run his army better. Yet for all his practicality, he was superstitious. Soldiers were like sailors that way, spending so much of their lives subject to the whims of fate that they sought signs of good and bad luck, not out of imagination, but out of fear. And the general did not like the clouds racing above his head tonight.

A storm brewing would be trial enough. Trudging through rain and muck was enough to demoralize even disciplined men. But these low black clouds moved faster than the wind, it seemed, as if intent on their destination. And they all seemed to be congregating in one place. The black thunderheads billowed highest directly above Castle Korstull. And they were not traveling, but remained stationary, whirling in place like water down a drain.

It was clearly an ill omen, he decided. Magdus was practical enough to grant fortune its place in his calculations. He gave orders to increase the frequency and size of his patrols, and told his adjutant to wake him half an hour earlier in the morning. All the confidence his victory had afforded him was melting away, and he was left with a deep unease. There were not enough soldiers between here and the sea to give his army a moment’s worry, but who could say what trouble the raging heavens might bring him?

As he put his head down to seek sleep, the general was reminded of a strange saying he’d once heard from an old sergeant. “You can conquer a land’s people; you cannot conquer its gods.” He did not know if he believed that, or even what it was supposed to really mean, but he did believe this: if the heavens were angry, tonight someone would be paying the price.

* * * * *
Daro saw the other two bodyguards die before he even knew they were under attack. The murder in the peripheral vision to his left he barely saw. It was just a smudge of motion that made a wet sound before it was over. But turned to his right as he was, he caught his other comrade’s end. He saw the last half-second of a man stepping from the shadows in the corner, as if walking out of a door, slashing the guard’s throat with a curving black blade and receding as swiftly and stealthily as he’d come.

Hefting his mace, Daro drew in air to shout, but there was a sound like a thunder strike and a sharp pain as something lashed across his adam’s apple. He saw a woman in the doorway — had it opened just now or had she been there all along?

She yanked the handle of a whip, and he found himself pitching forward, his throat burning and constricted. Her weapon had him by the neck, and he struggled to keep his feet as she pulled him towards her. Helpless against the tight constriction of his windpipe, he struck out wildly with his mace, bludgeoning the air. The woman was rushing towards him — or he was hurtling towards her — and for a split second he had the incongruous realization that she was beautiful.

Yet the colors of her hair and skin were wrong. Had she dyed them? Something knocked the mace from his hand. Her face came at his. What was happening? Was she head-butting him, was she going to bite him? Had the Emperor been attacked by lunatics?

Still choking, he felt her lips on his. A kiss. Her mouth was warm. Was he awake? She tasted like blood.

When she released him, there was something in his mouth. A grainy liquid, it tasted the way violets smelled. He felt the whip slip from around his neck, and realized the woman had already moved past him, towards the Emperor’s bedroom. He spun, looking for his mace, but the world kept spinning when he stopped, and he crumpled to the ground. This was no dream. He’d been poisoned.

When he recovered his breath, he finally called out. There was a clatter as the Jägare from the waiting chamber rushed in, but of the attackers he could hear nothing, until the din of clashing blades arose. His vision was too blurry now to see who fought or who fell.

The poison moved through Daro like a shiver. Helpless, the world dimming around him, he thought of the Emperor’s question, hours before. Would he see a better world now, he wondered, in what had to be his last moments? But there were only shadows moving in the blur. Now, as before, Daro could see nothing.

* * * * *
It was instinct that awoke him. There was someone in his room.

The Emperor’s reflex was to spring from his bed and find a weapon, but as soon as he had opened his eyes, his torso exploded in pain. He went to move and found himself pinned to the bed. He looked down at his chest.

Someone had driven a stake through his heart.

Another man would have panicked. But Coaltongue had faced death many times before, and while he was alarmed, he could not help being curious. He looked around the room, but saw no sign of his attacker. None of his generals would have pulled this off, not with dog-loyal Magdus, the best of them all, camped so close. Shaaladel would have planned something more intricate, more unnecessarily complex, something he would have seen coming. Leska?

His hands had found the stake — everything was harder now, it seemed, with his heart no longer pumping blood — and tried to summon up the strength to pull it out at once.

Then, from the shadows, an aged face, dyed with ashes. A black scimitar, edged with smoky diamonds, arcing at his throat.

Him? Coaltongue thought. Of all the enemies I have in this world? Him?

The blade fell. Staked to the bed, the emperor could not roll out of the way, and his arms were too weak to pull it out or block the blow.

The pain of the beheading was not much, he found. Far less than that of being stabbed in the heart. He was less conscious of the blow itself than of the cold air on the insides of his neck. Completely severed from his body, Coaltongue’s head rolled over to the left side of his pillow.

His head was still alive, still conscious and bewildered. From the angle at which his head had fallen, he could see a second assailant, her hands lifting the Torch of the Burning Sky from the wall-mount where he’d left it. They were thieves as well as assassins.

The Emperor heard sounds of swordplay from the room outside. There were at least three of them, then. It was all starting to make sense. He even knew how they would make their escape. Suddenly, he became very tired. It seemed to happen all at once. He tried to rub his eyes, but obviously could not, and this simple fact provoked in him a very acute distress.

He was falling asleep. There was no preventing it. The Emperor of Ragesia had gone down without a fight, without even a sword in his hand. In other circumstances, he might have laughed.

As oblivion claimed him, he thought, I must applaud the Fates. This, I did not see coming. Then there was a sudden pang of regret; disappointment that he would not be there to see the cataclysmic change his death would wreak, the conflict which would ensue. This, he thought, would have been a world worthy of me.

Then, darkness.

[Redshaw]

December

The cold snap had come, that was certain. You breathe in, and feel every hair in your nostrils freeze into rigidity and your breath crystalizes as it escapes your lips. The ridge was only a half mile ahead: it would be pleasant soon enough when your group made camp and started a fire. Be patient, rub your hands and you will keep yourselves warm. Were there the sun with which to see, your position on the mountain would grant a fine view of the lake below, irregular patches of gray surrounded by an expanse of white. But there is no warm sun, nor even its comforting sister, the moon. Instead, there is only the stars; the constellations of discordant Kordo and stoic Dáin affixed in the sky above you, battling for all eternity. Despite seeing their midgardian representatives festooned in the celestial wreath above you, you do not feel their presence. You do not feel anything. You wonder if you have found a place too frozen for even the gods to tread.

Soon you begin to cough, a dry, thin cough, as the bitterly cold air touches the bottom of your lungs. Your ears and face and lips hurt, and then your feet hurt. You draw yourselves inward, thinking of home, thinking of hearths and mead and the healthy curves of a welcoming woman.

Ten more minutes of hiking through the drift, you guess, and the ridge will be yours. It's become too cold to shiver. Your eyes hurt. This was not simply cold: this was abyssal. Somewhere between here and the safety of Gate Pass you left the Jotun-Tooth mountains and entered the 23rd layer of the Abyss, you guess, where the frost-rimed demon prince Kostchietchie reigns and the life-giving sun is little more than a myth.

