The Northlands Saga - Spears in the Ice IC

[Ghostfoot]

The coming dawn glows pink over the endless field of barrows that surrounds the Tor. Fresh horses are brought for the girls, as indeed are your own mounts having been secured by the warband as they tracked you. "You will stay close to them and finish your oath to see them safely home" Jarl Henrikson instructs. He barks orders to his warriors, having decided to make a break for the forest to the south to try to get out of the accursed Barrow Lands as quickly as possible and risk the forest eves rather than the unquiet dead. The troop gathers at the foot of the causeway preparing to make a fighting retreat as the forms of scores of skeletal remnants of the ancient Andøvan still shuffle about dimly visible in the half-light. The Jarl's men and women eye the surrounding Barrow Lands nervously, a grim cast to the warrior’s eyes and the barely contained fear of the supernatural on more than one face, at the prospect of a battle against the spawn of Hel.

As you steel yourselves to punch through the masses, an attempt from which most must surely not survive, there is activity. The hordes of shuffling undead part at the base of the causeway, and one dead warrior steps forth in front of the others. The rotting silks and fine cloth still covers his cuirass of bronze below his hollow-eyed skull, though now in the early light you can see that traces of ancient dye still show where his raiment was once of the finest fabric. And he still carries that massive bronze sword of magnificent make, now point down in the earth. It is the barrow king who first allowed you to pass to reach the Tor, and he seems to want something. Fixing its deathless gaze on Mørkedrømevandrer it points to his travel sack where he has stashed the witch's belongings. It lifts its hands to mimic the shape of a necklace and then holds its arm out waiting.

[PeacefulOak]

Mørkedrømevandrer

The Nuk steels himself at the foul undead king's approach, but realizes the wisdom of accommodating the demands of a vastly superior force. Reaching into his bag, he pulls forth the charm so recently retrieved from the corpse of the witch, his finest prize from this battle. He lifts it so that it is highlighted in the rising sun, then steps forward and pushes it into the waiting hands of the Andøvan King. "My prize by conquest, but yours from me. Take it and let us pass."

[DrK]

Freyja

The giantess, standing head height to the mounted Jarl looks to Henriksen. "My Jarl. That creature let us pass. If it wishes the witch's necklace we should let the Nuk return it. When we duelled with one on the way here it let us pass when honour was satisfied." She steps a few steps after Mørkedrømevandrer as he advances, her spear held ready, but non-threatening. A mutter of "Baldur guard you.." under her breath as she watches carefully.

Her eyes roam over the assembled guards and hurscals, gaze focusing on the hooded one with longer than normal arms. Another half blood she surmised and nodded towards him. She had already seen the white witch that had arrived staring at little Runa and the strange Nuk with the bear. THe Jarl had brought a strange collection with him. Stopping looking around she focused back on Mørkedrømevandrer as he offered the necklace to the undead creature.

[Starbin]

Heltinne Thrainsdottir, Speaker of Spirits

Heltinne turned away from the snarling visage superimposed over the Jarl’s youngest daughter. The feeling of foreboding was strong, even from a distance. Shaking her head, she slowly moved closer to the new heroes and the young ladies, listening as the Jarl charged the group with continued protection of his children.

With his children’s safety addressed, Henrikson turned to his forces, preparing to attempt to breakthrough the undead forces. Even as orders rang out, the Oracle quietly said to no one in particular, ”Wait ... something sturs ...” Even as the words hung in the air for those nearby, the barrow king stepped forward, making his demands. Heltinne watched as the elf from the saviors approached the barrow lord to give him what looked like a necklace necklace. Silently, she wondered what the item meant to the old king.

After a moment, she turned to the others still standing to the side and murmured, “How did the witch die?”

---

Responding to the situation

Spoiler: Status

Show

AC 14 HP 9 Init +1 Move 30
F +1 R +1 W +3
Weapon: longspear (+2, 1d8+3), Morningstar (+2, 1d8+2/3)
Spells (Unl/3): ghost sound, mage hand, guidance, create water, detect magic, spark / cure light wounds, bless, obscuring mist
SLA: 1/1, Ice armor: 1hr
Key skills: Perception +6; Sense Motive +5; Diplomacy +7; Heal +7; Spellcraft +4; KS Religion +4; KS Geography +5; KS History +4
Effect: Child of Winter (+2 Initiative/Reflex; endure elements vs cold; no penalty on ice; 1/2 pen deep snow); ER 5 vs cold, acid, electricity

[atlastrembles]

Dark Dreams Wanderer

"You are far from the homeland, White that Walks. What brings you on my trail to the south?"

