Finishing the harvesting of the Schir demon's saleable organs and body parts, the remains are burned so that the deadly, ichorous flesh does not taint the surrounding soil, giving birth to fiendish and monstrous plants.
Carrying on through the woods, our heroes trek toward the location of the Witch Ulizmila's dire abode, following the crude map drawn by the Milon the lumberjack. Approaching the region marked on the map, Belton bids Sif and Gaia wait for a moment while he scouts ahead. He slips through the woods like a shadow, ever seeking for the telltale signs of the witch and her home. But nothing does he find. After some time out alone in the woods, all that he uncovers is that the normally abundant game and wildlife are sparse and thin here. Nearly missing, in fact. A sign that something wicked this way lies. After a fruitless search, he rejoins his companions. Upon explaining what he has found, he alights on the idea of flying above the trees to scout from the excellent vantage point, despite the dangerously exposed position of the air. Swooping to the tips of the trees, he searches the forest ahead, eager for signs of some settlement. He is not disappointed. Perhaps a tenth of a league ( 3.5 miles) before them lies a clearing and the thin wisp of hearth-smoke can be seen twisting into the air. A sure sign of a homestead.
Flying down to Sif and Gaia, Belton reports on his findings and the group break their rest and hike off in the direction of the clearing. As they approach, Sif the Huntress bids her friends wait and she creeps forth through the woods, stealthily approaching the clearing's edge. With a whispered curse she realizes that in this place, all the natural fauna of the forest are cleared away, instinctively unwilling to approach this wicked demesne, sensing the foul presence of the Witch. In this peculiar silence, on this windless day, the tiny crackling of dead leaves underfoot rings out like the snapping of bones in a moonless graveyard in the Witching Hour, cutting the silence for all to hear. Reaching the clearing she surveys the home of Ulizmila, the Witch of the Woods. The trees part, opening into a small, almost perfectly circular glade. The nearest stands of pine, eyln, and darkwood—all
typically sturdy woods—twist away from the clearing, as if bent by some impossibly strong wind or seemingly in an attempt to flee despite their paralyzed roots. At the glade’s center squats an ugly cottage, little more than a pile of twigs, shoots, and ivy stacked upon mud walls. From the thatched roof dangle bundles of gnarled roots, old dried beast carcasses, and knucklebone bangles, all clattering together like gruesome wind chimes. A dozen small thatched fetishes—each shaped like a tiny man, imp, or rearing serpent—stand propped in the yard, keeping guard before a rickety plank door. This cottage is home to the witch Ulizmila, a wise woman, practitioner of the old ways, and local boogieman. While some said she was a monstrous hag and great, great granddaughter of Baba Yaga herself, the deathless Witch Queen of the North, others knew her as a harsh but wise sage willing to share her wisdom for strange and often morbid prices. Her vile works spoil in this glen. This clearing is roughly 120 feet in diameter, with a dilapidated, circular, 15-foot cottage at its center. Fourteen unnerving 3-foot-tall scarecrow-like effigies are propped-up throughout the glade. Anyone who approaches the cottage can see that its moldering door has nearly rotted off its hinges but still blocks the way within.
Sif backs in to the deeper forest away from the clearing and using some water from her waterskin, creates a puddle of mud on the ground, using it to coat and discolor her fair and flowing tresses and darken her pale elven-ulfen skin, covering her captivating beauty. Sif returns to her companions and Belton too uses his appearance altering magics to change his appearance to that of a simple Andoran peasant. Discussing what she has learned for a moment together they come to the aim of simply walking up and knocking on the door of the rattletrap cottage. This they do and find that the door is slightly ajar. Listening carefully, Belton can make out the sound of a large thing snoring quietly and a bubbling sound like a hot spring or large cook-pot. Again they knock on the door and finally resort to pounding loudly upon it, causing it to swing open a few more inches.
When there is still no answer, Sif, growing impatient to face this storied Hag and retrieve the Rat's Tail root from her, tosses the peculiar Gnomish Thunderstone at the rocks under the Witch's window to wake her up. From the enchanted stone blares forth a stunningly loud trumpet blast like the sound of a thousand horns of different types all playing a single note at once. The noise is deafening and sanity crushing, seeming to come so impossibly from such a tiny source. But that is not the full measure of the magic of this mischievous gnomish bauble. As the fanfare blares forth in defiance of all logical possibility, an omni-directional, dazzling wave of every color of the spectrum bursts forth from the cracked stone, flashing and sparkling in an unbelievable melding of Glitterdust and Color Spray that when complete, has painted everything within ten feet an insane riot of primary and secondary colors. waves, swirls and stripes of garish, boundary-ignoring strokes of absolute color have re-colored the cottage wall, the rocks and dirt of the yard, a writhing earthworm in the soil, two bloated biting horseflies that were lurking about seeking after the source of the vague, carrion-smell that surrounds this place, and generally everything within three strides of the stones burst.