Your clothes might as well have been netting or lace, your bear-skin cloaks little more than cotton shawls: the wind blows through them, freezes your bones and the marrow in your bones, freeze the lashes of your eyes and grow icicles from the moisture under your noses.

And then you arrive. The relief flooding your system is potent substitute for the lack of heat. A camp fire is made priority, though it is not large - you would not wish to warn your quarry of your position, even if they are miles away. As you all work together to erect a shelter, someone begins singing an old, but common tune in the giant's tongue. It is not long before all join in, which helps the work go faster and distract from the biting numbness in your fingers. Eventually, a camp of three mammoth-hide tents are assembled and the five of you, changed into a dryer set of clothes, gather about the small fire in the center.

In your company is an elderly half-orc with a gray beard and gray flesh covered in tribal tattoos and scar tissue. He is equipped with thick leather armor, a long-bow, quiver, and a steel bearded axe. At his side is a white wolf, almost as ancient as he is, gnawing on a favored bone that has long since lost all its meat. The tracker calls himself Borg and speaks, as far as you can tell, only in Orcish, and even then very rarely. He calls his companion Hundur.

There is a half-elf arcanist as well, dressed in a bear skin cloak and beneath that the thick wool robes, freshly dyed red, marking him as a new student of Gabal's War School. He is young with a trim beard and a narrow face, coveting a fine-spined book in his lap. Before leaving the city, he had a tendency of talking without end, but never actually saying anything; the cold seems to have changed that habit. His name is Able. The twitching nose of a rat occasionally peers out from the breast line of his robe before disappearing once more into the folds.

Finally, the patron and leader of your mission party. Tall, red haired and handsome, this man is armed with a decorated greataxe and a smirk that suggests he thinks himself invincible. His name is Rantle, a hero of the people, and if the weather has put a damper on his spirits, he does not show it. In his lap, bundled up in several layers of blankets, roosts a gold-scaled pseudo dragon, which he has named Lotho and dotes on endlessly.

The reason you are here, suffering the cold and the wind and the ice, is that you are on a mission for the Resistance. Since Coaltongue's death, there has been a geo-political conflagration and Gate Pass has enemies on all sides. And of course, the most deadly of all is the enemy within. Smugglers, paid by corrupt city officials, are relieving the city of arms and resources that will be critical in the coming conflict. According to Rantle's information, they have already left the city with the supplies and he has spear-headed an operation to stop the traitors, recover the supplies, gather evidence on the corrupt politicians and then return to the city.

Borg the half-orc, a mercenary from Ragesia who knows the Jotun Tooth mountains better than any soldier, has led your group through a treacherous and hidden short-cut across the mountain range in an attempt to intercept the supplies. Able, the half-elf, is an idealistic and well-intentioned wizard, hoping to prove himself useful to the Resistance by volunteering for this dangerous mission. Hákon the half-Jotun was chosen personally by Rantle for this task, for his sheer size, strength and his cold-weathered heritage. Jerid the human with curious abilities was requested to accompany this mission on the behalf of Torrent, a cleric of Farlanghn and a representative of the Resistance.

The flickering of the campfire does little to bring warmth or light to your tired party so much as it amplifies the yawning emptiness of the mountains. Nestled on a cliff side above the only road which navigates the peaks of the Jotun Tooth mountains, fifteen miles west of Gate Pass, you roost, praying you survive the night and waiting for sign of your prey. You've made good time; you should be several hours ahead of the wagon. The sun will rise in a few hours, you can only hope.

[Redshaw]

Burly and broad-shouldered, Rantle lumbers over toward the pack he left in a tent, freezing snow crunching beneath his large, oiled boots. "As your employer, I feel obliged to compensate you fine men for the pain and ardor of our journey beyond simple coinage." He grunts as he retrieves a small wooden casket and five drinking horns from his equipment and returns to the humble camp fire. Using the pick-head of his great axe, he pries the lid off the small barrel and sets it gingerly in the snow, revealing sweet-smelling mead splashing about its insides. "And so, to assist in the resistance of this infernal chill, I might offer you both honeyed wine and gratitude. He dunks the first of the horn cups into the sweet-tasting brew and begins passing cups out to each of you individually, addressing you all as he does so.

“First, to young Able. I imagine you’re older than even poor Borg here, but your long ears look damper than a mermaid’s.” The jest is made in a tone not meant to insult but to generate a lightness of mood in an otherwise heavy atmosphere. The half elf smiles nervously, unsure of how to respond, bu accepts the offered cup nonetheless.

The words he shares with Borg are in Orcish, spoken clearly but with halting grammar, “Thank you for your patience and wisdom, old one. The hunt was good and the Gods are undoubtedly pleased.” He lowers his head in respect and tilts the horn cup intended for the orc to spill some of its contents into the snow, ”In gratitude to both thirsty Kordo and to you. May our Fathers feast in friendship.” He offers the remains of the horn to Borg, who accepts it with a neutral expression.

The next mug is offered to Hákon of the Hästesko, his gesture made in the common tongue, ”Tall Ivarsson. I can only pray I brought enough mead to warm your Jotunn veins!” His laugh is loud and boisterous enough to cause Able to wince.

Finally, he addresses the farmer from Gate Pass, mead splashing from the cup’s rim as it’s passed forward, ”Jerid, my clansman, it makes my heart warmer than any fire to see a fellow farmer take arms with me in our people's time-honored tradition of killing Ragesian dogs. Through solidarity and faith in the Gods, we shall overcome!”

Finally, taking a horn mug for himself, he thrusts it upward in a cheer. “Hail Coaltongue,” he toasts boldly in the ironic tradition that all residents of Gate Pass did – a habit adopted following the Dragon Emperor’s failed occupation of the city forty years ago. Lotho squeaks its approval and the large man empties the horn's contents in a single, long swallow. Borg and Able both drink their fill, the latter joining Rantle in his toast.

[Greymane]

Hákon sucked the cold mountain air into his lungs as the group trotted up the mountains. He was no stranger to traveling in frozen wastelands, where the cold rattled your bones, and Auril's promise of death echoed on the winds. The cold in these lands did nothing to his bones, and the snow goddess' macabre words were no where to be found. His initial astonishment had nearly gotten the better of him. It was enough to nearly lull a veteran traveler into a content stupor. Nearly.

The half-giant stood over eight feet in height. His frosted white hair was long enough to reach the middle of his back, and was tied into a neat braided ponytail. Fanciful hairstyles and dress were popular among his giant kin, and was a habit he had not dropped. His facial hair was ungroomed, a chilly white scraggly beared and mustache clashed against pale blue skin. He was dressed primarily in animal hides for warmth; bear-hide cloak, wolf hides on his torso and hare on his boots, accompanied by leather breeches under the small skirt the wolf hides made. A great deal of animals died to gird someone of his size. He was armed with club, slung at his hip, and an enormous tree branch slung on his back. Over the tree branch was slung an old oaken door, the image of a mug wearing a pair of boots carved into it. A trophy of his first brawl in the One-to-Go, the door had been torn off its hinges when he had sent someone careening into it.

