[WFRP2e] The Saga of Jorunn - Part 1 - "That Which Remains"

[bramblefoot]

jorunn will stay upright, and make three attacks. they all hit, and they all bite

(3d100)[25][8][65](98)

(1d10+7)[13]
(1d10+7)[17]
(1d10+7)[15]

[MrAbdiel]

Now you have the measure of it. You can imagine how such a creature, dominating this raised mesa, might have been beyond the attacks of almost all its opponents, and capable of hurling them to their deaths or tearing them apart with these hurricane assaults. But against pure, bloody-minded killing power given teeth with a magical weapon, the creature, ethereal however he may be, has limited defenses.

Botis the Cryptic screams as you carve through his immaterial form with the magic-eating Witherbrand. Your first blow carves across its 'chest', and immediately that unseen wound 'bleeds' a typhoon of battering wind against you. But you are ready for this one, ducking low and letting the wind shear against your shield, hacking through one of the gangly, awkward long 'legs' at the knee. As you do, the swirl of winds defining its form for that limb comes apart entirely; and now, as if your many blows had depleted it of much of its internal pressure, the buffering wind from its torso is much less commanding. It affords you a moment to open your guard and cleave across, shearing deeply through the middle of the space it seems to occupy. This is a killing blow; and as the daemon dies, or is sent back to where such things lurk in between lives, it briefly becomes truly visible to you and your companions. It's a split second flicker in your vision like an image you shouldn't witness somehow spliced into the running field of your vision; black skinned, gangly, with an bulbous head dominated by a huge blue eyeball as its only feature, and a great fanged vertical maw from clavical to groin. In the moment when you can see it, it is falling into three pieces; the severed leg, the upper and lower halves of the body; but there is such misery and hatred in that single staring eye that you, and your companions, are likely to remember it for the rest of your lives.

Spoiler: OOC: Insanity!

Show

Daemonshock time. Give me a Willpower test, at Challenging.
Success means just 1 Insanity point for yourself; failure means 1d5 of them!

And then it's gone again, both from vision and the world; with a whump of airy detonation that blasts a distended, stretched out silhouette of its deathpose into the snow behind it all the way from here to the edge of the cliff you ascended to this place. Quiet settles over the battlefield.

There don't seem to be any threats left here, now; you have slain them all. The monastery is empty, its operators and its false god all cast down. From the windows of the small buildings, the village inhabitants watch you and your warparty in naked wonder.

Spoiler: Victory!

Show

Scary for a minute, but victory is yours! Gain 200XP from sacking and clearing the Monastery of the Daemonwinds!

[bramblefoot]

"lets patch ourselves up, and then get off this mesa" jorunn says, shifting back down to his regular form

[MrAbdiel]

Your companions are very happy to comply. Ortel addresses the wounds of the group - all are relatively minor, since you soaked most of them and the shifting of your muscles and bones performs a certain amount of repair to damage done in the bear form.

You half expect to be ambushed by the daemon again as you descend, but no one impedes you as you slide down the rope to and the edge of the frozen lake below. There beside you is the pit, where the corrupt monks above had been hurling thralls as sacrifice to the daemon you have now slain. Perhaps the villagers will keep doing so, out of habit - such habits are hard to break, for cowed people. They may serve absent masters as desperately as they served the previous ones. Welcomely, there are no ambushes on the way back to Krejj - fate has exhausted its efforts upon you, for the day; and you still stand.

Spoiler: OOC:

Show

Don't forget to mark off 5 sceatta for Guðbrandr's help!

* * * * *

With the rest of your warparty returned to Haggur's house, you bear the recovered idol back to the vitki in the Fane of the Free Maiden. You cannot help but notice she is pleased to see you, and perhaps even slightly before she notes the bundle you carry. The bright blue eyes peer at you with vindicated glee from behind the veil of her raven-black braids, and she glides out from the dark with her strange grace to receive it from you; the weight of it significant, against her slight form. She cradles it like a child, and strokes the damaged face.

"An end to one string of blasphemies, then... and, given your wounds, the blasphemers themselves, also." She sets it in the shadow of the wooden likeness of the Free Maiden, and circles back to you - then beyond you, to close and bolt the door to the fane from within.

