In stunned disbelief, her once-mighty sword hanging sadly from her mighty hand, Sif Amarth, suddenly aware for the first time that she is a Chosen of Valhalla, an Asgard-watched heroine of great destiny, stands and watches the towering Valkyrie ride skyward to the gates of Asgard. The pieces of the puzzle of her recent life all fall into place. Finding the Leaf of Glasir, here in Andoran, so far from the land of her people where the steadfast worshippers of Torag the forge-god of steel and battle looks down with a keen eye on the deeds of the mighty. Only the hidden hand of the celestial could account for such a strange thing. And the Singing Sword fo Arne Saknussem, a relic of a bygone hero of the Lands of the Linnorm Kings. What was it doing so far south of the tomb and resting place of that ancient Warrior-Sage? Now too does that mystery reveal itself. That Valkyrie, noble herald of Iomedae the warrior queen of heaven, placed it in her path, plucking it from the halls of Iðavöllr. And all of this because she might be raised above so many other honored warriors of her homeland and claim the honor of one-day fighting on the field of Vígríðr as an Einherjar. Such a noble destiny is a lot to take in all at once.
While Sif and Cröm stand awestruck upon the sward of her domain, Ulizmila wastes no time pronouncing her crafty Boon. This must Sif do: Remain fast upon her lands, not to leave her domain until the sun rises on the following dawn. Leaving this tiny homestead not even once during the dance of the moon across the broad Andoran skies. And furthermore, in so remaining, she must also, to the full extent of her power and influence, keep those others who are her travelling companions, both well met and newly acquainted, from leaving this land.
Upon Sif's furious acceptance of these conditions, Ulizmila sets to work busily, gathering up a few things from her hovel, calling out her magical and animate cauldron, full of its foul and unguessable contents. As it arrives she upends the things spilling it's reeking and unwholesome contents to the lawn instantly killing the hardscrabble grass that tenaciously clung to life there. Then her treachery reveals itself. She assumes the form of fair Sif. every line and curve accurate in perfect mimicry. Then, uttering a baleful laugh in a hellish mockery of Sif's own voice, she takes to the skies in her cauldron flying through the air like the legendary witch-fiend Baba-Yaga, whose blood is said to flow in her veins, off toward the town of Falcon's Hollow, over the trees and dales. Disappearing in a trice.
Without hesitation Cröm stirs into action. Liberally splashing about his fire-oil from his adventuring pack her begins to coat the Hag's hut in oil. Seeing that ultimate vandalism is eminent, Belton and Gaia race into the home before Cröm can enact the arson that will bring the wretched old tinderbox of a house to the ground in final ashes. They seek about for anything of value that the old Witch might have left behind, finding so much garbage and debris but settling upon a strange artifact in the form of a Shrunken head on a gut and sinew thong made to be word as an amulet. The hideous head is fully six inches across and it's eyes and mouth are sewn shut with gut-stiches crudely managed. The bitumen-preserved features appear to be that of a human whose skull was removed ans the head-flesh smoked and cured, shrinking in the drying process to half it's size. The hollow bag of head-flesh now filled with Gods-only-know what manner of foulness. It emits an aura of illusion magic that is sensed by Belton as he hurries about trying to loot the evil domicile.
Then the flint and steel of Cröm spark bright! Up goes the house in a towering flame, it's nearly all-wooden and dried, dead contents creating a blazing inferno that lights up the night for many hours. Some sleep, resting and gathering their strength for the day ahead. Some pace in thought and some stand vigil watchful for what things may creep out of the woods at night to investigate this new light and warmth from thsi dire place. The moon sails overhead in its arc, aloof to the events that play out below.
The next morning dawns gray, then red then the crest of the sun shows itself on the Eastern horizon and the Boon is complete! With a resplendent howl the Singing sword quakes back to life, humming in it's scabbard as it's power returns and the curse that silenced it is lifted. Our heroes scan the horizon for the return of Ulizmila, planning a duel for vengeance against her. But as the bright sun rises, no witch comes flying over the trees to meet them. As the morning grows long and midday approaches, they pack up camp and prepare to stalk off, empty handed and denied their vengeance as they hurry to gather the last reagents and save the town of Falcon's Hollow.