He towered far above that of his travelling companions. Not an unfamiliar event, as he was used to travelling with smaller humans all the time. That said, they were still smaller than his northern human kin. Especially the elf-blooded mage. He looked as if the gusts of wind could carry him away in their icy grip. Borg, the half-orc, was no doubt the biggest of his compatriots. His scars also spoke of a great deal of experience. Upon hearing he would be their guide, Hákon initially worried that the Ragesian mercenary was leading them into a trap. While that remained to be seen, he had the bearing of a warrior, and Hákon doubted duplicity more and more as they traveled.

The two humans were more of an enigma to the half-jötunn. Rantle had the stance of a warrior, but the heart of a scoundrel, and it seemed like they would be at odds with one another. His laughter, his grin, and his sticky fingers seemed to compliment him well, however. He'd known him for a short time now, and was no stranger to doing as the man asked. He never ordered Hákon, though. He always took the approach of a friend asking a favor, and so the half-giant never had issue with him like he did with the commander of the militia. The man known as Jerid was unknown to Hákon. Rumors abounded of the man's connection to dream magic and peculiar abilities, and he had caught Able watching Jerid out of the corner of his eye on more than one occasion. If Jerid knew dream magic, that made him far more interesting to Hákon.

When they had arrived at their campsite and begun setting it up, he had silently been humming an old tune from his homeland while he waited. Whether or not someone else heard him, he does not know, but the whole group had broken out into singing the chant, which had pleased Hákon's homesick heart. Before long, Rantle, true to his style, made his attempt to get on everyone's good side by producing mead for everyone. When offered the small horn, Hákon grinned at him. He could likely drink the whole barrel, but he would reign himself in and allow his companions to have their fill.

"Hail, Coaltongue!" he joins in with Rantle, and downs the glorified nightcap.

[PersonofJid]

Jerid was cold. There was no denying that fact. Even though dressed in skins from head to toe, the cold had found a way to sneak in. Growing up on a farm, he was used to having to work in all sorts of weather conditions, but this...this made getting up to feed the livestock in the early morning winter look like a warm summer's day. He wrapped his bear-skin cloak around him even tighter and wondered if this was ever going to end. He could feel Ankou's presence in his mind, pushing him to keep pace with the rest of the party. At least he didn't have to suffer the cold alone.

It wasn't much comfort seeing his companions deal with the cold. While the weather respected no man, it didn't seem to have any effect at all on the half-giant, Hakon, who walked as though it were the middle of spring. Jerid felt a surge of jealousy at the ease with which the half-Jotun could travel in this terrain. It hardly seemed fair, but complaining wasn't going to make the cold go away. He could see the half-orc, Borg, at the front, the cold doing it's utmost to stay him but failing. "No doubt he has traveled this course before," thought Jerid, admiring the half-orc's experience and resolve. Their leader, Rantle, also seemed to keep his jovial demeanor despite the weather. Jerid had heard tales of Rantle's exploits, but did not expect them to be as true as they now seemed. Truly, Rantle seemed invincible.

Glancing towards the last of his traveling companions, Jerid thought he saw the half-elf, Able, staring back at him. This came as no surprise. Jerid knew very well how the wizards at Gabal's school felt about him, and he could only imagine what Able was told when he discovered they would be traveling together. "At least," Jerid thought to himself, "if we're going to suffer, I'm not going to let him bear it better than me." With this thought, Jerid quickened his pace determined not to be the last to reach the ridge.

As they reached their campsite and began setting up their tents, a song started from somewhere. It was a familiar tune, and he happily joined in, grateful for the distraction from the cold. Later, as drinks were being shared, he couldn't help but feel a sense of optimism for what lay ahead. True, the way may be difficult, but like the cold it could not hope to break their spirit. Gate Pass would persevere, just like it did in the past. "Hail, Coaltongue!" he cries, adding his voice to the toast, and drinks his fill from his cup.

[Redshaw]

Time passes and the cask empties rather quickly - it was never large to begin with and the appetites of four grown men and a half-giant amount to quite a lot indeed. As you feast on the honey wine and dried meat, also courtesy of your bearded benefactor, the large human regales you with a tale of cleverness rather than morality.

"A woman in Sindaire had a son who took sides with a king who lost his battles - how could he win against the Dragon Emperor? - and had to flee the country. The aged mother mourned deeply over her son's absence, and beseeched the Gods and the Emperor with prayers to allow her son to return home and to make her a visit, at least.

At last the son was granted permission to return and visit his mother till "the next harvest," as the order read."

Rantle grins now and his white teeth flash as they chomp into another bite of jerky.

"On this, the mother sowed pine seeds in her fields."

His laugh is hearty and a large hand slaps his knee in self-congratulation. Able stares at the human with confusion for several moments before he catches the hook and joins in the laughter while Borg continues to stare into the fire placidly.

Eventually Rantle sighs, eyeing the horizon, "The sun will rise in but a few hours. Get some rest, all of you." He begins carving out a seat in the snow that will allow him to overlook the road below, "I will keep watch until our quarry arrives... and again, thank you all for coming." He pauses in his work to smile at each of you with emotional sincerity.

The half-orc grunts and stands, retreating into one of the tents along with his wolf and Able collects his belongings before wandering into another, cheerfully bidding "good night" to all his companions as he does so. The half-elf stares at Jerid a few moments longer than absolutely necessary as he bids good night, but his expression is not one of mistrust nearly so much as poorly suppressed curiosity. A torrent of questions are likely dammed behind his tongue and, at this moment at least, none break loose. His retreat is swift.

Three tents exist and two are occupied; it is unlikely that Hákon will comfortably share one with another person, leaving Jerid to choose between the remaining two.

Spoiler: Jerid

Show

Make a FORT Save against cold weather effects. Add a +5 bonus from Cold Weather equipment and a +2 bonus for full ranks in Survival.

[Greymane]

Normally on winter travails, Hákon's time is spent in a more solitary fashion, having jokes and laughter about him was a welcome change. The mead was delicious, it had been sometime since he had such a drink, as ale and Shahalesti wine was more common and more affordable. He drank, but no more than any other member of this expedition.

At the humorous story, Hákon adds his raucous laughter to Rantle's. Wise woman! Hah!"

Borg's staunch stoicism was slightly bothersome to the half-giant. He supposed- and hoped- that he was simply professional and didn't want to involve himself with people who hired him for anything beyond the job.

As Rantle tells them to take their rest, Hákon returns the heartfelt thanks with a deliberate look of his own. "More than happy to help. And should you need rest, call on me, I will take watch."

