Returning to Greypelt with the heads of the undead. The great Worg upholds his side of the bargain. He directs them to all of the Ironbloom mushrooms int he ruins with they harvest quickly. Eager to be free of this place. They rest that evening in the secure confines of the cloakroom once again. throughout the night, sound of many wolves snuffling at the door wake them from sleep but none of the shaggy beasts attemtps entry. With the first light of the sun they set our for the cliffs and long journey down the mountain to the Darkmoon Forest below. nearing the cliff-sides, they come round again to the site of their battle against the Orcish Raiders. Across the mountain-top, Sif's attantion is brought back to the lonely, inaccessible, grass-topped cliff where she first beheld the portent of the Ulfen rune in the windblown grass.
There, standing amond the waving grass in the gusty wind of the cliffside, standthe mightiest mortal horse that she has ever beheld! Comparable in power and stature the legendary Sleipnir of the Valkyrie, this astounding specimen paws the ground with heavy hooves, alabaster white coat shining in the sun, her flanks and withers gleaming with a new-brushed shine in the golden rays of the high noon. The sheer size of this regal mare is astonishing, the great war-bred horses of the 'Shire' breed in Taldan are the largest such beasts in the continents of Avistan or Garund and they measure in at 21 hands ( 7 feet plus a few inches ) and weigh as much as 3300 lbs. [ Metagame Data: the famous Clydesdale's of Earth average 20 hands and consume a bale of hay and 35 quarts of oats per day! ] A typical pegasus stands 6 feet high at the shoulder, weighs 1,500 pounds, and has a wingspan of 20 feet.
This majestic animal is fully 20 hands high and weighs a ton with a wingspan of 26 feet. Her heavy, beautifully tufted hooves strike the earth with a heavy, impressive footfall, her mane and tail cascading in long, sweeping draperies of pure white, waving gently in the wind, and her eyes flash with the brightness of the boundless skies. The Queen of the steeds of the air!
Walking slowly up the rise from the direction of this magical beast, a strange figure approaches. An Orcish female clad in human-crafted bronze plate mail and armed with an Ulfen broadsword and a Taldan shield. She stops at a distance of twenty paces and nearly ignoring the rest of the party, addresses Sif Amarth directly, issuing a challenge in brief, northlandic manner, to single combat saying, "I am the knight of the Skymain. Champion of Adelaide, the Queen of the steeds of the air. Your coming is foreknown, prepare to do battle."
Sif, recognizing the formal challenge given in the manner of her Ulfen people of the Linnorm Kings, follows suit, " I am Sif Amarth of battlewall. Daughter of Bruinna the Shieldmaiden of White Estrid. Daughter of Elemmakil the Twilight Speaker and Thane among the Snowcaster elves of the Crown of the World." And upon ending her naming she evokes the Hunter's Howl from her magical knowledge emitting a terrifying cry that splits the high air of the lofty peaks and echoes throughout the cliffs.
Sif, recognizing the formal challenge given in the manner of her Ulfen people of the Linnorm Kings, follows suit, " I am Sif Amarth of battlewall. Daughter of Bruinna the Shieldmaiden of White Estrid. Daughter of Elemmakil the Twilight Speaker and Thane among the Snowcaster elves of the Crown of the World." And upon ending her naming she evokes the Hunter's Howl from her magical knowledge emitting a terrifying cry that splits the high air of the lofty peaks and echoes throughout the cliffs.
Visibly, the Knight shakes off the necromantic effects of the spell. Admonishing Sif, saying, "Such tricks cannot help you in this fight, Daughter of the North! Cross Steel!" And she breaks into a run at the Ranger, bringing her shield up and swinging her heavy bladed broadsword about her as she joins Sif in Battle.
Sif, has drawn the Singing Sword of Arne Saknussem and its silver white radiance shines in the bright cloudless sunlight of the high cliffs. Its song of battle and triumph rises filling the hillside with it's hymn. She meets the Orcish warrior with heavy blows of her sowrd. The two fence furiously, their blades clashing and ringing with terrible impact, Mithril upon Elysian Bronze, Adamantium striking good, Andoran gaulded proofed-leather. Blood is let. Flesh is sliced and rent. The two give as good as they get.
Finding it hard to penetrate the Knight's armor, Sif switches to her long-trusted Battle-Axe. A tool carries over many leagues from her Ulfen homeland. A sturdy and always reliable weapon born in the forges of Battlewall on the rocky shores of the icebound isles. To counter, the Orcish Myrmidon casts down her shield and draws her spiked hammer, a light eagle headed weapon of Andoran in her off hand. Fighting in the two-weapon style in which Sif was also trained.