The Nuk bows his head, acknowledging the distance both Nuks had travelled from their own lands. Far, but we go farther still, Dark Dreams Wanderer. I have no answer for you except that I was so sent by the old gods of snow, earth, and fur to find you. Our paths are joined if you will allow it, or else resist the swirl and cycle of the spirits that were old when the Aesir appeared.

~~~~LATER~~~~

White That Walks puts a restraining hand on the neck of his bear companion, Brother, who only allows a low rumbling growl to escape his throat as the wight lord shows himself. This is not for us, Brother, let the Nords handle their own ancestors. he whispers. Although he does not interfere directly, he does betray surprise by way of a sharply indrawn breath when it is his fellow Nuk who approaches the Andovan skeleton king. What strange days these are, the Great Bear Mother is long sighted to send us south.

[Ghostfoot]

The Andøvan lord takes the barrow charm from Mørkedrømevandrer, skeletal fingers clasping it tightly. A barely discernible change in stature ripples out across the surrounding hordes of undead warriors as they seem to settle somewhat, becoming less agitated.

Holding the necklace in one hand the warleader holds forward its own blade in exchange. The greatsword is truly remarkable. An ancient bronze blade of Andøvan heritage the like of which is rarely seen, runes of the forgotten language decorate the well-crafted metal. "Hægtesse," utters Signy as she reads the markings "The blade is named 'Hægtesse'. Fury."

Murmurings of awe and approval arise from the gathered group of seasoned Northlanders at the spectacle of the scene and the sight of the famed blade of old passing back into the land of the living.

Spoiler: Superloot - Hægtesse

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A relic of the ancient Andøvan kings who once inhabited the Northlands, Hægtesse is a +1 furyborn bronze greatsword. Though the blade is crafted from bronze, its enchantment gives it the hardness and durability of steel (it does not have the fragile condition as bronze normally does). It is a weapon of legend in the Northlands and brings great honor on the warrior who wields it.

[Starbin]

Heltinne Thrainsdottir, Speaker of Spirits

Heltinne watched the exchange hawkishly. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until she exhaled in relief once the tension drained from the undead army. Glancing around, she could sense rather than see a change in the aura of those surrounding them. However, her breath caught in her throat when she saw the Barrow Ling Hand over his mighty blade. Blinking, she raised a hand to her lips, murmuring [i]”That ... is quite a gift. A kingly reward ...”

---

Responding to the booty!

Spoiler: Status

Show

AC 14 HP 9 Init +1 Move 30
F +1 R +1 W +3
Weapon: longspear (+2, 1d8+3), Morningstar (+2, 1d8+2/3)
Spells (Unl/3): ghost sound, mage hand, guidance, create water, detect magic, spark / cure light wounds, bless, obscuring mist
SLA: 1/1, Ice armor: 1hr
Key skills: Perception +6; Sense Motive +5; Diplomacy +7; Heal +7; Spellcraft +4; KS Religion +4; KS Geography +5; KS History +4
Effect: Child of Winter (+2 Initiative/Reflex; endure elements vs cold; no penalty on ice; 1/2 pen deep snow); ER 5 vs cold, acid, electricity

[atlastrembles]

White That Walks lets out a long, quiet, low whistle as the blade is handed over by the wight lord. His eyes trace the runes, drawn by their arcane might. He can feel the pressure of its power pressing into his eyeballs even from where he stands. He blinks and shakes his head slightly to break eye contact, the movement aped by the polar bear at his side in synchrony.

[PeacefulOak]

Mørkedrømevandrer

Slender fingers tremble as the hard bony digits of the undead king pluck the charm from the Wanderer's hand. Grey eyes widen as the heavy ancient sword is presented, and the most perceptive of the observers might note that the wild-haired Nuk's spine visibly stiffens. He accepts the sword, lifting it point up into the air and allowing his eyes to wander the intricacies of the blade. Unspeaking, he reaches over his shoulder and unlimbers the great terbutje his people had gifted him before he first left. He holds it up next to the sword, balancing the two, before extending the weapon of his people toward the ancient king. He says nothing, but holds the two blades before him. One, upright and accepted, the other horizontal and offered. Wiry muscles tense with the effort as he waits for the king to accept his offer.

Spoiler: Roll for funny

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(1d20+3)[20] Strength Check to manage the two very heavy weapons

[DrK]

Freyja

The giantess holds her breath as the Nuk approaches the eight. The wounds from duelling the last one still pained her, but somehow she knew that Mørkedrømevandrer was in no danger. The undead thing was a shard of a warrior, with honour still present.

Looking at the daughters of the Jarl she nods a reassuring smile. "All will be well children. The gods reward us."

[farothel]

Bjorn Ulgardson

This had been quite a night. First the ride with the jarl, the first time Bjorn had been selected to ride directly with the jarl, being one of the youngest huscarls in his service (and the most recent come into service). Having a polar bear in the middle of the group was also something he hadn't expected, even though after a while the horses got used to it and they didn't move away from the creature anymore. And the scene on the Tor was also not something he thought he would see soon, if at all.

After handing back the horses that he had been leading to it's current owners, he looked around, inwardly glad that he didn't have to fight the undead at the bottom of the Tor, although he would have loved to show his combat skills in front of the jarl. Stayin in the saddle he waited for his jarl's commands.

[Ghostfoot]

The wightlord fixes his gaze on the Nuklander in front of him. Seconds pass by. Just when Dark Dreams muscles begin to burn with effort the undead warrior acts, reaching out and taking the offered terbutje. Pausing for only a second longer it turns and strides back to rejoin its skeletal army, disappearing into the midst.

"The skalds will sing of this moment," says Jarl Henrikson. "You bring honour to these lands Nuklander, and are always welcome at Silvermeade Hall. Now let's be off before we outstay our welcome."

Everyone mounts up, the three girls now very much more obedient and respectful willing to follow instructions. Njarni the Traitor is bound and tied to a spare mount, with Kraki Hallason and Berg Geirson guarding the fallen huscarl closely.

The masses of undead shift and, though still milling somewhat aimlessly, a route opens up through the horde. With grim nervousness and weapons held tightly your group of warriors rides swiftly but carefully along the open path finally breathing with relief as you all pass from the Barrow Lands and the ancient undead and gain the relative comfort of the nearby forest as the sun dawns.

From here, it is a matter of some wearying but uneventful hours riding through the forest. The forest is relatively open. Few people venture here because of its horrid reputation, and thus few trees are felled these days. It is an old forest, with soaring towers of tree trunks spreading out above to form a tightly closed canopy, leaving the forest floor in deep shade with only an occasional shaft of sunlight breaking through. A low mist hangs about in dells and crannies, and seems to flow away as you approach.