After speaking, he turns and lumbers towards the last, unoccupied tent. He wouldn't mind sharing with another, but it's doubtful they would be comfortable with him taking up most of it. He lies down, wraps himself in his cloak, and gets as much rest as possible.

[PersonofJid]

Jerid did not want to leave the fire, but eventually his weariness started to get the better of him and he figured he'd better turn in. He watched Hákon take the last unoccupied tent, and wished he had the sense to leave earlier. Now he'd have to pick a tent to share with someone.

Standing in front of the tents, Jerid considered his options: 1) He could try and share a tent with Hákon. The half-giant was certainly large, and that meant little room for himself. He doubted either of them would get much rest if they were always in one another's way. However, warm bodies kept close together keep one another warm. That didn't seem so bad, but then Hákon was half-frost giant. Did he even generate heat? Jerid shivered at the thought of sleeping next to a giant freezing...giant. It did not seem appealing. Also, Hákon hailed from Ragesia which put Jerid a little on edge. Yet, Rantle seemed to trust the half-giant. Perhaps it was worth giving him a chance.

2) He could sleep in Borg's tent. Jerid didn't think the orc would mind. He seemed to treat everyone in the party equally. He almost never spoke, so it would be quiet at least, unless the orc snored. Jerid wasn't sure what the wolf would do. It took up space, so the tent was likely going to be a little cramped, though not as much Hákon. Then again, Borg was also Ragesian. Rantle seemed to trust him, but Borg never seemed to return the sentiment like Hákon did. Jerid feared that he might not wake up in the morning.

3) He could share Able's tent. Jerid wasn't going to deny it; he did not like the half-elf wizard. Aside from the fact that Able was a student of Gabal, his incessant chatter was extremely annoying. Jerid dreaded even risking having to hear that voice again without something else to distract him. He doubted he could get much sleep like that anyhow. However, Able's tent would be the most spacious as he was not a giant nor had a pet that was almost as big as he was. Also, Able's behavior toward him did not what Jerid expected of a Gabal mage. That in and of itself piqued his own curiosity. Why did he act the way he did? He was also from Gate Pass, which made things more comfortable than having to deal with Ragesians. Maybe just one night to give the man a chance wouldn't be so-

Jerid stopped himself. He didn't like where that train of thought was going. Quickly, he considered his final option.

4) Sleep outside.

... ... ... No, not going to happen.

Sighing to himself, Jerid realized he had already made his choice, and he quietly cursed himself for being so soft-hearted. "I better not regret this," he mutters to himself as he stepped into Able's tent for some much needed rest.

Spoiler: DM

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Could I make a Survival check to help with the Fort save, or is that already taken into account with the +2? (PHB pg. 83) If I exceed the DC I'd like to give the same bonus to Able as he would be sharing the same tent and doesn't seem like he's accustomed to harsh weather.

At any rate, I'll roll the Fort Save now. If the Survival check is allowed you can have me roll it out of game, I suppose.
(1d20+7)[12]

[Redshaw]

The night passes without event. Able seems too fatigued to riddle Jerid with questions, but grateful for assistance in staying warm; his smile is broad and genuine. Three hours later you all rise one at a time from your tents to find the sun has risen and the morning has a clear, blue, cloudless sky. Snow glitters as a westerly wind pushes it off the peaks of the nearest mountain summit and dances down evaporating to nothing. It might be considered a beautiful day were it not for the belching black billows of smoke rising over another summit to the west. The stench of industry and manure is heavy in the air.

Rantle sits on the bluff’s edge ponderously, a bone white pipe, carved from mammoth ivory, clutched in the corner of his mouth. The pipe’s bell is designed with gorgeous runes, similar to the ones found on his axe head, and brown, wispy tufts of smoke rise from its lip to disappear into the air, accompanied by the smells of sweet, dark mountain tobacco. Despite the obvious activity brewing in the West, the warrior’s small green eyes keep focused on the East – towards Gate Pass and, hopefully, your still-approaching quarry.

Able shuffles nervously, eyeing the violently billowing smoke. "Wh-...what is that?!" Rantle frowns and responds with a neutral, controlled tone. ”The Ragesian army… it is camped much closer than I expected. They must have stolen up on us during the night. It was known that they had assembled and were on the move… but to see them a day’s march from our gates…” The man shakes his head with a grim expression – this is the most serious you have ever seen the Theives’ Guild sympathizer act. ”We will need to act quickly. With the enemy so near our doorstep, those supplies are vital.”

Using a burnt stick left over from the small campfire, Rantle begins drawing shapes in the snow – they are basic but understandable illustrations of your immediate landscape. ”We are in a fortuitous spot for an ambush. The road, thirty feet at its widest point, runs from East to West, as you can see. We are on a bluff that angles at about thirty feet above the main road with a sheer edge on the North so they would require all the eyes of a hydra to spot us. On the South side of the road is a roughly 10 foot drop into a lake that is frozen… though its ice is of dubious thickness and completely impassable with a nervous horse and cart, I’d imagine. Their options are limited.” He draws a square inside the illustrated road, signifying the targeted cart. ”My sources tell me that the cart has an escort of at least four men. We should be prepared for more. They will be tired and they will be complacent… but still very dangerous.”

There is a crunching sound as Borg enters the camp - it seems he was awake before the rest of you. And he has brought breakfast. Sitting with the rest of your war party, he begins skinning a freshly caught rabbit, tossing the unwanted parts to his white wolf who laps up the blood eagerly.

"I would hear everyone’s ideas on how best to skin this cat… preferably before its arrival.” He holds up his finger as another thought occurs to him, ”I would warn you that wise Borg here will not be assisting us in the coming battle – it is not out of misplaced loyalty or lack of constitution for blood that stays his hand, but currency. He is a mercenary hired strictly for his indispensable knowledge of the mountains and his keen eyes as a look-out. With only his brain and his eyes purchased, he will maintain strict vigilance on our behalf, but will not raise his blade in our defense.”

He offers the stick outward for anyone who will take it, ”Now. Speak your minds. I will decide our best course of action in the end – and accept the responsibility of either its failure or success – but there are brighter minds than mine here and I would welcome them to find a voice.”

Spoiler: Jid

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You survive the night without suffering any cold damage or exhaustion.

Spoiler: Greymane

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You have an ominous dream. A beautiful woman with dark skin and blue eyes. A black horse trodding across the embers of a burning city. Scaled wings blotting out the sun. An endless army of men with bear skulls instead of faces. Your dreams are vague, violent and unpleasant.

[Greymane]

Hákon bursts from his tent, bleary-eyed and discontent, a long frown from his face. The dream he had was unpleasant, and infuriating. He was never sure if it was a small portent of things to come, or simply some strange thing that took glee in tormenting his mind. This one was no different. His frustration and restlessness were close to peaking, and all he wanted to do was smash something. There were only comrades and snow here, and while the idea of hoping Borg was a traitor and smashing him for it briefly entered his sleep-addled mind, any venting of his irritation would have to wait.