Through the woods they trek. Only stopping to harvest another grove of Glowmold they encounter along their path. After a day's hard march through the forest they come to rest at the foothills of the Five Kings Mountains, at the base of Droskar's Crag. here's the trees grown thinner and the rocks and shale of the towering stony homeland of the ancient Dwarves rises like Olympus above their tiny, lonely camp. Overshadowing all with its daunting, granite face. 700-foot cliffs greet them and promise a day of treacherous climbing for the non-celestial warriors of the party on the morrow. As camp is pitched, Sif shows Gaia and Belton the Shoanti secrets of fire-building, learned from the Tribesman of the Storval Plateau during her travels. This twin-pitted low fire gives off scant light in it's hole in the ground, attracting less attention from wandering monsters of the forest. During the dark watch of the very dead of night, just after the Witching Hour, Gaia, awake beside the fire at watch, hears the howl of first one,then four more wolves high in the cliffs above the camp. She reaches out with her mind for Kenai, finding only emptiness and silence, remembering with a pang her sadness and loss at the passing of her dear friend. In the camp, the quiet "tik"..."tik" of tears dropping on dry leaves is the only sound.
No wolves assault their camp that night and in the morning the other daring fighters wake and camp is broken. And the party hikes the remaining half-mile to the base of the cliffs. Above them looms a 700 ft climb. Droskar's crag rears it's ugly head in mockery of these tiny mortals. Ageless, hoary and windswept in its pitiless heights, the realm of the Dwarves forgotten outpost attainable only by this deadly ascent. Belton and Gaia, the powerful wings born of their celestial bloodlines lead the way up, securing climbing ropes in the cliffs overhead, watching carefully in case of a fall to rescue their companions before they can be dashed to bits on the hard rocks below. All goes well on the ascent. Reaching the plateau of the lowest peaks, another, lesser but still deadly task rises before them. A treacherous rise of loose shale at the very least 45° dares them to ascend. Belton strings a catchline of silk rope at the cliff-edge and Sif and Cröm begin their ascent. All goes well with a few worrisome and dangerous moments of slipping and sliding and as the day winds into the late afternoon, our heroes finally gather to rest at the scrub-grass tundra of the highlands of Droskar's Crag. Catching their breath the party look about, taking in the natural splendor of this great elevation.
Sif's eye is drawn to the waving scrubgrass, so like that of her homelands and as she gazes wistfully upon the rolling waves of green, the clouds sliding before the sun break and a golden bean like a searchlight reaches down from on-high, illuminating a lonely grass covered cliff not far below them. In this inaccessible little patch of untouched grass, no more than a quarter-acre in expanse, a strange portent appears. A sign, unmistakable in its shape appears. Depressed in the waving grass the Rune of Ehwaz connoting momentum and translating as "Horse" This ancient Ulfen symbol meaning Horse, beast of burden, steed or mount and also translatable as Momentum of Speed is used in Ulfen divination to imply the characteristics of Speed of thought or deed, Quick-wittedness, Forward progress, purposeful motion, Willingness, being Sure-footed, confident, and contains connotations of being loyal. Ehwaz represents the horse. The speed, strength, and beauty of a horse makes it much more than a means of transport. It is a sacred animal, a vehicle for material and spiritual advancement. Ehwaz implies controlled change, progress, and sometimes a journey. It also represents partnership, trust, loyalty, and faithfulness, such as that between horse and rider, brother and sister, two halves of the whole. But seen here in this great height, what can it mean. Within an instant of appearing the symbol is gone and with those divine winds that painted it upon the grass so goes the golden sunlight too, returning the cloudy grey of this windblown day to this windswept peak.
Turning to ask the others if they had seen this portent, Sif espies the shaggy silhouette of a mountain wolf at the crest of the rise above them. She immediately warn the rest and deadly weapons slide quickly from their sheaths.