"You have earned a thunderbolt for your palm, Bjornling-man. Continue this way, and you will earn more; and all will be made sated by your work and mine, except those who stand against you. Come now..." She returns and this time takes your big hand between the pairing of her palms, "...your wounds are bandaged, but I will show you a medicine for the body and spirit; one to restore your strength that, I expect, your foreign priest does not offer..."

* * * * *

She shows you.

* * * * *

Afterward, warm in the snarl of furls and blankets hidden behind a blind wall at the rear of the fane, the vitki of the Free Maiden fulfills her side of your bargain.

"Aelfric the Sighted is not Norse - not by birth. He is a man of another place. The stories say he first wandered down from the lands nearer the chaos wastes - a man of the Tong."

Tong. A people-name all Norscans know; a race of men so vicious and strong that the Kurgan, Hung, and Norse dread them; though they mostly trouble the Hung and Kurgan, and only the Norse when a great war against the south is underwar. Even in such times, the Tong tend to mount their own parallel raids on the southern lands rather than submit to the banner of another people; though they have little fear of forcing other tribes to kneel before theirs, when it suits them.

"An exile, perhaps? Or a fated wanderer, like yourself? I cannot say. He led a warband of kurgan men into Norse lands, made a bloody name for himself, and then struck a deal with the Skaeling lords at the Doomkeep to begin raiding for them, instead of against them. For perhaps twenty years, he savaged the coasts of the Sea of Claws, taking thralls and plunder and bringing them to sale in Norsca to Sarls, and Skaeling, and Bjornling. But several years ago, his tactic changed - he beached his flagship, purged his raiding force down to a warband again, and began ravaging Norscan towns - Skaeling first, but not only. Perhaps they betrayed him - perhaps he felt their contract had expired. But he is a mighty warrior, of much experience, Bjornling-man. He will kill you, if you do not gather more lightning before you strike. But continue this partnership, and before he knows your name, you will have such a tempest laid up that even such a champion will fall before you."

She clutches a blanket to herself with one arm as she leans over to stir the burner of coals and incense in this rear room, refreshing the chamber with fragrant smoke, and welcome heat. Baring the skin of her back to you, rippled with just a few stripes with the old marks of a former master's rod, she offers her next proposal.

"Next you must master the gifts within yourself. The beast inside you is mighty, but no wild beast is as mighty as one commanded by a skilled handler. You must go to the Graeling lands, to the village of Fjirgard. The greatest of the Were dwell there - if there is wisdom about your gift, about how to better master it, you will find it there. But you will also find in the Graeling land another idol of the Free Maiden - though all my eyes and spies can only say it was once held in a trophy hall, in the Graeling Moot. Where it is now, you must discover - and bring it back to me, Bjornling man."

She coos; and lazilly drapes herself across you in a gesture that might be intimate, or possessive, or perhaps just loosely territorial. "My vengeance, your lightning. As before, so again. Yes?"

[bramblefoot]

"agreed" jorunn purrs. he will disentangle himself, dress, and purchase a pair of lucky charms for the way out, then meet back up with his warband. "we head to fjirgard after we're all healed up" he says, looking around to see if anybody has any better ideas

[MrAbdiel]

None of your warband have better ideas. There is a tone of mild trepidation about going into Graeling territory - but the armor you have looted has some superficial Graeling markings, so perhaps it will serve best in that place. They are bound to your band, and will go where you ask.

The morning after, you partake of Haggur's hospitality for the last time. He fills your stomach with a fish and vegetable stew, thanks you again for your strength on the road. "The Graeling are more bound to the old ways than the other tribes. The pay worship to the Four, and their ancestors; but there is a strong vein who call to the gods of the wood and hearth. You will know you are in their lands when you slip through the mountain pass beyond the frozen river, and you start seeing goatherders. They're goatfolk, the Graeling, more than other stock; less and less as you get toward the north coast. But you'll have to pass the mountains before that - the Vanaheimlings in the Vanaheim mountains will likely not give you trouble, as this time of year they are making their Provings, climbing to the peaks and seeking the yeti. Stay in the passes north all the way to the big forest gorge between the Vanaheim mountains and the Helspire Mountains - the stone changes color as you move from one range to the other, too. Mind beastmen in the forests, as always. But once you're in the Helspire mountain region, you're in southern Graeling territory. The Graeling Moot is just at the tip of one of the branches of the River Kaasmoas; and someone from there can point you to Fijrgard better than I can from memory. Gods overlook you, friends."