His nerves were not settled at Able's exclamation, and Rantle's explanation. The half-giant peered out at the billowing smoke where the Regesian army supposedly was, and gritted his teeth. If Gate's Pass was going to weather such a force, when his homeland could not, they had best hope nothing less than a Thrym's axe was being carried by their quarry. He muttered under his breath, "Looks like war is coming to my new home all too soon." and took space next to Rantle, and eyes his drawing and planning critically.

He rubs his chin, squinting at the makeshift strategy board in the snow. He looks for a more narrow part of the main road, and then takes the stick from Rantle. He then marks that spot, preferably one that is around a bend in the road and not easily spotted from a distance. "If we're going to ambush, we're going to need to cut off ways for them to get away from us. I say we get a road block setup. If we don't have good materials on hand, we can always use the snow itself to build something they couldn't just rush on through." He strokes his beard for a moment. "And then? We jump them from the ridge. I can even take up their rear to discourage them fleeing back the way they came."

Spoiler

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Will Save: (1d20+4)[14]

[Redshaw]

Rantle strokes his thick beard in deep thought as the half giant explains his tactics. Lotho, the scaled pet, yawns deeply as its tail curl about his neck, it perched on his shoulder sleepily. "Simple. I like it, Hákon, however, it will be impossible for us to scale this bluff once we have descended it; it is far too steep. And so if we were to build a barricade, we would need to find a suitable hiding place on the road - something which I am relative sure does not exist."

Able pipes in now, standing up from a meditative position where his book was laid open in his lap. "Yes, but... what if only a few of us were to build the block and wait at the bottom behind it, while the rest waited atop for an opportunity... that could work!

Rantle smiles at the half elf's eagerness and nods, "Indeed. That could work." Able blushes and shuffles his weight as he awkwardly stares downward, apparently having won some private battle by earning the rogue's compliment.

The adventurer's intense green eyes slant towards Jerid now and though he does not say anything, his expression is expectant.

Spoiler: Genn

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Hákon's will succeeded and the troubling dreams do not transmit into waking life activities

[PersonofJid]

Jerid listens carefully as Rantle explains the situation, and at the suggestions offered by both Hákon and Able. Their suggestions were sound and seemed like they would work. However, he found the situation frustrating as they had to focus on reclaiming the cart rather than stopping it. It would be a simple matter of knocking the cart off the road and into the lake to stop it, but since the city needed the supplies, they have to keep the cart intact.

"Stopping the cart is only the first step. We still have to deal with the men guarding it. I suggest any who plan on fighting them face to face should be the ones building the blockage. Any who fight at range should stay up top where we have the height advantage, and only descend when necessary." He furrows his brow in concentration as he stares at the drawing. "Do we know how they are armed and armored? Do they have anyone who can shoot back at us? Just how narrow is the road there?" Jerid motions at the area Hákon marked on the map, "And if we're overwhelmed, what do we do then?"

[Redshaw]

Rantle lifts a hairy eyebrow as Jerid talks, the corners of his lips curling upward as the smoke from his pipe continues to billow. "That sounds to me as good a plan that crafty Grimnir himself would craft. There will be a horse-drawn carriage with a rider and an escort of at least four. I would not expect them to be overly-well equipped; they are neither Jägare or magicians. But I would expect them capable hands with dagger and bow. The cart itself is laden with magical scrolls and artifacts of priceless value in the proper hands, but these are penniless, Godless mercenaries and traitors selling loyalty and honor for coin. They possess little amounting to cleverness between them. As for being overwhelmed, loss is always a risk when entering combat, but the shining gates of Ysgard will always be open to warriors who die well."

He stands now, plucking the pipe from his lips and using its mouthpiece as a pointer, indicating the road below the bluff. "The road curves up here, at the cliff's edge; the road should be no wider than thirty five feet." He turns on his heel and points out Hákon, "You and I shall descend and make a wall of stone and ice as mighty as we may. He turns to Jerid and Able, "You shall pack up the camp and make ready for a hasty escape as soon as we've taken the cart. This hillside will be covered in dirt-worshipers before long." He pauses, glancing at the half-Jotunn, "No offense."

"Like the woman who sowed the pine seeds, do not fight the fair fight, my brothers; win the fight. Use the trees, the earth, the birds in the sky, your tooth and claw. A single mind is more powerful than all the spears in the world. Gate Pass is a key in the coming war, which will cover the land with fire and crows. Make no mistake: the Gods are watching. Gambling. Judging. Let us give them a good show." The man taps his head with two meaty fingers for emphasis and then licks his callused thumb before using it to stamp out the remaining embers of his pipe, slipping it into his shoulder pack. "Well then. No time to lose!" The warrior slips his greataxe out from its sheathe on his back to grip it in his large hands as he leaps without fear off the buff's edge to land in the snow and slide down the 30 feet to the road. Able makes a startled shout as the man disappears from view but running over to the edge will reveal he landed safely at the bottom and is waving up at the rest of you.

Spoiler: Rantle's Leadership

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Gain +1 morale bonus on saves against charms and fear affects. Gain a +1 bonus on attack rolls and weapon damage rolls.

Spoiler: Descending the Bluff

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Acrobatics check DC 5 to descend safely at half speed. DC 10 to descend safely at full speed. Failure results in falling prone at bottom of the bluff.

[Greymane]

Hákon creases his face in contemplation at Jerid, and then at Rantle. He drops the charred stick onto the ground and smirks, his chest puffed out slightly. Seems he could still plan a battle, at the very least. Not unlike raiding caravans in the north. At least there were to be more actual warriors in this coming battle. Though, as much allure as Ysgard had, Hákon would not be falling to Regesian mercenaries. He added a "Here here!" to Rantle's statement nonetheless.

Though the half-jötunn shrugged off Rantle's unintended insult, never considering himself part of Regesia anyway; his mention of the Gods did remind him he had not offered tribute to Thrym on the eve of battle. He would need to offer the heart of a fallen enemy after the battle now. Auril could not be heard this far south, but the frost giant god had claim on Hákon's very blood. So he was warned by more than one völva at least.

"Well then. No time to lose!" Rantle leaps off the edge of the bluff. Hákon grins, and while sliding down with wild abandon would be more to his liking, he was carrying far too much. The half-giant leaps off the edge, and slides sideways down it, careful not to damage his equipment.

Spoiler: Actions

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Acrobatics Check: (1d20)[16]

[PersonofJid]

While Jerid appreciated Rantle's insight on the coming battle, he couldn't help but feel some frustration toward the folk hero's response. True, the risk of death was always there, but Jerid prefered to have a back-up plan in case things turned south so as to keep that risk as small as possible. He would defend his home to the end, but he would prefer to not die if possible. Still, Jerid was grateful that they took the time to make any kind of plan and that everyone knew their jobs. Rantle may not be one for contingencies, but he knew how to lead with the original plan. "I guess he never needs to think that far ahead. He must do everything right the first time." Jerid hoped that would be the case now.