The two renew their attacks, and the tide of battle turn in favor of the She-Orc. Two solid strikes are dealt to Lady Sif with grievous consequence.
Seeing that she will not win the day against this fierce female with strongarmed blows by her deadly but slow Axe, Sif changes weapons once again and returns to the trusty Singing Sword, of late her favored weapon, and backs it up with the newly won Dwarvish short sword whose magic offsets it's small size and strange grip in her off-hand.
At this, the bronze-clad green-skinned Knight sheathes her double headed hammer and grips her broadsword in both hands, preparing to deal out powerful blows to defeat the Ulfen maiden. The battle rages on, and with her steely determination and un-defeatable spirit, Sif slides the deep-wrought blade of the ancient explorer cleverly up under her foes breastplate and sinks the cruel, cold metal far into the brave warrioress' gullet. The Orc staggers back and falling to one knee, points the tip of her sword into the earth and concedes defeat. Resigned but proud in the face of the witnessing heroes. Sif, her blood aboil with battle-lust and the rage to kill, stays her hand with effort and stands down. The fight is won, the battle done.
The warrior, with a look of relief, unlimbers her armor and casts it all to the windy sward at Sif's feat saying, "It'll grow to suit you" in a cryptic manner. With little further conversation, the Orcish maiden tromps off into the mountains. Noone from the party asks her any questions. Noone speaks to her. With a shrug and a moment together her gear, In minutes she is gone. Indeed the armor does undergo a miraculous transformation as it comes into Sif's possession utterly changing in form and appearance ( See: http://i249.photobucket.com/albums/gg216/MaryNiki/Costumes/x607-003-xena.jpg )
Together, with the help of Sif's newfound companion and the wings of Belton and Gaia, Renny and Cröm are delivered by wing to the forest below in a rush and a whirl of flashing feathers and exalting laughter, their skybound friends crying out witht jhe joy of flying and rush of wind in their wings. Though slightly less for Belton. And by the time they are delivered safely to the ground. A dark brooding hides upon the Inquisitor's brow, born by his lost wings, a shadow is on his soul and it colors his beautiful and serene countenance with sadness. But he rallies before many can take notice and bring him to task for it. And he accompanies Sif on the evening's hunt as the rest pitch a well made camp in the Darkmoon Forest.
As Sif and Belton pace out of earshot from the rest, Belton addresses the Huntress, who is seemingly lost in her own thoughts. perhaps about her new-found animal Companion. Belton voices his grave concerns over these new members of their troupe. While Gaia seems good hearted and true. This Cröm is an unknown. He is a brute from a land of savage tribes of raiding warriors ruled by a Warlord whose reputation is shadowy at best. And then there is the close-lipped temptress from Galt who reveals nothing about herself. And whose skills seem to include abilities most often the province of thieves and assassins. She is clearly holding back secrets about herself, though her story of being a refugee from the madness of Galt does ring true under his Inquisitor's scrutiny. In the final analysis, Belton admits that it is only Sif whom he truly trusts and he is giving the others the benefit of the doubt as they journey together.
They converse quietly as they hunt, still bagging Coneys, a bull Hare, an old but heavy goose and a fat racoon before then circle around back to the camp fully enough food for eight hungry mouths. The group eats well on their forest bounty, fire roasted and rubbed with oil and stuffed with fresh herbs. Supplemted with dried fruits and waxed cheeses from their provisions even the hard, traveler's bread seems a pleasant addition to this full and excellent meal. Afterward having cleaned up, they set to sleeping and watching. Sif and Gaia share a two-person tent together and the comforts of each other reassuring closeness. Fair René lays her camp on a private side of the fire, keeping to herself quietly but humming a lilting Galtan songs as she cares for her gear and beds down in her sleeproll. She has an amazingly well provisioned travelling bag that while a heavy burden for her to carry, has within it most anything a survivor could desire in these trackless woods. Belton alights to the trees and ties off his hammock, safe from the forest floor and its predators and able to keep a watchful eye on the camp and pretty René. Cröm, sits in catlike meditation, his body still and relaxed yet ready as a taut spring to fly into action. In primitive prayer, he communes with Gorum the god of Strength and his Totem Spirit of his Clan the Mighty Boar-God. His ways are close to nature. His spirit is pure against foul sorcery, witchery and the cowards magic that he deeply distrusts. After some time in prayer and communion with his spirit. He too lays his head to rest.