By mid-afternoon your group you reach the easternmost edge of the forest and find open farmland ahead of you. All are weary but with the spring sun on your faces and welcoming fields ahead you find your spirits reinvigorated. The journey to the Coast Road passes quickly and from there the ride north to the comfort and safety of Silvermeade Hall is but a footnote.

The freemen and hirdmen (and women) of the Hall call out in welcome as the troop arrives and soon the small town is abuzz with murmurings of seiðkona and Hægtesse. "A feast! Mead!" calls the Jarl, "For the rescuers of my daughters!". The womenfolk of the hall quickly hustle away the three girls while Kraki and the spearmaiden Aase drag away Njarni to await his fate on the morrow. Healers are brought to tend your wounds and Odi the old cunning women checks everyone for signs of lingering charms.



As the feasting begins Jarl Henrikson calls for his skald, Grimr Wisetooth. "Heroes, tell your tale, such that the skalds will know of your bravery and all will see how Northlander, Nuklander and giant-blooded are true warriors of Silvermeade and of Hordaland."

[atlastrembles]

White That Walks stays as close as possible to Dark Dreams Wanderer, naked awe and reverence on his face warring with protective pride. The other Nuk, the one he had been sent to find by the Great Bear Mother, the one he had been called to join his tale to, was even more impressive than he had imagined. No wonder the spirits saw something in this strange child of the In Between Time.

The Nuk and his bear companion still find time to drink mead and hot wine, eat heartily, and converse with the Jarl's nordlings and the handful of other strange companions and warriors who had ventured to Silvermeade. But when the skald beckons for the tale, he becomes still, turning to his fellow Nuk. His attention is riveted on him, waiting for him to share what had happened while White That Walks hunted his destiny.

[farothel]

Bjorn kept with the other huscarls, drinking and eating and talking with them. When the skald called for the stories, they all fell silent, as it was only polite to listen to another's story. The day you had a story to tell, you wanted everyone to listen to you too.

[Starbin]

Heltinne Thrainsdottir, Speaker of Spirits

Heltinne watched with no small amount of relief as the undead made a path for the Jarl’s forces. It was time to return back to the Stead, so she returned to her horse and followed the group, taking her place amongst the others called forth.

It was long trip, punctuated by quiet reflection and speculation - at least on the part of Thrainsdottir. By the time the company had returned and gathered in the Feasting Hall, Heltinne still had unanswered questions. Like how that much power and life had been on display by beings from the other side of the veil. What force had called them forth? Was it the witch, by some head or spell? Or had their duty forced them to serve from beyond the grave? Perhaps there was an answer in the tale of the heroes ...

---

Not my story to tell, so sitting back for the ride!

Spoiler: Status

Show

AC 14 HP 9 Init +1 Move 30
F +1 R +1 W +3
Weapon: longspear (+2, 1d8+3), Morningstar (+2, 1d8+2/3)
Spells (Unl/3): ghost sound, mage hand, guidance, create water, detect magic, spark / cure light wounds, bless, obscuring mist
SLA: 1/1, Ice armor: 1hr
Key skills: Perception +6; Sense Motive +5; Diplomacy +7; Heal +7; Spellcraft +4; KS Religion +4; KS Geography +5; KS History +4
Effect: Child of Winter (+2 Initiative/Reflex; endure elements vs cold; no penalty on ice; 1/2 pen deep snow); ER 5 vs cold, acid, electricity

[Ghostfoot]

Jarl Olaf calls to the skald Grimr, "Come, our young skald is slaking his thirst. Or more likely sparring with a comely spear-maiden somewhere! Grimr, tell us another tale of our heroes while we wait. The brothers of Jarl Skur Skulisdottir is a fine tale! And send for the blacksmith Graf and Sigfastr Wyrmhammer. Let's see if the dwarf's wares are worthy of my daughter's saviours!"

The middle-aged skald, Grimr Wisetooth, stands and takes his position, mead sloshing as he gestures about the hall fixing his eyes on each as he launches into the well-known tale, starting as always with the shouts from a drunken sell-sword...

Spoiler: The Brothers of Jarl Skur Skulisdottir

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"A tale! A tale of heroes, of adventure along the whale-road…though you have had neither, skald,” the battle-scarred woman called. Snorri eyed the feasting warriors lounging at their ease around his mother’s hall — some mighty heroes, some family huscarls, others… loafers who had spent the winter drinking her mead and eating her bread; loafers, like the drunken Kadlin Ottarsdottir who had wandered in off the moors just yesterday with her band of free-swords and imposed upon the good name and hospitality of the jarl.

“Truth, yes, I have never traveled the whale-road, nor had an adventure. And ‘tis also true that I have never seen the world beyond the sight of my mother’s hall.

“Once I had an uncle who—”

“Heroes, I said,” the woman spit the words as much as she spoke them and underscored them with a dashing of a full cup against the wooden floorboards. “Heroes, not scum like that!” The band of nameless men who followed Kadlin echoed her words and pounded their tables.

“None about those of his ilk, eh? Perhaps, then, you would rather hear how my uncle died? How in the end the evil in him won through, and his own brother had to slay him? My mother loathes this tale, but she is already to bed for the hour is late and the moon has set. She would surely not mind a short telling beyond her hearing.”

“My tale begins ‘ere I was born, before the cunning woman drew me forth from my mother’s womb, all twisted legs and broken spine. It begins with the birth of twin sons to the former jarl of this hall, Skuli Valison. Skuli’s young wife had a hard pregnancy, and the cunning woman did all she could. The efforts of that wise crone were for naught, though, for fair Ingithora died bringing two sons into the world. One screamed and thrashed, his tiny limbs flailing about, the other lay like death, blue of face, and worse, his body was misshapen and deformed, much more so than my own broken shape…”

*****

Through some witchery or perhaps a union between man and Jötnar in the distant past, Skuli’s late wife died birthing a monster, a thing not fully human — a thing part giant. That his wife should die bruised his heart; that she would do so bringing this cursed thing into the world broke it. Skuli ordered the cunning woman to take both the mewling things out into the snow and leave them for the wolves. For if one child be so cursed in the womb, surely they must both be; such was the wisdom of my Skuli Valison.

The cunning woman wrapped the babes together in a cloak and carried them out to be left to die. The next morning all were awakened by the sound of what the hall assumed was a dog whimpering in pain, but it was no dog. The giant-blooded son, his skin pinked and blood invigorated by the cold night air, stood like a child of a year or more, though he was but a day old. His brother, the normal one, lay wrapped in the cloak, asleep and safely nestled between his stubby misshapen legs. The brothers were in the center of a circle of snow, reddened with the battle-dew. The misshapen infant, not only twisted but also strengthened with the blood of the Jötnar, had fed the eagles well during the night — fed them with not one but a dozen of Gunnr’s horses. These wolves lay scattered about, twisted in death, save those few still trying to drag their wounded frames away and whimpering like pups not yet weaned.