As Jerid began to pack up their camp, as instructed, he looked around for the old half-orc. "Hey, Borg. I know you may not be paid for this, but could you help us pack up camp? We need to be ready to leave as soon as possible."

[Redshaw]

Borg has finished skinning the rabbit and rekindled the remains of the previous evening's fire. Using branches harvested from his morning's hunt, he's constructed a rudimentary spit over which the pink, bloody breakfast now slowly roasts. As Jerid addresses the hunter, the ancient half-orc furrows his brow and scowls. Whether or not he understood Jerid's questioning is left unanswered as the expression he offers is less-than friendly. A few awkward moments of silence pass before Able gently tugs on Jerid's sleeve, "I think... I think we better let him eat..." The half-elf's tone suggests a worry that should the tracker be harassed further, he might eat the both of them instead.

Rantle wastes no time in designating a line of road that is at the tightest curvature, its flank immediately meeting the cliff face; this position would allow for a barricade to be erected and not seen by Easterly travelers until immediately falling upon it. "Here is the confluence." He turns to Hakon, "Boulders. Branches. Chunks of ice. Anything will do." He uses his axe's haft to begin carving a narrow ditch along the width of the road. It's obvious, however, that Hakon's size and strength will be of the greatest use here.

The work of packing up camp is tedious but simple. As Jerid and Able work together, the wizard's penchant for endless questioning without listening begins to reappear. "There are no books on dream magic. How do you study it? Is it like a gibbering sorcerer, flinging fireballs in ever direction? Or are the powers granted by your patron deity? Is there a deity of dream magic? I think the gods are rather silly, to be honest; they have all that power but do nothing to better the world."

[Greymane]

The half-giant grunts an affirmation at Rantle. "Right. There should be something around here to use. I should be able to use ice and snow easily enough too." Hákon peers around them, and begins to look for anything that could be used for blockading the road. His palms itched, and he hard a hard time containing his enthusiasm, even with the task of searching. This was going to be the first real battle he'd been in since he left Regesia, and he couldn't wait to smash some little Regesian heads. He hand instinctively squeezed the grip of his club for a moment, then released it. He missed his axe.

In his mind, he strained his concentration and, under bis breath, began muttering in Giant. Not caring if Rantle could hear him or not, but not speaking loud enough to confuse it with conversation. A small prayer to Thrym, not asking for protection in battle, or for his guidance, the prayer has more the connotation of asking the god not to kill him yet, and that offerings were soon to come.

Spoiler: Actions

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Survival Check to look for objects to help blockade the road. If Hákon can't locate any, he'll build the blockade out of snow and ice.

Survival: (1d20+6)[21]

[Redshaw]

Hakon finds, hidden beneath the snow on the edge of the road against the cliff face, the frozen branches of an old tree that must have fallen in a landslide earlier in the summer. Among these there are also several boulders of varying sizes that must have been carried in the landslide as well, though it takes some fishing from the snow to retrieve them.

Rantle exclaims his pleasure at the find and immediately sets to work, hauling one stone at a time with his large hands.

[PersonofJid]

As the half-orc scowls in response to the farmer's question, Jerid considers rephrasing the question in Orcish, but after Able's little plea, he decides to leave the orc alone and focus on taking down the camp.

Things were going well, until the questions began, and then it started. Like fingernails scratching a chalkboard, each question coming one right after the other with no pause to even consider a response, much less listen to one. How could someone not see that this way of talking was pointless? Was the wizard so oblivious to the world outside his tomes to notice that people weren't talking back? Jerid seriously considered voicing these thoughts, but wasn't sure if the half-elf would even notice. Even his psicrystal, Ankou, felt irritated by the spellcaster's inquiries as they kept Jerid from focusing on taking down the camp.

They were about halfway through packing the second tent when Jerid couldn't take it anymore. As the tent fell to the ground to be rolled up, Jerid took a deep breath to try and calm himself before proceeding. "Able," he said in a tone that was serious but not hostile, "could you stop with your constant chattering? It's making me want to kill myself. We need to get this camp ready to leave immediately, and your questioning has become more of a distraction than a help."

[Redshaw]

Jerid's complaint has two effects. The first, Able becomes immediately cowed, as if the farmer's words were a slap to the face, and stares downward with very sudden embarrassment; this half-elf is obviously not native to the typical thick-skinned lifestyle of the Jotun Tooth mountains. The second, a gutteral horking sound bubbles up from Borg's meaty throat: the half-orc is laughing. The wizard continues to assist, but does so with a pouting silence. After the rabbit is sufficiently cooked to the tracker's liking, he disassembles the spit and suffocates the small fire with a pale of snow.

Time passes and as it does, the weather turns; the uncharacteristically bright sky is steadily invaded by dark clouds with premonitions of poorly weather. Rantle and Hakon steadily built a road block that would be difficult to traverse with a horse, let alone a cart. Lotho perches on the branch of an anchored trunk, watching the two men work with curiosity, her scaled head cocked to the side. As they finish piling the last of the stones, Hakon's sensitive nose would catch a wiff of scent; the Easterly wind is in his favor and the smell of approaching sweat and manure comes from the West. Simultaneously, atop the ridge Hundur perks his ears and stands up with an anxious growl. Borg pauses his feasting as his companion grows alert and frowns, replacing the roast rabbit in hand with a bow.

Your quarry nears.

[PersonofJid]

Having silenced the mage, the work seemed to move much more quickly for Jerid. Once finished, he did not have much time to rest before Borg's reaction reminded him of why there were there in the first place. Quickly, he found his scythe amidst his other belongings and unwrapped the protective covering, revealing its long, curved blade. A common farmer's tool, but Jerid knew from experience that it could cleave a man's head off just as easily as it could reap wheat. He hastily gathers the rest of his gear, and picks up one of the tents. "Let's go. I get the feeling the others are going to need us soon."

[Greymane]

The half-giant grows quickly bored with the task of building the small blockade. While he'd done it before, his compatriots at the time were much larger than his current company. Strong as he was, Rantle was no giant. He forced himself to continue the drudging task, however. After placing one of the boulders down at the path, he paused to let out a groaning sigh, and crane his neck upwards towards the darkening sky. He catches the sight of Lotho, who was perched above and watching them, and for a brief moment there was a flash of black down feathers and a screeching caw echoing from the raven. The bird stared back at him, with a gaze filled with nothing. Hákon blinked, and the curious gaze of the small dragon met his eyes again.

If it was the gods' idea of a joke, Hákon didn't find it funny. He wouldn't be cowed by them or his curse. The giant began to sing, a song that called for ravens to come and gather, because there would soon yet be a feast. The song also renewed his spirit in his work.

If the powers that be were infuriated by his supposed audacity, they made no indication of it.