In the deep quiet of the mid night, Gaia, her poor heart still torn and aching from the foul Hag's destruction of her beautiful raven Kenai, lies awake and softly weeping in silence. Her magic is gathering strength and healing from the hurt of their sudden separation and in a few days more, she will have the power to cast forth her summons again and bind her spirit with another magical soul, reattaining a familiar once more. But such disloyalty to her lost friend is furthest from her mind now, only loss and an empty heart, barely assuaged by the strong physical comfort of powerful but gentle Sif. In this heart-sick place her mind a-swim with regret and sorrow, she notices something strange in the dim bare light of the dying fire. A sliding, gentle, furtive movement like a cat. Sleek and graceful and barely perceptible. She is undure that she is even really aware of it until it undeniably pokes it's thin, beaky snout into her tent, softly scraping against the heavy, oiled waterproof canvass. Through her lashes she watches the tiny creature slowly, carefully slide its head under the tent-flap, peering carefully about the inside of the tent as it comes. It is a tiny, wee little dragon. All red scales and black horns and tiny sharp talons and diminutive teeth like a house-cat. But a dragon nonetheless. Can it breath fire? She half-wonders almost smiling at the thought of the tiny puff of flame this tiny little thing could belch out.
It speaks to her mind, without voice and words, it's thoughts brushing over and among her thoughts like butterflies or a summer breeze. "Be not so sad, Warrior Mage. It gently suggests. I could hear your lament from out among the forest trees. Hanging like a funeral bell from the branches, darkening the night's black leaves with its mournful shadow. How came you to such misery and woe?"
"The loss of a dear friend, more that that! A piece of my heart, a page of my soul. Torn away by a horrid, disgusting Witch-Hag in the woods tot he East", replies Gaia in thought and memory.
"Ulizmila is a blight upon the centuries around these lands. They say she is the Grand-daughter of the demi-goddess witch, Baba Yaga of the Iron Pestle and the Dancing Hut. Whose fearsome dynasty has fed the darkness of forzen Irrisen for generation upn generation." thought the little wyrm. "Tell me how you came to encounter such a one and live to tell about it with only having lost a portion of your spirit" He commanded, "Such a tale is one of storied heroism to be sure. And I do so love a fantastic tale told firsthand." Then his gentle thoughts are coaxing, "Give me the story"
The funny haughtiness coming from so little a creature tickles Gaia's fancy and she tells her sad tale and the telling of it, so filled with love and respect for Kenai and so frank in this intimate mind-to-mind communication is unburdening. Over the long time the tale takes to tell, he soul feels lifted of part of its burden. Though the loss and the hollow of the heart remains. Speaking of the things strengthens her resolve to do the wisked witch in the next time they meet. For the memory of Kenai and the good of future harmless creatures at the mercy of such a vile and pernicious harridan.
After the tale is recounted, the patient little wyrm nods it's tiny head in satisfaction. Saying in a self-important manner, "I shall accompany you Spell-Maiden. My cunning shall join your sword in the tales to come." His thoughts convey this as though it is already a decision made and a pact conjoined, though Gaia is un-consulted.
The warrior, with a look of relief, unlimbers her armor and casts it all to the windy sward at Sif's feat saying, "It'll grow to suit you" in a cryptic manner. With little further conversation, the Orcish maiden tromps off into the mountains. Noone from the party asks her any questions. Noone speaks to her. With a shrug and a moment together her gear, In minutes she is gone. Indeed the armor does undergo a miraculous transformation as it comes into Sif's possession utterly changing in form and appearance ( See: http://i249.photobucket.com/albums/gg216/MaryNiki/Costumes/x607-003-xena.jpg )
Together, with the help of Sif's newfound companion and the wings of Belton and Gaia, Renny and Cröm are delivered by wing to the forest below in a rush and a whirl of flashing feathers and exalting laughter, their skybound friends crying out witht jhe joy of flying and rush of wind in their wings. Though slightly less for Belton. And by the time they are delivered safely to the ground. A dark brooding hides upon the Inquisitor's brow, born by his lost wings, a shadow is on his soul and it colors his beautiful and serene countenance with sadness. But he rallies before many can take notice and bring him to task for it. And he accompanies Sif on the evening's hunt as the rest pitch a well made camp in the Darkmoon Forest.