But you barely make it over the frozen lake, near to the Mesa, when you are see strange activity - there is a party of men at the lip of the mesa, just about where you climbed up; they are hurling the bodies of the monks you slew into the pits below. The nature of this gesture might be spiteful... or sinister. "Are they trying to summon the daemon again?" Ortel speculates with dread. "We ought to go back up and check - it was all women and children before, now there's men up there. Maybe just taking over. Maybe the work for the monks, and we'll have them behind us with an axe to grind."

Byjan shakes his head. "No. No, opportunists, I think. But they do seem to have decided all too quickly it was time to scramble up the mesa they thought was certain death before."

You could investigate this development... or you could pass by, establishing distance instead of potentially entangling yourself; not to suggest entangling yourself has troubled you too much before. Ortel certainly seems to want to make sure the people aren't suffering a new round of exploitation, up there.

[bramblefoot]

jorunn will pull the devil spy from his pocket, and train it on the mesa. he's looking for insignia, rank tabs anything that might let him distinguish who they are "personally, we just finished a tough fight, and i see no reason to start another" he says.

perception roll

(1d100)[53]

Spoiler: ooc

Show

do i get any bonuses for the devil spy?

[MrAbdiel]

Spoiler: OOC:

Show

You do! And because of it, you succeed.

Peering up at the fringe of the mesa, you see no cult sigils or marks of affiliation. Just furs and hides on the men up there. In fact, you're quite sure you've seen some of them before. Some of them are ice fishermen you passed on your previous way over the lake; some are other woodsmen you passed when you were seeking recruitment. These are men of the Krejji, though the kind who dwell in shacks and lodges outside the walls to sell their produce and wares to those within. They don't strike you as hostile - they are disposing of the bodies of the previous occupants, and perhaps taking residence up there.

Infact, there is Guðbrandr among them! What is he planning, up there? He pauses, having helped one of the other men heave a monk's slack corpse off the rise, and squints in your direction, raising a hand to shade his eyes - but he has no spyglass like you do, and likely does not recognize you from this distance.

[bramblefoot]

"krejji" jorunn says, passing the spyglass to byjan. "gudbrandr is up there, and they look like they're making a home up there. personally i have no objection, unless you all do?" he lets the question hang in the air

assuming there are no objections, he will have them all push on

[MrAbdiel]

Ortel is still skittish. Daemons are no joke; and southerners are even less used to their nefarious dealings than most mortals. He presses the point, though not with absolute conviction. "Well... It's on the way - perhaps we can get close enough to call up to Guðbrandr, Jorunn, and hear it from him. You've a good rapport with him, after all."

[bramblefoot]

Ortel is still skittish. Daemons are no joke; and southerners are even less used to their nefarious dealings than most mortals. He presses the point, though not with absolute conviction. "Well... It's on the way - perhaps we can get close enough to call up to Guðbrandr, Jorunn, and hear it from him. You've a good rapport with him, after all."

"im not opposed" jorunn says, tucking away the spyglass and moving to go talk to the krejji

[MrAbdiel]

Guðbrandr and the other Krejji have just finished heaving the bodies into the pit when you get near the mesa. You signal the woodsman, and he waves back.

"Jorunn! Jorunn, come up, come up - Did the lad I sent find you, or just skive off to drink at the longhouse?"

Following the invitation to climb up the ropes you had Guðbrandr hitch up for your attack, you find the village buzzing with activity. There are perhaps a score of men here; fishes and woodsmen all, sitting about recently dug firepits and cooking fish on sticks; trying to coax the villagers into sharing them, and having some success.