Belton leaps toward the sky, his great bladed wings flashing and scraping with a slicing hiss through the thin air. Upward he soars 60 feet above the mountain. regarding the landscape on the other side of the rise his gaze is met by incoming arrows and the sight of an Orcish war party.
A crude arrow clatters off his gaulded leather armor crafted by hereditary craftsman of the guild at Ulfden. Their alchemical secrets proofing this leather armor against the sharpest points and keenest blades. Gold well spent. a few other shafts whip by before he can dive back down below the crest of the rise, shielding himself from the War-band's aim. Sounding the alarm, he warns the others. As if cued by his cries, the Orcish savages break into a headlong charge, their blood-curdling war cries shrieking above the cliff top wind's moan and whistle. The first over the ridge are the Dogs of War, two lean and hard wolves scarred by abuse from their Orcish master race slavering down the incline jaws agape showing sharp yellow fangs. Sif, Gaia and Cröm set themselves for the charge as Belton rises higher to spot the Chieftain of this band.
Their leader is unmistakable. Pounding across the tundra at the center of the six warriors, he swings a chipped and notched axe, his broad shoulders draped with the pelt of a rare albino wolf, probably some Orcish talisman denoting his status as a warrior Brave and master of hunters. Rotted dismembered fingers and a smooth polished human jawbone rattle against his crude hide armor as he races into battle.
Like a comet Belton plunges out of the sky, the Rosewood Sword of Thorns piercing the air before him like a lance. That terrible blade crashes through the warlord, bursting and tearing through his armor, ripping through flesh and shoving aside bones as it impales the creature through and through, emerging instantly from his back in a shower of blood and fleshy gobbets. The warrior is instantly dead ere his foul carcass can slip lifeless to the ground. Without pause, Belton turns skyward and spins gracefully about hovering over the destroyed remains of the war-band leader laying transfixed to the ground like an insect by a pin. The wild magic of the Rosewood Sword immediately begins working it's spell and the roots and tendrils squirm and writhe into the orc's corpse like angry snakes. On the morrow, the chieftain will rise as a Rosewood Creeper Zombie thrall to the Sword's master.
Meanwhile, The mangy and cruelly mistreated wolves charge like rabid beasts down the incline toward Gaia, eye rolling with pain and madness and terror lest they fail their harsh master and be beaten again perhaps this time to death should they fail to tear these pink-skin interlopers limb from limb. Wild panic fuels their attack and with desperate snapping jaws they lay out a snarling flurry of bites and snaps and leaps for the throat that tests even the mettle of Elven-trained Gaia, who gives ground under their assault backing slowly from the storm of teeth and jaws. For all their frenzy, the wolves are unable to penetrate her defense and bring he to the ground where they can rend her slender pale limbs from their sockets and feast on the warm red gushing blood to the music of her screams and terror as she dies.
But such a fate is not written on this day, for beside the pale warrior woman towers the deadly shield-maiden of Iomedae and warrior of Torag, Sif Amarth, wielding the storied blade of the ancient bard Arne Saknussem. Her battle cry shatters the cold mountain air and she lays about her with the Ulfen broadsword like a fiend possessed Fury of legend! Terrible blows rain down upon the craven curs, splitting their hide again and again with deep cuts and the skills of a slayer. A grim toll is taken upon their bodies and they rally, falling back in wild panic, torn between the instinct that this prey is deadly and that their master will surely kill them if they fail. Whines ring out involuntarily from their shaggy throats.
On the heels of these ferocious monsters charge the Warrior Braves of the Clan of the Sky-horse. Hulking, brutish savages with a blood-lust driven by an evil in their very blood. Yellow, bloodshot eyes gleam with hate over bestial, ferocious features scarred from a lifetime of violence, abuse and constant battle with each other and anything else that crosses their path. Wildly charging down the hill, confident in their superior elevation and the raw fury of their assault, they think nothing of their opponent’s ready, steady defense. This carelessness costs them lives as they crash into the stalwart battle-line drawn by our heroes.