When there is still no answer, Sif, growing impatient to face this storied Hag and retrieve the Rat's Tail root from her, tosses the peculiar Gnomish Thunderstone at the rocks under the Witch's window to wake her up. From the enchanted stone blares forth a stunningly loud trumpet blast like the sound of a thousand horns of different types all playing a single note at once. The noise is deafening and sanity crushing, seeming to come so impossibly from such a tiny source. But that is not the full measure of the magic of this mischievous gnomish bauble. As the fanfare blares forth in defiance of all logical possibility, an omni-directional, dazzling wave of every color of the spectrum bursts forth from the cracked stone, flashing and sparkling in an unbelievable melding of Glitterdust and Color Spray that when complete, has painted everything within ten feet an insane riot of primary and secondary colors. waves, swirls and stripes of garish, boundary-ignoring strokes of absolute color have re-colored the cottage wall, the rocks and dirt of the yard, a writhing earthworm in the soil, two bloated biting horseflies that were lurking about seeking after the source of the vague, carrion-smell that surrounds this place, and generally everything within three strides of the stones burst.
Now this wakens the sleeping warrior within the Witches cottage. On the floor of the dilapidated edifice, lying amid the bedbugs, lice, cockroaches, filth, rats, mice, centipedes, discarded chicken bones, bits of fingernail trimmings, fallen body hairs, spilled food over several decades, spilled blood, spilled drink, tracked-in mud from countless rainy nights, and other less identifiable detritus lies a burly hulk of a man. The corded sinews of his mighty thews stir in the wake of the thunderstones' blast.
Stirring to wakefulness, the figure looks on in surprise as a family of mice who had taken up residence in his hide and fur cloak, gnawing tiny holes in the cured leather and scraping away some of the fur of the pelts with their tiny, adz-like incisors, flee in several directions.
He takes stock of his surrounding and his person while sitting up. Strange twigs and bits of leaf and bone are here and there jammed into his clothing and gear. inexplicably tied and woven firmly into the material in some places. For what purpose is a complete mystery. Remembering how he came to be here Cröm's eyes narrow in regard to the tricksy old woman who seems to have laid him low in this place. He recalls coming upon this homestead as the day turned dark, just as he was looking for a clearing to make a camp. Seeing the hearthfire smoke rising from the chimney, he went to the door to ask for a night's shelter, out of the reach of the bears, wolves and other hazards of the Darkmoon Woods. The cunning old witch let him enter and with a sour and loathsome demeanor, fed him and herself a gruel of oats and barley and less identifiable bits that was oddly flavored but warm and seemingly nourishing. After which she engaged him in clipped, halting and somehow spiteful-seeming conversation. Which he did his best to answer and contribute to until over some perceived slight she took offence and for no reason flew into an overblown rage. Shocked at the old hags inexplicable personality the Numerian battler tried to stand as if to leave but he only succeeded in slumping back in his seat and then, his eyes rolling to the herb-festooned ceiling, blackness overcame him and he remembered no more. Waking to the tumult of horns and incessant pounding of Belton Harald upon the cottage door he climbs to his feet and, greatsword outstretched, uses the point of it to swing open the door further to see what new manner of Andoran oddity has come to plague him.
Stirring to wakefulness, the figure looks on in surprise as a family of mice who had taken up residence in his hide and fur cloak, gnawing tiny holes in the cured leather and scraping away some of the fur of the pelts with their tiny, adz-like incisors, flee in several directions.
He takes stock of his surrounding and his person while sitting up. Strange twigs and bits of leaf and bone are here and there jammed into his clothing and gear. inexplicably tied and woven firmly into the material in some places. For what purpose is a complete mystery. Remembering how he came to be here Cröm's eyes narrow in regard to the tricksy old woman who seems to have laid him low in this place. He recalls coming upon this homestead as the day turned dark, just as he was looking for a clearing to make a camp. Seeing the hearthfire smoke rising from the chimney, he went to the door to ask for a night's shelter, out of the reach of the bears, wolves and other hazards of the Darkmoon Woods. The cunning old witch let him enter and with a sour and loathsome demeanor, fed him and herself a gruel of oats and barley and less identifiable bits that was oddly flavored but warm and seemingly nourishing. After which she engaged him in clipped, halting and somehow spiteful-seeming conversation. Which he did his best to answer and contribute to until over some perceived slight she took offence and for no reason flew into an overblown rage. Shocked at the old hags inexplicable personality the Numerian battler tried to stand as if to leave but he only succeeded in slumping back in his seat and then, his eyes rolling to the herb-festooned ceiling, blackness overcame him and he remembered no more. Waking to the tumult of horns and incessant pounding of Belton Harald upon the cottage door he climbs to his feet and, greatsword outstretched, uses the point of it to swing open the door further to see what new manner of Andoran oddity has come to plague him.