"It was a bloody cult town, Jorunn." Guðbrandr explains, fists on his hips as he watches the people of the mesa mingle with men from below for the first time in their lives. "I chatted to the headwoman here. Bloody monks kept them like a stable of wives; pitched the boychildren into the pits; had the women raise the girls as wives for each other. Bloody awful. They barely know anythin', about the world or the gods or whatnot. Just that the wind-spirit that provided for them with flocks it threw down, and the monks that kept them. I figured they'd be set to starve now that you put away that spirit; they've no one to deal with the fishers below who knows much about fish or trade, so I started inviting lads up to help, and now..."

He gestures, to the very obvious and now. A host of practical, rural men who are not warriors or wealthy people are naturally trying to market themselves to a suddenly open market of women with the skills they have to offer. The men are not particularly charming; and the women still shy and adjusting to their emancipation. It may take some time for any such flirtations to bear fruit, but they are trying.

Guðbrandr points to the monastry. "We're trying to make some kind of... working village of it. It's safer for many of the fishermen and woodsmen to dwell up here instead out outside Krejj. Gods, we might be able to..." He makes an open handed gesture around the mesa, and the little houses there. Whatever this is supposed to indicate, he doesn't say; but he clearly has some amount of vision for the place. "Anyway. There'll be room for you all up here any time you want to stay; I'll make sure of it."

The hamlet, which by the time you return will have come to be known as Widow's Rise, is in your debt.

Spoiler: OOC:

Show

You have a fixed, reasonably safe home here. You can leave any wealth, possessions, or recovering injured folk here in Widow's Rise and have a high degree of confidence they will be safe; and you will not pay for accomodation.
Guðbrandr will make it his mission to make sure no one steals whatever you stash, if anything. The only limitation is beasts - currently, there is no way to get anything larger than a wolf up the rise.

[bramblefoot]

"i didnt get a message, so id say he went off a-drinking" jorunn says. he will accept the offer to stay, and then after some small talk, take his leave to go

[MrAbdiel]

The Saga of Jorunn
Part 1 - "That Which Remains"


Chapter 2 - Roam

You dwell a little with the hopefuls whose lives you have changed, mostly by accident, on Widow's Rise. They have only fish for you, but fish is well enough. You were raised in a coastal tribe, of course; and after that, spent much time at sea. But then Guðbrandr bids you farewell, and you make your way north beyond the mesa towards the Vanaheim mountains.

The terrain becomes rough; up and town, hard going to clamber through mountain clefts to cut through towards where you are assured you will intercept the valley pass, and from there smoother travel. But it's here, halfway up one of the slopes, you encounter your first party of Vanaheimlings for the first time. They are bigger than Graelings - and Graelings are bigger then Bjornlings and Skaelings - and almost uniformly blond, and narrow eyed. A troop of ten or so of what seems to be a fur-clad hunting party are clearing stones and digging a great pit in the hard packed ground on the side of the mountain slope. They don't seem to be laying in wait for travellers here ... but what they seem to be doing is anyone's guess.

Spoiler: OOC:

Show

Action time. Try to approach and interact peacefully? Give me a charm test. Want to try to sneak by? Give me your an Outdoor Survival test; or if you want to go far enough back and around there is no roll at all, that's fine too; its just back tracking and time lost.

[bramblefoot]

jorunn will walk up to the party of vanaheimlings, and will engage in polite small talk, attempting to get a good look in the pit

charm

(1d100)[21]

[MrAbdiel]

You put on your best social affect; managing to pluck up enough charm that you win them over quickly even with your eerie eyes and hair visible soon enough. Ortel and Byjan follow your lead and relieve the two most tired looking diggers, putting their backs to some shovel work in the large round pit while you speak to the group's leader; a massive man named Torf.

"Is a trap, you see?" He gestures to the pit, then next to the pit to heal of long cut tree boughs and bundled cloth. He nods toward the higher slope of the nearest mountain. "Up there is Rognir - a giant, you see? Twice now he has climbed down from his perch and attacked my people. Snatched up two women and a young man; stuffed them into his bag. Ate them, I suppose. No more, I think. We will lure him out and make him step in the hole - fall, maybe even break his legs. Then we will cut off his head and sled his skull back to our village. You want to join the fight? He sleeps in old dwarf runs high up the slope. We'll take the skull - you can have whatever you find once the Rognir is dead."