Seeing the onrushing horde, Cröm summons up his magic and grows to twice his size, twelve feet tall and over fifteen hundred pounds, towering over the Orcish warriors his massive sword of Numerian craftsmanship, magically extended to ten feet in length, swings high, it’s deadly, point over 25 feet in the air. On the heels of this astonishing transformation, a more terrible change takes over Cröm, powerful berserker rage swells over him in an instant, his blood pounds in his ears. His vision hazes over with a red fog of mad anger and hate. Bones pop and crack and muscles strain and creak as his broad, powerful back hunches forward and his lower jaw juts forward as enormous eight inch long, yellowed-ivory tusks sprout upward in a spray of blood. His terrific, squealing roar of unbridled fury drowns out all of the clash and crash of battle, thundering in the ears of all present and echoing through the mountains as his blade crashes down like the fall of an age-ending star.
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Meanwhile Sif and Gaia are locked in mortal combat with two of the other savage warriors, Orcish axes crash against armor, looking for weaknesses to cut through while The Ulfen warrior maiden answers insult with viper-swift decapitation. Ferocious brutes drop lifeless into the tundra at her feet like dead leaves falling in autumn. Another cannibal savage is laid low by her singing sword as her skaldic battle hymn rises and falls in time with her swinging blade. Undaunted and proud with her head held high, this fearless slayer meets all who dare to rise to her challenge with pitiless death under her life-reaving, singing broadsword.
At her side the flash and flare of magic light the field of battle as Gaia, the Aasimar Magus, her beautiful wings spreading in the pure sun of the high peaks, deals death about her with searing bolts of pure destructive force and her wicked, whirling exotic 'Urumi' whip-sword from the Dragon Empires like a tornado of blood-letting razors. More Orcs die, falling at the feet of these maidens, a tangle of corpses forms a rampart before them as side-by-side, they bring slaughter to the Clan of the Sky Horse this day.
Belton rains heavy, repeating crossbow fire on the backs of the frenzied horde, superior elevation and the distraction of his heroic companion's deadly assaults making easy targets of these green-skinned varlets. Within moments, peace is restored to the cliffs of Droskar's Crag.
Stripping the dead of their gear, Belton discovers that they carry tribal fetishes of a sort of white-horse motif. Strange, shamanic sachets of crudely tanned leather, probably yak or mountain goat, possible wolf hide. They were wearing them as charms to aid them in battle. Closer investigation by Ranger Sif reveals that they are in fact, horse hide, but this is a puzzle for no horse could scale the deadly sheer cliff-sides of this mountain. Again, the symbol of the horse presents itself. Collecting the rest of the spoils, the party distributes the weight of the loot out among themselves, Belton hefts the impaled corpse of the orc chieftain over his shoulder like a grain-sack and they trek off, following the map of Milon the Lumberjack to the ruins of Droskar's Crucible.
Sitting squat at the foot of an imposing mountain, a ruined monastery comes into view between ancient gnarled trees. Made of simple stone blocks, worn smooth with the passage of time, the stout building is falling apart. Sections of the slanted shale roof have collapsed and portions of the outer wall have crumbled. Weeds and wild thorn plants run rampant across the field leading up to the place, leaving only the slightest indication of a path that ends at the ruined front doors. Beyond, an overgrown yard sits in shadow. The old path that leads up to the ruins ends about 50 feet from the monastery. Before entering the yard, the path passes between a pair of old stone statues. While one of them is little more than rubble, the other is relatively intact. The 5-foot tall statue is incredibly worn but it can still be made out as a dwarf holding aloft a great stone hammer. Moss and creeper vines cover most of its surface. Removing the vines around the base uncovers an old dwarven inscription that reads “All praise, ...” Unfortunately, the missing name was scratched off a long time ago and is no longer legible.