Not even a man completely shorn of heart could deny the courage and might, not to mention the selflessness of such love between brothers. Putting aside the wisdom of the elders, Skuli brought both babes back into his hall and raised them as his sons. The human one he named Diarf, and the monster was called Boë.

The two grew up, Boë much faster than his brother — much faster and much larger, for the blood of the Jötnar seemed to tell the most in him. The twins, though inseparable as children sharing a womb often are, were otherwise like the moon and the sun. The one had a face like an unformed clay pot, capped in a mass of wiry black hair. The other was fair of face and frame, and much admired among the women of the household. Where Boë was monstrously strong, Diarf was lean and limber. Boë never mastered speaking and often flew into rages that only his brother or father could calm, while Diarf learned poetry and fine words, practiced restraint in all things, and showed mind’s-worth in hesitation and deed.

Boë’s rages grew worse as his body reached terrible proportions and his strength matched that of an entire shieldwall. Only through the intervention of his brother was murder narrowly averted, but even then the jarl had to pay the wergild to those the giant had injured and terrified. The presence of this monster threatened to drive the oath-sworn men and women from

Skuli’s hall and ruin him in the process, for Boë consumed three cattle a week and by himself drank as much mead as a hall of feasting warriors.

*****

“We all know this, crippled skald. Get to the part where brother slew brother.” Kadlin’s followers pounded the tables and stomped the floorboards, echoing their mistress’s words.

“This tale is long, as it should be, for the brothers left home together and sought their own fortunes abroad, giving up all claim to the jarl’s lands and oaths to pass to their younger half-sister, born of the jarl’s second wife Hildísif — my own grandmother. Diarf put on a brave face and made much of a desire for adventure, but all knew the reason for the parting was to take his brother away. Boë’s rages had grown as fearsome as his size, and all feared he would transform into a terrible beast, into Donar’s-foe.”

*****

Their father, the Jarl Skuli, was a ring-giver and -breaker of much renown, a stout hearted man who could weather the storm of spears and stand square in the shieldwall of his people. Thus he was a man of great wealth, but this brothers forsook and took only the most meager of provisions to carry, not even a dragon-headed longship would be theirs. Their father, seeing two young men bound for adventure, pushed upon them arms and armor appropriate for the sons of a jarl, and these they did accept.

Diarf was clad in a helm of good steel and a fine shirt of thrice-linked chain. Upon his right arm Skuli placed a strong shield of lindenwood and metal, well painted in red, blue, and green. In his son’s left hand the ring-breaker Skuli laid a blood-worm named “Foe Serpent”, and its hilt was adorned with Freyja’s tears.

Boë, though not as well loved by the people as his handsome and cunning brother, was no less the son of a jarl. For him was not the chain hauberk, for to clad such a body in linked mail would be as to clad five men in cost and effort. Instead, the jarl ordered a shirt of boiled aurochs hide be made, cut without sleeves and deep in the chest to encompass Boë’s broad frame. This was then mounted with squares of iron nailed into the toughened leather. A headland of axeheads was forged and mounted atop a roof pole cut to serve as haft to be given to the monstrous brother, a weapon so large three men had to carry it to him.

So armed and equipped, the brothers set out on their uncle’s ship to sail to Trotheim and find their wyrd.

For five years the brothers traveled the Northlands, and in this time Diarf gained fame for his courage and mind’s-worth, his skill with the wound-hoe, and his fame as a feeder of ravens. Their first test was at the village of Hallheim in Gatland. There they found the local jarl beset by foes. Northri Ormson’s sheep were disappearing. His hunters had found the tracks of strangers deep in the forest and once a cold camp of the kind used by those under the sentence of outlawry. The jarl was ill; he was a man who had seen a four score winters in his hall, and though he did not lack in mind’s-worth, he lacked in strength of arm and back. Northri longed to pass his hall and oath-bound huscarls to his son, but could not do so with the threat of the sheep thieves, for all knew this to be no mere wolf but a cunning and vile band of men. He asked the brothers for their aid.

Readily the brothers took up this task, and alone they tracked the outlaws deep into the forest. There they found a large camp, and tracks that leading off to other halls and villages. The outlaws had gathered men and women forsaken by even their kin, and had chosen to add to their perfidy by numbering theft and murder amongst their crimes.

Seeing the camp, Boë wished to rush in and slay as was his wont, but Diarf laid hand upon his brother’s forearm and counseled patience. For three days and nights they watched from hiding, all the time Boë fuming and stamping to get to task and bring the wound-sea to the villains.

On the fourth morning, Diarf called out in a loud voice as he stepped forth from his place of concealment and challenged the outlaws. The leader of the band, Guthorm the Ravager — the same Guthorm who had murdered the wife and daughter of Jarl Hialti Bothvarson in the previous summer, known as Guthorm the Rat-Faced by some — strode forth. He laughed to see one lone man — not much more than a down-cheeked boy, really — stand boldly before a dozen armed and desperate outlaws.

The entire band laughed. They laughed at a young man first setting out to seek his fortune and a name for himself. They laughed at Diarf Skulison. They, of course, had not seen Boë still in his concealed position.

Then the battle-sweat flew from outlaw and hero alike.

*****

“You dare to call that monster a hero,” Kadlin said, turning towards her men for their reaction. They laughed on cue, bringing a smug expression to the warrior-woman’s face.

“Yes, brave Kadlin, for they were both heroes that day, and on many days after. As the outlaws laughed at the courage of a man filled with mind’s-worth, they also laughed at a man of cunning, a man who had long mastered the ways of the hnefatafl board. For as they laughed and jeered, Boë crept around the camp to charge them from the unexpected flank. Five outlaws died on his mighty axe in his initial charge, and three more as the blood-ember rose and fell in great arcs once he was among them. Foe Serpent drawn, Diarf rushed to fight Gunthorm the Ravager, and fought as a man in a duel, breaking three of the outlaw’s shields before driving him to his knees amidst the wound-sea of his fellows. There he sank the wound-hoe home and brought the sleep of the sword to the vile outlaw. Those few who still lived scattered into the surrounding forest never to be seen again in those lands.

Taking the heads of the outlaws as grisly trophies and driving the stolen herds of sheep before them, the brothers returned to Jarl Northri and accepted the rings of a generous man. One could not tell the sheep of Ormson from the sheep of other jarls, and though courage, honor, cunning, and might-of-arms had won the day, it would be three years of suits before the Thing ‘ere the disposition of the sheep was settled. Though the brothers played no part in that different sort of battle.