It's a friendly offer; but it's a promise of uncertain reward for a very dangerous task indeed. Giants are mighty warriors; able to kill great champions in single blows by strength alone. Defeating one with cunning like this might work - but if the giant does not fall in the pit, then it will be a troop of mere men fighting such a monster. Few heroes can hope to compete with such a goliath opponent in melee combat.

On the other hand... this may be the only chance you have to participate in a giant hunt.

[bramblefoot]

jorunn will consider. "im sure we could be of use, but let me consult with my warband" he says.

"what do you think, should we help in a giant hunt?" he asks his party

[MrAbdiel]

The party is split. Byjan is fascinated.

"Such a creature - I am not a warrior of your calibre, Jorunn; but it would be a shame to let such an opportunity pass by. Who would not risk much to say, 'I am he, Giantkiller'?"

Marlene and Ortel are less sanguine. They're hirelings, after all; hoping to survive a year and go home. This is more risk than they'd like, but they are sworn to follow you. "If you want, Jorunn, we'll help - but we can't go toe-to-toe with something like that. None of us can; not even you. It better be a damn good trap," commends Ortel. Marlene seems to agree.

[bramblefoot]

jorunn will come to a decision. "lets help, but play it safe" he says. he'll return to torf, and offer his help

[MrAbdiel]

Torf appreciates it; vengeance, you know, is not a commodity Norscans easily part with.

You and your warband lend aid deepening the pit, before the Vanaheimlings make the cap with the boughs they brought; binding them at one end in and splaying the other end over the hole so it sits over the cavity like crouching, long-legged spider. After this, the cloth - ripped and tattered old sailcloth, you think - is spread over the branchy cover. The resulting wide circle of cloth, with its radial ribs and its small peak, wouldn't fool anyone, in this state - but after a night of sharing game that Marlene and the Vanaheimling's trapper pull together, the snowfall has covered it in a couple of inches of powder and it appears to be an only slightly suspiciously regular snowdrift.

Having used your tents to make hunting blinds, you and the Vanaheimlings watch Torf wander up the slope with a wooden sled on his back; wait and socialize for another hour, and then head into the blinds to wait, and watch.

You are not disappointed.

After some echoed shouting a while later, you begin feeling the soft ground tremors of slamming footsteps. Torf comes racing around the bend of the mountain on his sled, shearing through snow in a serpentine pattern that seems chosen to slow his descent so the his pursuer - his quarry - can keep up, and so that he does not gain so much speed he cannot control the sled itself. A moment later, Rognir is revealed.

Megkaplak! Érzem a véred illatát!

The giant must be over twenty five feet all, and comes launching down the slope in strides as big as he dares on such a treacherous surface. He is not foolish, you think - he could not survive barrelling around this mountain without some cunning dealing with its surfaces- but he has taken the bait completely.

Rognir is pale skinned, beardless, with a low wreathe of scraggling black hair circling ear to ear behind his head, leaving the scalp wispy and bald. He has a small paunch of stomach, and the normal number of arms, legs, eyes, and ears. In most ways, he seems to be a simply a huge man; but there are uncanny differences in form that are hard not to see. Something about the proportion of his limbs is off - a little too long for the torso, maybe? And the fat over his form is not distributed in the same thickness uniformly as a paunchy human might experience; it draws down into the jiggling bulb of his belly, but the pectorals, shoulders, arms, legs and neck of the creature are corded and tight with muscle; their strain constantly visible as it even existing, upright, is a relentless routine of exercise for him. He proceeds toward the trap, following Torf, at pace; very soon will be the time to act.

Rognir is quite focused. You consider in these last moments before the battle how best to initiate. If you wait for him to collapse into the pit, you will need a moment of slogging through the snow to get to the pit and strike its captive. If you can creep a little closer, staying low and inoffensive so not to attract the giant's ire, you could more easilly unleash your full fury more swiftly. That would risk being seen and fouling the trap - but it would negate the risk of the giant not suffering as much as the Vanaheimlings had hoped, climbing out of the trap, and smashing you all off the mountainside before anyone can close and do damage!