As Sif and Belton pace out of earshot from the rest, Belton addresses the Huntress, who is seemingly lost in her own thoughts. perhaps about her new-found animal Companion. Belton voices his grave concerns over these new members of their troupe. While Gaia seems good hearted and true. This Cröm is an unknown. He is a brute from a land of savage tribes of raiding warriors ruled by a Warlord whose reputation is shadowy at best. And then there is the close-lipped temptress from Galt who reveals nothing about herself. And whose skills seem to include abilities most often the province of thieves and assassins. She is clearly holding back secrets about herself, though her story of being a refugee from the madness of Galt does ring true under his Inquisitor's scrutiny. In the final analysis, Belton admits that it is only Sif whom he truly trusts and he is giving the others the benefit of the doubt as they journey together.
They converse quietly as they hunt, still bagging Coneys, a bull Hare, an old but heavy goose and a fat racoon before then circle around back to the camp fully enough food for eight hungry mouths. The group eats well on their forest bounty, fire roasted and rubbed with oil and stuffed with fresh herbs. Supplemted with dried fruits and waxed cheeses from their provisions even the hard, traveler's bread seems a pleasant addition to this full and excellent meal. Afterward having cleaned up, they set to sleeping and watching. Sif and Gaia share a two-person tent together and the comforts of each other reassuring closeness. Fair René lays her camp on a private side of the fire, keeping to herself quietly but humming a lilting Galtan songs as she cares for her gear and beds down in her sleeproll. She has an amazingly well provisioned travelling bag that while a heavy burden for her to carry, has within it most anything a survivor could desire in these trackless woods. Belton alights to the trees and ties off his hammock, safe from the forest floor and its predators and able to keep a watchful eye on the camp and pretty René. Cröm, sits in catlike meditation, his body still and relaxed yet ready as a taut spring to fly into action. In primitive prayer, he communes with Gorum the god of Strength and his Totem Spirit of his Clan the Mighty Boar-God. His ways are close to nature. His spirit is pure against foul sorcery, witchery and the cowards magic that he deeply distrusts. After some time in prayer and communion with his spirit. He too lays his head to rest.
In the deep quiet of the mid night, Gaia, her poor heart still torn and aching from the foul Hag's destruction of her beautiful raven Kenai, lies awake and softly weeping in silence. Her magic is gathering strength and healing from the hurt of their sudden separation and in a few days more, she will have the power to cast forth her summons again and bind her spirit with another magical soul, reattaining a familiar once more. But such disloyalty to her lost friend is furthest from her mind now, only loss and an empty heart, barely assuaged by the strong physical comfort of powerful but gentle Sif. In this heart-sick place her mind a-swim with regret and sorrow, she notices something strange in the dim bare light of the dying fire. A sliding, gentle, furtive movement like a cat. Sleek and graceful and barely perceptible. She is undure that she is even really aware of it until it undeniably pokes it's thin, beaky snout into her tent, softly scraping against the heavy, oiled waterproof canvass. Through her lashes she watches the tiny creature slowly, carefully slide its head under the tent-flap, peering carefully about the inside of the tent as it comes. It is a tiny, wee little dragon. All red scales and black horns and tiny sharp talons and diminutive teeth like a house-cat. But a dragon nonetheless. Can it breath fire? She half-wonders almost smiling at the thought of the tiny puff of flame this tiny little thing could belch out.
"The loss of a dear friend, more that that! A piece of my heart, a page of my soul. Torn away by a horrid, disgusting Witch-Hag in the woods tot he East", replies Gaia in thought and memory.
"Ulizmila is a blight upon the centuries around these lands. They say she is the Grand-daughter of the demi-goddess witch, Baba Yaga of the Iron Pestle and the Dancing Hut. Whose fearsome dynasty has fed the darkness of forzen Irrisen for generation upn generation." thought the little wyrm. "Tell me how you came to encounter such a one and live to tell about it with only having lost a portion of your spirit" He commanded, "Such a tale is one of storied heroism to be sure. And I do so love a fantastic tale told firsthand." Then his gentle thoughts are coaxing, "Give me the story"
The funny haughtiness coming from so little a creature tickles Gaia's fancy and she tells her sad tale and the telling of it, so filled with love and respect for Kenai and so frank in this intimate mind-to-mind communication is unburdening. Over the long time the tale takes to tell, he soul feels lifted of part of its burden. Though the loss and the hollow of the heart remains. Speaking of the things strengthens her resolve to do the wisked witch in the next time they meet. For the memory of Kenai and the good of future harmless creatures at the mercy of such a vile and pernicious harridan.
After the tale is recounted, the patient little wyrm nods it's tiny head in satisfaction. Saying in a self-important manner, "I shall accompany you Spell-Maiden. My cunning shall join your sword in the tales to come." His thoughts convey this as though it is already a decision made and a pact conjoined, though Gaia is un-consulted.
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