Next they sailed for a time with Ornolf the Shark-Render. With him they raided the land of the Seagestrelanders, taking many thralls as well as a mountain of Freyja’s tears. Then they struck into the Southlands, filling cups with Sif’s hair and the Moons’ leavings and putting the cowardly Southlanders to flight. The fame of the brothers grew, and with the regular wetting of the grass and sand — aye, and even the waves — with the slaughter-dew of his foes, Boë learned something of quietness in his soul…though not enough.

Among the crew of the Wyrm Rider, the sea-steed of Ornolf, was a Bearsarker known as Thorvald the Unwashed. While none of that brave crew was frightened of Boë, all were wary of a man who stood tall as the rafters in a jarl’s hall,and who could lift an ox and eat the whole thing as well. Only Thorvald the Unwashed cared to speak with Boë, and soon he had seen through to the mind’s-worth in the heart of the monster, teaching Boë the ways of Wotan and the sacred madness that calmed the heart as it boiled the blood.

None knew if the All-father would accept a giant-blooded monster as his sworn warrior, but the brothers went ashore with Thorvald the Unwashed to try. For nine days and nine nights Boë hung upon the Tree of Woe, stout spears piercing his wrists, shoulders, thighs, and belly. Anointed with sacred oils and unguents, drenched in freezing water — for the Tree of Woe had been made at the sea’s edge — and his body coursing with the fire of the moss Wotan’s Eye, Boë suffered and died. Yet he did not die; rather he was reborn. On the tenth morning Boë tore one arm free, and with that hand gouged out his own eye, casting it into the bane of wood that Thorvald the Unwashed had formed at his feet.

Thus Boë was consecrated as a sacred warrior of Wotan and inducted into the divine madness of the cult of the Bearsarkers. Boë became more controllable, if any could name a Bearsarker as such. As Ornolf the Shark-Render had no need of two Bearsarkers in his crew, and as isolation and private contemplation are the ways of such men, the brothers soon parted ways with their benefactor and struck out on their own once more.

Much could be said of their adventures after this, of the foes they vanquished together, and of their shared glories. Word filtered back to their father’s hall — no longer ruled by Jarl Skuli Valison’s but rather now by Jarl Skur Skulisdottir. The twins were seen in the shieldwall at Hrolfdale when the Gatlanders raided the Hrolf coast in the summer of the Falling Sky. Skalds told of their slaying the nachtjägers that haunted the grasslands beyond Dnipirstead. It was Diarf and Boë who sailed with Sven Tokison and drove the sea raider Sven Oakenfist from the shores of Hordaland in the autumn of the Year of Leaping Fish. When the great whale Nalithrov harried the ships from the seas, the great heroes Lini the Proud and Raghild Tufisdöttir — named Donar’s Hammer by some — called upon the brothers to accompany them into the beast’s maw. They came out again with a wealth of ambergris the likes of which the world had not seen before and may never again.

In the fifth year of their travels, the brothers choose to spend the winter in the hall of Jarl Mursi the Halfman, the famed half-Nûklander jarl of northern Gatland. That winter the snows fell heavy and the hall echoed with the merry sounds of feasting heroes. All was not to be so pleasant, though, for the world is a dark and terrible place and winter worse still.

A slåtten — a terrible beast birthed from a man when a Bearsarker falls into madness — burst into the hall and slew the huscarls, carrying off the jarl’s eldest child. It is rare for a slåtten to take a prisoner, and this caused even greater alarm in the jarl, more so than his own severed arm and broken spine. Many heroes died that night and in the ensuing hunt for the beast, but the twins pressed forward even after the beast had fled deep into the mountains.

For the rest of that winter and the following seasons the brothers harried the monster from one haven to another. Never had a slåtten, an ever unpredictable monster made from a fallen man, behaved thusly. The twins hunted the creature deep into the mountains, and some say beyond the Northlands and over the Sea of Grass. Such a journey needs be recorded, for none has ever dared so much, the brothers kept no maps or records — even though Diarf was well schooled in the runes — but kept strictly to their task.

The next winter, they finally brought the slåtten to bear, trapped in a dry boxed-in canyon on the edge of a great expanse of sand. The beast had taken the jarl’s child and turned it into an acolyte of sorts in a perverted and debased form of Wotan worship that the All-Father had long forbidden. This was not the only such child taken by the beast, for it had formed a small cult of twisted creatures as foul as itself.

Enraged by their long chase and their mind’s-worth ablaze with the fury of the gods at such travesty against Man and Æsir, the twins charged in, slaying and hacking through the throng. Bodies heaped upon bodies as the crazed cultists ran with eagerness to die upon the brothers’ blades. As at birth, and for the last time, Diarf was beset by a pack of beasts assaulting him only to have Boë stand tall over his brother’s body and defend him with his own life.

But is was not to be Boë’s death or even Diarf’s that day. Instead the ravens called for the the slåtten and his cultists. By savage sweeps of his great axe, the one men have come to call the Three-Man Blood-Ember, the cultists were laid to the sleep of the sword. The swans of blood circled high over the wound-sea and spear-din, and the slåtten readied itself to die or see its followers avenged. And die it did, for as it leapt at Boë, the wounded Diarf rallied his remaining strength and flung Foe Serpent out from the shelter of his brother’s tree-trunk legs. The slåtten, caught off guard by the stinging blade of Diarf was unready when Boë’s mighty axe fell and split the beast in twain from shoulder to manhood.

Long did the brothers journey to reach home, and long did they travel in silent despair. Though they had slain the beast, they had not saved the jarl’s child, and worse, had seen it twisted and perverted by its abductor. What’s more, they had been forced to slay the very child they had attempted to save and thus could only return to the dying jarl’s hall with the head of his foe and not the laughter of his future. The brothers lived beyond that ill-fated venture, but it is thought by many that there was a dying that day within the soul of the brothers — in one perhaps more than the other.

Nevertheless, the jarl was grateful for their efforts and rewarded the brothers with a sea-steed. This they named it Fortune’s Glory, and Diarf called to the skalds to spread word of their deeds. Soon a crew of warriors, all long known in the shieldwall and experienced in the spear-din, gathered. These men and women swore oaths to Diarf and pledged to him as to a ring-giver, though he had no hall. With these — his huscarls of a sort — and his brother, Diarf took to the whale-road once again.

While upon the whale-road it was they who drove away a raid by the Jomsvikings upon the village of Hølen, fought through blood and viscera to bring aid to besieged Gats in Otkel’s Hall, and sought out the Dark Ones who slew so many in Estenfird.