Spoiler: OOC:

Show

You can stay hidden, in which case, once Rognir hits the trap, Rognir with have a turn before anyone attacks him to try to recover, if possible.

If you pass a Concealment (+20%) check, you can sneak closer and attack him as soon as he's in the hole.

[bramblefoot]

jorunn will stay in the hunting blind, not wanting to risk it

[MrAbdiel]

Rognir gives chase, and the trap works just about perfectly. Torf slews around the pit and to a halt to look over as the giant, shaking the giant with each step after him, places a food straight onto the pit, crashes through the thin cover, and slams bodily at gut height into the lip of the pit at an awkward angle. His yowl is so loud and pained it shakes the snow from other mountains nearby. The Vanaheimlings shout, burst from their blinds, and begin to dash forward, javelins in hand, and launch them at the groaning and furious giant presently pulling himself out of the pit.

Spoiler: OOC:

Show

Roll Initiative! The party will act immediately after you. You'll have to spend your first turn running to close the gap, as do the Vanaheimlings, so there's no surprise round. The Vanaheiming's second action was to half move closer and yeet spears:

Yeet1vs32 - (1d100)[53] for (1d10+3)[11]
Yeet2vs32 - (1d100)[75] for (1d10+3)[4]
Yeet3vs32 - (1d100)[81] for (1d10+3)[10]
Yeet4vs32 - (1d100)[19] for (1d10+3)[6]
Yeet5vs32 - (1d100)[55] for (1d10+3)[11]
Yeet6vs32 - (1d100)[9] for (1d10+3)[7]
Yeet7vs32 - (1d100)[38] for (1d10+3)[8]
Yeet8vs32 - (1d100)[14] for (1d10+3)[8]


Torf and the Vanaheimlings: 12
Rogvir the Massive: 7


Rogvir also takes for (3d10)[20] damage from a well executed trap. Because this is a carefully planned trap for the enemy, I'm forgoing the normal Terrifying rules unless something goes wrong, in which case they will suddenly kick in.

I'm also going to give him a 1d5 roll on the leg critical table. 1d5 crits are an invention from Only War and later Fantasy Flight games, but they're great do do small, specific injuries for traps that damage the legs or whatnot, since nothing below a 6 on the crit tables does greivous damage.

(1d5)[5].

EDIT: So a whopping 20 Wounds from the fall, down to 14; and a pathetic hail of javelin for a net 3 wounds, so Rogvir has taken net 17 wounds so far. He has also dazed for a turn, can do nothing but stand up, or attack at a -30%; so I guess he's standing this turn!

[bramblefoot]

jorunn will charge rognir, and move to make an attack

(1d100)[33]

(1d10+5)[9]

init roll

(1d10+4)[9]

[MrAbdiel]

Following you in, your warparty makes their best efforts against Rogvir, who stumbles in the pit as he strives to get his feet under him. The Vanaheimlings draw weapons, and close into melee with you - Torf himself running back from where his sled stopped, so not to miss out on the danger and glory...

Spoiler: OOC:

Show

MarleneVs42 - (1d100)[27] for (1d10+3)[7]
ByjanVs46 - (1d100)[4] for (1d10+4)[6]
OrtelVs48 - (1d100)[8] for (1d10+3)[6] or (1d10+3)[11]

VanaheimlingVs32 - (1d100)[89] for (1d10+4)[12]
VanaheimlingVs32 - (1d100)[67] for (1d10+4)[11]
VanaheimlingVs32 - (1d100)[53] for (1d10+4)[12]
VanaheimlingVs32 - (1d100)[20] for (1d10+4)[6]
VanaheimlingVs32 - (1d100)[88] for (1d10+4)[6]
VanaheimlingVs32 - (1d100)[57] for (1d10+4)[6]
VanaheimlingVs32 - (1d100)[43] for (1d10+4)[13]
VanaheimlingVs32 - (1d100)[41] for (1d10+4)[5]

Edit: Standby for results...