Cautiously they approach, wary of ambush from still more Orcs. They move into the courtyard of the Monastery, it's tumbledown walls long since battered down in parts during some forgotten battle centuries ago. Tall grasses and chunks of stone debris have all but overtaken this small yard. Off to one side, a wooden stable has collapsed into a mound of rotting timbers and moldy straw. The outer wall on the east side has also collapsed, leaving a ragged hole. Three doors exit into this yard— a pair of double doors to the east, a single door to the north, and a lone door leading into the squat tower in the southeast corner. This yard was once used by the dwarves for physical training, but now it lies in ruin. As the party begins searching the tall grasses they reveal a few interesting clues. A well hides in the northwest corner of the yard, with 10 feet of rope dangling into it. The water is more than 30 feet down and is brackish. Lying next to the well is the body of an explorer who came here just one year ago. Belton and Sif look over the body and determine that this explorer was devoured by a rather large animal. Hiding inside a rotting backpack at the base of the well are the remains of a week’s worth of trail rations, a set of thieves tools, 50 feet of silk rope, a small coinpurse with 42 gp in assorted coins, and a small blue vial containing a potion of cure light wounds. All of this adventurer’s other gear was taken long ago.
Belton, espying a collapsed stable, gets the help of Cröm to lift a section of roof and with a sigh of relief, hefts the corpse of the orc with it's impaling sword, onto the rubble, dropping the roof down over it to let the sword do it's magic. He takes several minutes to rest having carried the 230 pound body a great distance. The ruined stable hides a few ancient bones, but little else of value. Sif's vast knowledge of Nature reveals these to be the bones of a pony.
Although the tall grasses obscure most trails, the keen tracking skills of Sif and Belton reveal faint signs that some creatures do enter the main building through the double doors. Some of these tracks look reptilian while others are clearly made by four-legged mammals. The reptilian trail always leads to the main entrance and then out into the wild while the mammal tracks leave by either the main entrance or through the hole in the eastern wall.
Gaia and Cröm meanwhile, look into the Watchtower at the corner of the yard. Forcing with brute strength, the door to the tower to open, they find that thick webs cover much of the ancient crates and barrels stored inside the base of the tower. A rickety wooden staircase ascends along one wall to reach an open trapdoor above. Warned by the dense, thick webbing, they engage in cautious exploration of the exterior of the tower first and their trepidation pays off. Gaia flies up to examine the upper windows of the tower and the hulking form of a hideous, Shelob-like spider if revealed lurking in the upper reaches of the tower. They give the place a wide berth and carry on their explorations elsewhere, rather than tangle with that venomous terror.
Entering the great pair of double doors leading into the ruin they discover an entry hall.
Beyond the double doors is a small dark hall. Littered with mounds of debris and a year’s worth of dead leaves, it is clear that a narrow path winds inside. The hunter's eye of Sif catches tracks upon the floor and she determines that both wolves and kobolds occasionally use this chamber to enter or exit the monastery and that most of the traffic through this area heads north. Their time taken in searching the chamber reveals that there is nothing of interest in the piles of dirt and leaves.
They decide to try the door to the north and find it well and truly stuck. Collectively they lay-to the door with armored shoulders and with a loud crack, the door finally gives way and opens, shattering an ancient wooden chair propped against it on the other side.
The room beyond is dark and smells deeply of dust and decay. This chamber was once used as a waiting room for the monastery’s guests. When the end finally came for the dwarves, one of them went into this chamber and imbibed a great deal of poison. His mummified remains rest in the center of the chamber. Wearing the garb of a blacksmith, the dwarf has the shattered shards of a glass vial in one hand and a scrap of ancient parchment in the other. Written in dwarven, the parchment reads, “Forgive me, dark father of the forge, my toils shall never be enough.” The well-learned Gaia is able to translate the words for her friends.
Tucked into the belt of the long-dead dwarf is a silver light hammer with a religious symbol carved into the head. The symbol is that of Droskar, dwarven god of toil and suffering. Belton's vasat knowledge of religion reveals this obscure inhuman deity's sign and he warns the others of the possible presence of evil worship. Clearing away the corpse, the party decides to bed-down in this secure room to rest for the night.