Hákon flares his nostrils and sniffs, just they put the finishing touches on their small road block. His eyes narrow and the giantkin grabs his club and his shield/door. "They're coming." He grunts quietly. "I smell sweat and horse." He trudges up to stand in front of their road block, and puts on his most menacing face possible. He squeezed his club in anticipation. He couldn't wait to use it.

[Redshaw]

Hakon's warning summons Rantle's invincible grin. The man hefts his heavy waraxe over his shoulder and comes to stand proudly in the center of the road, Lotho coming to roost at his shoulder. "Tall Ivarsson. I am in little mood for negotiations with these godless coin-worshipers, I think. We shall follow your lead in this, mountain-son; you will know what is right." He winks at the half-giant just as the first of the horses round the bend and appear before the ambush party. The wagon is large, drawn by a massive fjord horse of thick muscle and fur. The cart holds two raggedy, armed men and woman with raven black hair and dark eyes. Drawing up the wagon's flanks are two more horses, mounted by a man with a bow and a full-blooded orc with a warmaul. All whom ride in the caravan wear an identifying blood red strip cloth on the left shoulder with the silhouette of black horse sewn and runes none of you can identify into it.

Spoiler: Jerid

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You recognize this arm band as the identifying marker for members of the Black Horse Bounty Hunters. A disreputable band of relatively small numbers from places unknown that have recently moved within the wall of Gate Pass. They are led by a man named Renard, a human from Dassen. Their members include ruffians from all walks of life, though generally the less-than law-abiding type. They are known for working odd jobs, smuggling and - in particular - ambushing, capturing and collecting on Ragesia's bounty on mages; something which is not technically illegal in Gate Pass, with exception for War School students.

Able growls from his position a top the bluff and nearly gives away his and Jerid's position, his hands beginning to form the shapes for some arcanic spell. Fortunately, he stops himself, deciding to bide his time and await the opportune moment. The appearance of these scoundrels has obviously angered the young wizard.

The wagon comes to a halt in front of the blockade and for several moments nobody speaks; dead silence fills the canyon and the cold air grows heavy. The woman exchanges a glance with her horse-driver, frowning, and then stands up. She wears a long coat, disguising any armaments she may or may not be wearing underneath. "Well, then..." She looks from Rantle to Hakon. "Is there to be a parley or will you be taking this cart from my cold, dead hands?"

Rantle looks to Hakon and shrugs.

Spoiler: The Battlemap

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Spoiler: The Blockade

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Spoiler: Hakon and Rantle

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Spoiler: Jerid, Able, Borg and Hundur

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Spoiler: The Black Horse Bounty Hunters

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[Greymane]

Hákon nodded at Rantle, and while he met his grin with one of his own, giving the half-giant the option of talking or not made him look pensive. "I'm yearning for a skirmish, but we'll see."

As the wagon and the hired blades turn the bend in the road, his gaze is first drawn to the insignia they all wear, but he'd never seen the black horse on a red background before this day. He instead turns his attention to the men and woman, keeping as stoney of a glare on his face as possible. They had a fair amount of people, but nothing they weren't capable of routing, as far as Hákon's eyes could tell. His companions would probably enjoy having those horses when the men riding them met their gods.

His gaze snaps to the woman as she speaks. "I'm eager to fell your pretty head and take the cart." the pale blue giant bellows angrily. "It's been far too long since I last crushed a human's skull in with my hands." He pauses for a brief moment, letting that statement linger. "However, you can leave with your lives, but only if you leave the cart to us. Otherwise..." He raps his club against his shield in challenge. "You can be sent to Ysgard at the hands of someone with the strength of ten men, and another who felled three brigands, alone and with a single blow!" Hákon readies himself to charge at them, hoping they would not heed his words.

Spoiler: Rolls

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Intimidate: (1d20+4)[22]
Initiative: (1d20)[20] (If necessary)

[PersonofJid]

Jerid scowled as he recognized the emblem each of the mercenaries wore. "The Black Horses..." He heard Able's growl and attempted spellcasting, and could not blame the young mage for his hostility. It made sense the Black Horse Bounty Hunters would be the ones leading the caravan. Their operations in Gate Pass gave them a rather foul reputation as smugglers and thugs. In addition, Ragesia had posted a bounty on mages, and the Black Horses were known to like collecting on that particular bounty. Jerid was fortunate not to have been targeted by them. Whether it was his reputation or simply luck, he did not know, but he wasn't going to give them that chance now. Especially with the fate of his home at stake. Whatever hesitation existed previously about confronting these low-lifes, it was gone now.

Jerid closes his eyes and takes a slow breath to help him concentrate as he draws on his power. A translucent, glistening substance begins to form over his body and clothing but quickly evaporates after a few seconds. He opens his eyes again ( which now burn like points of silver fire) causing a rainbow-flash of light to sweep away from him briefly illuminating the space directly in front of him and then dissipating as quickly as it came.

He turns his attention to Hákon and watches the exchange between him and the mercenaries' supposed leader. A woman. How unfortunate. "You tell her, Hákon. If she has any sense, she'll run."

Spoiler: Actions

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Just so you know, the little flash of light only extended 5 ft in front of him. Also, in case we need to roll initiative, I messed up with rolling and now it won't let me roll again. So, DM could you roll for me? It's 1d20+1.

Manifest: Precognition, Offensive: +1 insight bonus to all attack rolls. pg. 125 XPH

[Redshaw]

The woman visibly swallows as she's taken aback by Hakon's violent introduction and the men behind her all stir uncomfortably, exchanging uncertain glances. The orc however, growls not in defense, but challenge, sliding down from his horse and stomping through the snow to come face-to-face with the half-giant. The creature is as ugly as one might imagine, rings piercing the length of his sellion, from nose bridge to nostril. The purple-skinned orc unslings his warmaul and smashes it against the earth, disturbing the snow around its impact in a shock wave pattern. It appears as if the creature is preparing to lead with a strike when Rantle lifts his hand and bellows, "Hold!"

All turn to stare at the interrupting human who stands forward and grins, "I have an idea. Your orc is obviously the strongest among you, yes? A battle-proven and mettle-tested veteran of the Emperor's army, no doubt..." The Black Horses glance among each other, still uncertain of how to handle the situation. The woman herself purses her lips with distrust, "Aye, 'tis so. Korg'mar the Hulk." The orc thumps his fist, clutching the warmaul, against his chest proudly as she says his name, steaming hot air wafting from his nostrils. Rantle bows, almost out of respect, "A champion no doubt, if I ever saw one." He now gestures to Hakon, "I, too, have a champion. He is named Hákon the half-Jotun. His strain is a proud one, as you could no doubt tell from his boasts. But, he is young and unproven. I suspect good Krog'mar has taken thrice as many heads as tall Hákon has seen winters...

Rantle's smile grows even wider as he leans forward on the haft of his greataxe as though it were a cane, "I have no desire to spill unnecessary blood. Your champion against mine; winner takes the cart."