Up to 24 Wounds taken. Rogvir spends this round recovering from the leg-crit!

...But with arrows and axes striking him, lacerating and piercing, all those wounds seem small and insufficient to bring him down. The giant rights himself in the pit, abandons his efforts to climb out, and snatches up a handful of the broken boughs from the covering as an improvised weapon to defend himself.

You have only a moment before he has regained enough of himself to begin attacking - and terrible will be his revenge.

[bramblefoot]

jorunn will make two attacks on rognir, not wanting to shift unless absolutely necessary. neither hit, and he curses his luck

(2d100)[81][85](166)

(1d10+5)[13]
(1d10+5)[15]

[MrAbdiel]

Rogvir retaliates. The bundle of branches, trailing streamers of torn sail, come crashing down into the midst of you and his attackers with bone-crunching force...

Spoiler: OOC: Giant Attacks!

Show

For the purpose of randomly determining attacks:
1 is Jorunn.
2 is Byjan
3 is Ortel
4-11 are Vanaheimlings.
12, next turn when Torf is in combat, will be Torf.

On (1d11)[10]; vs33 - (1d100)[60] for (1d10+7)[11] or (1d10+7)[15].
On (1d11)[9]vs33 - (1d100)[83] for (1d10+7)[10] or (1d10+7)[16].
On (1d11)[9]vs33 - (1d100)[44] for (1d10+7)[12] or (1d10+7)[17].
On (1d11)[6]vs33 - (1d100)[44] for (1d10+7)[12] or (1d10+7)[13].
On (1d11)[3]vs33 - (1d100)[16] for (1d10+7)[13] or (1d10+7)[17].

[bramblefoot]

jorunn will make another two attacks. he curses again as he misses

(2d100)[83][78](161)

(1d10+5)[9]
(1d10+5)[13]

[MrAbdiel]

The giant smashes about, and the crowd attacking him become notably more reserved, not wishing to catch the fury of that swinging club. Most of his attacks miss their targets - but Ortel, swinging the steel greataxe you had looted, is in the path of one such blow...

Spoiler: OOC:

Show

Forgot to roll your guy's attacks with you just now.

OrtelVs38 - (1d100)[61] for (1d10+3)[5] or (1d10+3)[4]
Ortel's parry - Vs8 - (1d100)[59], at -30.

MarleneShotVs42 - (1d100)[79] for (1d10+3)[13].

ByjanVs46 - (1d100)[48] for (1d10+4)[11]...

Stand by for resolution.

Confirmation for Rogvir's blow - (1d100)[46] , for (1d10)[10].

[MrAbdiel]

Ortel's heavy blow is smashed aside as the giant's blow catches him in the chest, spinning him away. It's only the flimsy end of a branch that catches him, so it breaks around him; but he crawls, wheezing, to his feet and back to his axe, breathing the name of his wolf-god, Ulric, under his breath.

Spoiler: OOC:

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Ortel soaked 7 of that 17 damage, so he's taken 10 wounds and is heavily injured.

"Keep at it! Now, now now!" Torf roars, lending his own axe to the ambition. Your wolf, at the edge of the pit, cannot close to attack without jumping in; so instead he barks, hatefully, at the giant.

Spoiler: OOC:

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vs32 - (1d100)[86] for (1d10+4)[11]
vs32 - (1d100)[39] for (1d10+4)[6]
vs32 - (1d100)[63] for (1d10+4)[12]
vs32 - (1d100)[60] for (1d10+4)[14]
vs32 - (1d100)[82] for (1d10+4)[13]
vs32 - (1d100)[48] for (1d10+4)[9]
vs32 - (1d100)[64] for (1d10+4)[13]
vs32 - (1d100)[35] for (1d10+4)[13]
TorfVs42 - (1d100)[32] for (1d10+4)[11]

Rogvir has taken 27 wounds.

[MrAbdiel]

Spoiler: OOC: Ally attacks!

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OrtelVs58 - (1d100)[61] for (1d10+3)[12]or (1d10+3)[13]
Marlenevs42 - (1d100)[10] for (1d10+3)[7]
Byjanvs46 - (1d100)[6] for (1d10+4)[6]