It was in this last venture that the brothers were finally separated, for the battle for that northernmost land was fierce and the terrain wild and untamed. The hirth had been called out and defeated, and the twins were fated to suffer, for after the Battle of the Lost Holding only one could be found. The missing brother had nearly died in the battle, taking a sore wound, and in desperate pleas — perhaps made in pain-filled delirium or perhaps in fear of death — managed to save its own hide only by breaking all oaths and mind’s-worth and pledging himself to the Dark Ones’ cause.

The two brothers met only once more after that, for by then both had taken leadership of the opposing armies. When the shieldwalls met, the spear-din rose to reach the heavens and the gods themselves watched as the Last Hirth stood firm against the horde of beasts and beastmen, of savage Jötnar and foul witches. The battle-dew formed its own river, and the bodies clogged the Ice River for thirteen miles.

As the shieldwall stood against the flood of the monsters, the swans of blood filled the sky yelling for their feast. Many a wound-hoe ripped apart a deformed thing, blood-embers rose and fell with thuds against gnarled and hoary flesh, and the weather of weapons went on for three days and nights.

On the fourth day the two brothers finally met in battle, the shieldwall of men and the hordes of monsters pulling back to give them room like the sacred precincts of the holmgang, for all knew that this fight was the one that the gods, both the fair Æsir and the foul Ginnvaettir longed to see — the battle for the future of Estenfird decided in one meeting, one thrust of the blood-worm or the tearing of mighty claws.

One brother fought with resignation and love, for he saw what a foul thing his womb-mate had truly become. The other howled with savagery and fury, for he lusted for his kinsman’s blood — sought to right old wrongs imagined or half-perceived. Boë bore a mighty shield made from planks cut from a burned and desecrated gods-wood. Diarf wielded a sword forged in the fiery heart of a volcano. Boë’s headland of axes was splintered and sent raining upon the field in fiery shards, giving an opening for his brother to plunge the glowing sword deep into his kinsman’s belly.

Such a blow should end any man, but Boë was not a just a man; he was a Bearsarker, one sworn to the All-Father’s cause and unwavering in his oaths. Even as Diarf drove the blade deeper into the giant-blooded man, he placed one mighty hand upon his brother’s shoulders and one massive fist around his brother’s head. Was he seeking the battle harvest or embracing him with one last remembered semblance of a brother’s love? Only one could ever say, but either way the result was the same; tearing and pulling, he strained his gnarled and knotted muscles until with a sickening snap and tearing noise Diarf’s head came free as one would twist the head from a fish before filleting.

With their champion dead—

*****

“And good riddance,” the scarred woman interrupted, “For we all know the lies and crimes of Diarf Skulison the False, oath-breaker to man and gods alike.” Kadlin had mounted her table to further press home her point with the skald, amidst the cheers and echoing calls of her men.

“Yes, it is as you say. Diarf did prove false and oath-breaker, but he also did much good in his life before he was broken and twisted to evil. Surely there is place in the vastness of Asgard for some remembrance of what great deeds were once done by him in the All-Father’s name,” came Snorri’s measured response.

“Nay, twisted one. Once false, always false. His foul wyrd was set for evil deeds from the day of his birth. ‘Twould have been better had his brother let him die in the snow that first ni—“

“What d’you say?” the halting, rumbling voice rolled like a rockslide from the edge of the firelight.

A shape clumped out of the shadows at the back of the hall. It was a massive, misshapen form in a heavily brocaded tunic, three small children nestled asleep in the crook of his left arm. The head from whence he voice whispered, though his whisper was just shy of a lesser man’s shout, was lost in the smoke and darkness near the rafters. With a groaning of floorboards and a creaking of leather, the monstrous form bent down, bringing its savagely gnarled head into the light, one eye bright and the crystalline blue of a winter sky and the other the old scarring of a gouged and empty socket.

“Sister say tuck young‘uns in. Tuck Snorri in. D’you need tucking also, woman-with head-like-fish?” Suddenly cold sober, Kadlin sat back down with a thump, “N..no, I do not. Thank you Lord Boë Skulison, Slayer of the Wyrm of Vardø and Hunter of the Wolf-Beast of Alta-by-the-Sea. I…I do not.”

Without another word, Boë swept his young nephew Snorri up in his right arm, Snorri who shared something of one great uncle’s twisted frame and something of his other great uncle’s way with words. Young Snorri who longed to be a great skald some day and practiced telling the old stories and singing the old songs beside the fire every night that he could until his mother bade him to bed.

With Snorri safely secured among his siblings in his massive arms, the giant-blooded’s shadow departed the play of the firelight on the wall like the passing memory of a legend.

The hall erupts in shouting and laughter as everyone cheers Grimr's tale with more mead. Jarl Olaf nods to the side of the hall with a smile and a wink and your attention is caught by two newcomers - Silvermeade's godi (priest) & blacksmith Graf and a dwarven trader Sigfastr Wyrmhammer who has been wintering at the Hall. They each stand ready at a table of weaponry arrayed for your perusal, ready to acquiesce to the jarl's instructions.

Spoiler: more loot

Show

Everyone is gifted a masterwork weapon of your choice, purchased by the jarl from either Graf or Sigfastr.

(the three newcomers can instead be assumed to start the game with a bonus masterwork weapon plus 500 hacksilver (ie gp) which should even things out).

[Starbin]

Heltinne Thrainsdottir, Speaker of Spirits

Heltinne listened intently to the tale. It wasn’t just entertainment - it was history, and a cautionary tale about the path of renown. Clapped politely upon the completion of the tale, raising her smug in salute. Then, leaning back, she wondered whether it was possible that the story was no mere coincidence, but a warning ... a portent of things to come.

---

Just a little something.

Spoiler: Status

Show

AC 14 HP 9 Init +1 Move 30
F +1 R +1 W +3
Weapon: longspear (+2, 1d8+3), Morningstar (+2, 1d8+2/3)
Spells (Unl/3): ghost sound, mage hand, guidance, create water, detect magic, spark / cure light wounds, bless, obscuring mist
SLA: 1/1, Ice armor: 1hr
Key skills: Perception +6; Sense Motive +5; Diplomacy +7; Heal +7; Spellcraft +4; KS Religion +4; KS Geography +5; KS History +4
Effect: Child of Winter (+2 Initiative/Reflex; endure elements vs cold; no penalty on ice; 1/2 pen deep snow); ER 5 vs cold, acid, electricity

[farothel]

Bjorn cheered with the others, taking another sip from his mead. When the weapons where shown, he tried to catch a glimpse. Those were good-looking weapons, according to his trained eye. He had some good weapons also, as his father had given him his old battle axe and silver dagger when he was chosen into the jarl's warband, wanting the best for his son.

[atlastrembles]