The woman clucks her tongue, glancing from Hákon's tall height and her orc before she nods with decision, "...acceptable terms." Rantle claps his hands together, "Excellent!" He turns around to come stand next to Hákon, speaking quietly, "Make it quick." He winks at the half giant, hand lifting to stroke the gold-scaled pseudodragon with his fingers.

Krog'mar comes to stand in front of Hákon and roars in challenge, spittle and phlegm erupting from the tusked mouth. Steam pours off the orc's shoulders and he slams the warmaul into the earth.

As Rantle comes to take a seat on the barricade, the man turns to coddle Lotho, rubbing her belly and speaking into her ear. After a moment, the dragon flips onto its claws and takes flight. As she lifts into the sky, Jerid and Hákon hear a feminine voice enter your minds with instructions, On my master's signal, kill them all.

Spoiler: Hákon

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You may go first. You still are gaining bonuses from the inspiring speech.

[Greymane]

Hákon grins as the orc approaches him. Each step of crunched snow the orc took sounded like the glorious beat of a war drum to the half-giant. The shockwave caused by the orc's warmaul was the exact answer to his challenge he had been craving. Rantle's call to hold was more than a little disappointing to him. The ensuing explanation returned his grin, however.

Rantle was a cunning man, and one less orc in the world, and sparing the humans while getting the cart seemed like his normal level of brilliance-

Jerid and Hákon hear a feminine voice enter your minds with instructions, On my master's signal, kill them all.

Or perhaps he really did hate them all, and this was a good opportunity to focus their attention on the largest among them, while the others got a better drop on them.

Hákon bellows angrily at the orc in front of him, tightens his grip on his club, and swings at him.

Spoiler: Actions

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Hákon initiates Wolf Fang Strike. He opens with his club, and then follows up with an unarmed strike on the orc. Unarmed strikes don't have to be with one's fists, and can utilize elbows, headbutts and kicks. If they're not already five feet from each other, I stand ten feet away from him so I can still hit him, and forcing him to take at least a five-foot step to me.

Attack Roll: (1d20+8)[12]
Attack Roll: (1d20+8)[28]
Damage Roll: (1d8+8)[13]
Damage Roll: (1d6+8)[14]

[Redshaw]

The half-jotunn's club is blocked with the orc's warmaul, unable to find flesh to bruise or bones to break. For a moment, Krog'mar offers the half-jotunn a toothy, awful grin. That grin is split open by Hákon's follow up swing, a massive fist, which crushes the orc's face, sending blood, teeth and broken tusks scattering onto the snow covered ground. Hákon feels the orc's skull give way with a crack underneath the massive power of his blow and falls to the ground in a fit of convulsions; the fight is over nearly before it has properly begun.

The valley goes dead silent, broken only by the gurgling and twitching of Krog'mar the Hulk. Several moments pass like this, the Black Horses staring in confusion and defeat, Rantle laughing like a mad-man. The woman stands suddenly, hands criss-crossing to reach into the folds of her long-coat as if to grab something. The raggedy man sitting next to her on the cart curses and begins to pull his bow taut with a black-feathered arrow. The remaining men appear to remain too stunned by the battle's outcome to take action.

Spoiler: Jerid

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You may attack as part of a surprise round now, before regular combat begins, if you choose to do so.

[PersonofJid]

Jerid felt both relieved and disappointed at Rantle's decision to have only Hákon and the orc duel. He couldn't deny the practicality of it. They would win the cart without further fighting and go home, and Jerid was certain they would win. At the same time, not giving the Black Horses what they deserved didn't seem fair. These ruffians threatened the safety of the entire city of Gate Pass by stealing these supplies. They would only keep stealing if they let them go. Surely, Rantle knew that.

"On my master's signal, kill them all."

Apparently, he did.

Jerid took a step closer to the edge of the bluff to better view what happened. Seeing Hákon smash the orc's head in with his fist, and the subsequent reactions of the rest of the mercenaries, convinced Jerid that the time for waiting was over.

He quickly scanned the battlefield assessing threats: two men still reeling from the duel. For the moment, little threat. The woman looking as if reaching for something, potentially dangerous but it didn't matter. Hákon and Rantle could deal with her. The biggest threat appeared to be the man aiming his bow, but he was too far for him to attack.

Concentrating once more, Jerid points a finger at his nearest foe. What sounds like the humming of many bass-pitched voices issues from the mercenary's vicinity, growing from the sound of a whisper to as loud as a shout in only a second, followed by a firey ray of death issuing from Jerid's finger heading straight towards the man.

Spoiler: Actions

Show

Move:5ft adjust forward. If possible during a surprise round.
Manifest: Energy Ray (Fire): A ray of chosen energy type deals 1d6 damage on successful ranged touch attack. Fire: deals +1 point of damage per die.

Ranged Touch Attack: (1d20+3)[6]
Fire Damage:(1d6+1)[5]

[Redshaw]

The ray burns an immediate hole into the wood of the cart and the man shouts in surprise, its aim only just off. Able watches Jerid with fascination, almost forgetting to take his own opportunity to strike. His hand cups the air while his other grips his iron-bound spell book, though its face remains closed. His eyes close as he recites the arcanic words within and as he does so, energy builds around him, causing his robes to swirl and his beard to whip; a spherical, translucent shape forms in his cupped hand and as he concludes the recitation, he hurls the palm-sized orb down the cliffside. The sphere whistles as it descends, growing louder as it travels a wicked curve before striking the would-be archer square in the gut with a thunderous boom. He makes no sound as he falls from the cart onto the snow, blood pooling from ears.

The unmanned horse kicks nervously, but does not charge. The horse drawing the carriage, however, the closer of the two beasts, immediately falls into a panic, its hooves kicking snow and gravel in confusion and fear. Rantle quickly steps forward to snatch the reigns with one hand and point his axe at the woman with the other. "Fair's fair, thief." He practically spits the title.

She bites her lip, but concedes the loss as her narrow eyes glance upward at the newly revealed reinforcements atop the ridge; she raises her hands very slowly out of her jacket revealing they hold nothing. The single man remaining in the cart drops his weapons, while the one on the horse jerks the reigns to turn his mount around and begin riding back towards Gate Pass.

Rantle lifts an eyebrow at the retreating horseman but shrugs in defeat, "Well, then... it seems we already have someone to deliver a message to the rest of your Black Horse traitors, thief..." He gestures at her with his axe, "Why don't you come down and tell me why we should let you live, hm?"

The rebel lowers the axe but keeps a firm grip on the horse's reigns. With whistle and a beckoning palm, he waves down the party at the top of the hill to descend. Able looks positively giddy, "Can you believe it?! We won and we barely did anything! No one told me that war was so easy!" He giggles, hefts one of the rolled up tent packs over his shoulder and leaps down the bluff's cliff face.

As the two new captives descend from the wagon, Rantle offers Hákon a length of rope, "Search them. Bind their wrists - hands in front. And remind me what the penalty for theft is in our city."