The Nuk listens intently to the skald's tale. Although there were skalds, or their Nuk equivalent anyway, among his people in the Far North, their stories tended towards the more natural and mystical. It was rare to hear stories about individual heroes or families, either because of their preternaturally long lives meaning most "heroes" by Nordlander reckoning were still probably alive or someone knew them within living memory, or because their concept of society tended to focus on collective success rather than individual heroism. Still, White That Walks thinks as he sips the mead appreciatively, I can see why these short-lived revere such tales. They flare so briefly upon this realm that their deeds can only be remembered through repetition. How sad it must be to know that all you accomplish will be realized by others, never knowing the impacts of your own adventure.

[Ghostfoot]

The rest of the evening passes well. Exhaustion is overcome by mead and feasting, and spirits are high with the rescue of Jarl Olaf's daughters and the besting of the wicked seiðkona Sibbe the Unkempt.

The next day dawns fine and cool as a small crowd gathers at Silvermeade Hall. Everyone has come to witness the punishment of the murderer Njarni the Traitor. There will be no holmgang, or duel. Judgement has already been passed at a Thing in Storstrøm Vale and the sentence for murdering one's jarl and fleeing justice like a coward is death.

Hallbjorn Bolverkson is named for the duty, and the process is swift. Njarni is dragged forward and Hallbjorn steps up with one clean blow ends it. Satisfied murmurings spread through the crowd as everyone agrees that the punishment was right for such a criminal.

As everyone disperses Jarl Olaf calls you all to him, both the recent rescuers and friends. "Hallbjorn has been hunting Styr the Ugly in the Moors for the past week now with a few warriors. He's returnign with nothing. Mayhap that murdering outlaw has moved on to the forest or the hills. When you're ready, I'd like you to track him and his men down. Don't bring them back alive."

Spoiler: Trollfist Hills

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Local
*Dark Dreams Wanderer (1d20+1)[16]
*Freyja (1d20)[8]
Skorri (1d20+5)[20]
*White That Walks (1d20)[8]
*Heltinne (1d20)[19]
*Bjorn (1d20+1)[4]
*Signy (1d20+1)[14]


Geography
Dark Dreams Wanderer (1d20+5)[17]
*Freyja (1d20)[7]
Skorri (1d20+5)[12]
*White That Walks (1d20)[1]
Heltinne (1d20+4)[24]
*Bjorn (1d20+1)[17]
*Signy (1d20+1)[16]

Spoiler: Knowledge (Local or Geography) DC10 - DDW, Skorri, Heltinne, Bjorn

Show

These hills are rugged, barren, and have long been the haunts of trolls, outlaws, and giants.

Spoiler: Knowledge (Local or Geography) DC15 - DDW, Skorri, Heltinne

Show

Though the hills have recently been cleaned out of outlaws, trolls, and other threats, there is always the possibility that new dangers might have moved in to the old vacated lairs and caves.

Spoiler: The Forest

Show

Local
*Dark Dreams Wanderer (1d20+1)[9]
*Freyja (1d20)[16]
Skorri (1d20+5)[12]
*White That Walks (1d20)[9]
*Heltinne (1d20)[2]
*Bjorn (1d20+1)[18]
*Signy (1d20+1)[14]

Nature
Dark Dreams Wanderer (1d20+5)[18]
*Freyja (1d20)[8]
*Skorri (1d20+1)[12]
White That Walks (1d20+6)[14]
*Heltinne (1d20)[12]
*Bjorn (1d20+1)[15]
*Signy (1d20+1)[14]

Spoiler: Knowledge (Local or Nature) DC10 - All

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These woods are fairly open and are composed of old growth forest that has only been logged around the edges. The trails through the forest are tricky and twisting.

Spoiler: Knowledge (Local or Nature) DC17 - DDW only

Show

Though far removed from it now, the forest here is a distant extension of the Forest of Woe at the south end of the Hord Peninsula. Though not nearly as primordial and untamed as that legendary woodland, the forests around Silvermeade are said to be the home to several bands of wild fey, though none that are known to be overtly malicious.

[farothel]

"Of course, my Lord," Bjorn said. He was glad that he was trusted enough to go on an independant mission. With a bow to the Jarl, he left and as soon as everyone was outside, he looked at them. While he was a huscarl, he was probably the newest member of the group, so this wasn't the time to pull rank.
"Where to first," he asked, looking at the others, but mostly at Heltinne Thrainsdottir. As Oracle she might know things that the rest didn't know.

[Starbin]

Heltinne Thrainsdottir, Speaker of Spirits

Heltinne turned in early enough to rise at dawn without a hangover. She was one of the first to arrive at the execution, and one of the last to leave, ensuring the traitor did not rise again. She returned to the house once her prayers were complete, ready for the Jarl’s next task.

When he called forth the group and gave them the mission to find Styr the Ugly, she nodded. After a moment, Bjorn stood to leave, but she spoke up instead. ”Jarl, what crimes has Styr committed against you? And how many men flock to his banner? We can see him dead before the heaviest snows fall, but I wish to know your for, that we may bring his head back sooner.”

---

When gathered with the others and sharing what they knew of the local area, Heltinne introduced herself and gave her opinion on where they might hunt. “Most of the trolls and giants have been driven from the local caves - leaving many a lair ripe for someone like Styr to use. I am not as familiar with the woods, except they are foreboding and difficult to traverse.”

---

I vote the hills ...

Spoiler: Status

Show

AC 14 HP 9 Init +1 Move 30
F +1 R +1 W +3
Weapon: longspear (+2, 1d8+3), Morningstar (+2, 1d8+2/3)
Spells (Unl/3): ghost sound, mage hand, guidance, create water, detect magic, spark / cure light wounds, bless, obscuring mist
SLA: 1/1, Ice armor: 1hr
Key skills: Perception +6; Sense Motive +5; Diplomacy +7; Heal +7; Spellcraft +4; KS Religion +4; KS Geography +5; KS History +4
Effect: Child of Winter (+2 Initiative/Reflex; endure elements vs cold; no penalty on ice; 1/2 pen deep snow); ER 5 vs cold, acid, electricity

[atlastrembles]

White That Walks - Nuk Bear Shaman (Druid)

Nuk watches the execution passively. In Nukland they rarely had need to punish criminals given that any rebellion against their tight-knit ways tended not to survive very long in the harsh climate of the Far North. When it did happen - crimes of passion mostly - the punished was exiled which, again, was as close to an execution as you could get.

Still, White That Walks had to admit, there was something refreshingly honest and straightforward about a public execution. It certainly painted boldly the consequences for disrupting the peace and good order in stark terms and helped create unity among the typically fractious Nordlanders.

Upon receiving their instructions, the Nuk and his bear voice no particular opinion. He was wise enough to know these were not his lands and while he would lend his magics and his claws to their joint cause, his advice would count for little at this point. So instead he simply shares his encouragement. My spear and Brother's claws are ready for this Styr, no matter where he hides.

[PeacefulOak]

Mørkedrømevandrer

Listening quietly to the tales of the skald the Wanderer found his attention drifting to the ancient blade on his back, the weight of the metal weapon accenting the cultural weight of the weapon itself. The exchange with the dead king had come naturally to the nuk, a simple exchange that had only made sense to him in the moment. Now, the echoes of that trade and the connection implied there-in hold a portion his mind and he is troubled by it.

Looking across the offerings, the weapons offered fall short of the bow he himself had made and the barrow-blade at his back. Instead, he is drawn to a finely crafted shirt of steel rings that seems narrow enough to fit his body well without inhibiting his movements. With an abrupt nod he lifts the shirt and shakes it out, the subtle rustle bringing a smile to his lips.

~~~

It was a cold day that followed, the colder for the loss of a life and colder yet the eyes of a Wanderer who looked upon it. At his jarl's request, he simply nods and turns to the wind, tilting his head back and breathing deeply the air as he thinks on the vagaries of his new fame.

"Caves and shelters abound. In the hills, perhaps our quarry found. In the forests... this is an old forest, touched by the strange and the fey and the deep magics. Perhaps guidance may be found there, an opportunity to be directed to our enemies. But my words may carry the weight of stones or drift on the wind like the airy eagle. Take it as you will, I will hunt at your side."

[farothel]

"I don't think it matters," Bjorn said, "it's just a question where to search first. If we don't find him in the hills, we have to search the forest. The same if we were to do it the other way around. Any of you have a preference where to go first?"

[DrK]

Freyja

The giantess looks about during the night of festivities staying to shadows at the back of the Jarl's hall as the drinking horns are lifted and the skald's voice booms out over the assembled throng. The drinking and feasting leaves her uncomfortable, both for her massive size towering above the assembled warriors and the face that most of the women here are dressed in fine dresses as she is garbed in steel, leather and mail. During the feast she warmly welcomed the gift from the Jarl of a very fine chain shirt, the length of chain enough to cover a large horse.

At the end of the ceremony she lokos to the others and then speaks up slowly. "I think we should explore the open hills. Better to flush him into the low lands where we can corner him and take him and give the same benefit that Njarni received."

[Ghostfoot]

Jarl Olaf responds to Heltinne's query about the man's crimes, "Murder, theft, and worse. Styr the Ugly is a man burdened by neither good looks nor morality. His face is coarse and marred by a scar on his chin that looks like a snake’s tail. He's probably had a few other miscreants fall in with him, but there can't be too many or Hallbjorn would have found them by now."

Spoiler: provisions

Show

Jarl Olaf loans a light riding horse again, each, if you want it. You'll want to take bedrolls and a few days rations (no more than a week's worth).

When you are prepared, you mount up and head off. Again west crossing over the Coast Road and through the farmlands and forest towards the Meadows. After an hour or so you veer off and soon spy the Trollfist Hills ahead. Four rugged, round hills looking like the bent knuckles of a troll’s fist push up out of the moors, larger than the lower hills around them. The hills are sparsely vegetated and rather steep, though pathways goes through them. Those trails are of hard-packed earth over flinty rock, and are as gray and lifeless as the rest of the territory.

You spend some hours searching the trails among the hills, and as you do the day starts to draw late.

Spoiler: Perception checks

Show

DDW (1d20+7)[19]
Skorri (1d20+3)[20]
Freyja (1d20-1)[8]
WTW (1d20+7)[10]
Heltinne (1d20+6)[17]
Bjorn (1d20+1)[4]
Signy (1d20)[1]

Spoiler: DC15 - DDW, Skorri, Heltinne

Show

Shortly after entering a muddy, overgrown area, you notices tufts of coarse, damp hair stuck to rocks, large footprints, and fresh claw marks on the stones — certain troll sign.

Spoiler: Map

Show

[farothel]

"I think it's time to start looking for a place to spend the night," Bjorn Ulgardson said as he kept looking around him, "and anybody found any tracks we can use to find our fugitive?"

He had not only brought a bedroll, but also a small tent. While the main idea is to spend the night in a cave in these hills, there wouldn't necesarily be one available and this way he could stay out of the cold and rain.

[atlastrembles]

White That Walks - Nuk Bear Shaman

The Nuk and his polar bear companion, Brother, set out at an easy lope, his long legs and the bear's steady gait easily keeping up with the horses. He had grown up running across the bare tundra and ice of the north. Unless the horses were at a full out gallop, White That Walks would be able to keep up, especially in the tricky terrain of the rocky Trollfist Hills.

Keeping a wary eye to the ground and the rocks around him, the Nuk Shaman pulls out a pinch of lichen from a pouch around his waist. He places it in his mouth and chews, crushing the plant between his teeth to release its mild hallucinogen. He breathes deep as he feels his senses sharpened by the narcotic. He casts about, looking for signs of Styr.

Survival with Guidance - (1d20+10)[15]

[DrK]

Freyja

Freyja walks along beside the horses, her long legs more or less keeping pace with the laden horses. Stomping up the hills and scree slopes she admires the scenery. Wild, untamed and savage, she felt at peace here. Similar to the long evenings watching out across the foam tipped seas when she was aboard the longships. Looking around the rocks she nods to the savage Nok, now with the ancient wight blade slung across his back. "Any signs of a trail my friend? Hopefully we will have better luck tomorrow if the Gods shine down upon us."

Pausing she looks into the shadows, "Aye, I agree we had best settle down for the night."