It is a completely unremarkable man, utterly plain and common and without a trace of memorable feature about him.
Behind him stands a filthier wild-woman of the forest, her hair and face caked with black mud like Woad. Her gear, once fine and well crafted, covered in filth and clearly poorly cared-for, bits of sticks and leaves and twigs and moss festooning every bit of her gaulded leather armor and adventuring pack.
Standing in contrast to these two deplorable countryfolk, is a comely and winsome maiden from the halls of Heaven itself! Brown-golden wings fold gently down her back. her pure skin is free of any blemish, flawlessly without freckle or mark and possessing a perfectly even hue all over. Her hair is a sultry black that dances with tones of silver as the light catches it when she moves. Her eyes are amethyst jewels of captivating color and sharp clarity. Her otherworldly appearance catches at his heart despite his difference in race and culture.
On her shoulder stands a glossy Raven, well preened and meticulously self-groomed. It's eyes taking in the surroundings with a light not wholly that of a dumb animal. Perhaps a familiar or soul-bound animal companion of some sort.
An awkward meeting takes place with kind and pleasant introductions from glib Belton and cautious responses from Cröm the foreign barbarian. Sif says little as her eyes sweep the horrible confines of the witch's hovel. Inside, the cottage is dank, reeking, and filled with shadows. Haphazardly hung shelves line the walls, covered in all manner of clay jugs, clouded bottles, strangely cut rocks, rotted bunches of herbs, and a museum of other crude curios and remnants of a bone grinder’s artifice. A rusted iron cauldron, with a mouth nearly 3 feet wide and a depth of at least 3 feet, dominates the hut’s single room, its ash-covered surface shaped with a relief of capering fiends and leering devils. Across from the door, against the far walls, stands a highbacked chair made of wicker, the gigantic curved tusks of some monstrous beast, and thousands of human teeth. In the chair sits what looks like a corpse wrapped in filthy burial linens, its form padded with pungent herbs and sprouting patches of thick white mold. This ominous shape is actually only a bundle of branches, mud, and linen.
Sif concentrates for an instant and summons up the force of nature into her being. Drawing upon the life-force of the land around her to empower her to divine the location of the Rat's Tail Root if any should lie within this edifice. As she does so she can feel the blighted taint of the life energies here. This hut is livid with the dark side of the force, steeped in death, suffering, hate and evil. She can feel the black tendrils of this unwholesome energy weaving and winding through her being as she absorbs it, Winding up her legs, twisting like lamprey eels within her guts, oozing sickness and decay through her being as it passes into her mind to coil like a heartworm in her consciousness, darkening her thoughts. Here in this place, the spirit of the land has long suffered the presence of a black-spawn daughter of darkness. It is forever shadowed and accursed.
Sif releases these shadowy energies to seek and pry and insinuate and reveal the location of the Rat's Tail Roots and sure enough, she is rewarded with their location. The spell's power directs her mind to the green-glazed earthenware jar on the rickety, tumbledown shelf just to the left of the Hearth. She points to the pot and advises her companions that the roots are there.
Gaia, unwilling to venture any further than she has to into this evil place, sends Kenai, her Raven, to the shelf to retrieve them. Pushing and pecking Kenai topples the jar to the floor, shattering it. The low glowing coals of the dying hearthfire spring to unholy life flaring several feet up the chimney. With a start, all present feel a shock and chill as the shadows that dance in the flickering fire are not those of the contents of the room, but reveal far more sinister shapes crowding all around them, suggesting a terrifying danger to them all should they linger in these environs. To a person, they shake off this weird and settle their nerves, holding their ground.
As Kenai flutters to the floor gathering up the roots, a breeze from nowhere pushes open the cottage door further and a wind whistles and rustles through the room clattering the gristle-chimes and whispering between the stack of witches oddities. A clear whisper sound to all, "Thieves" it exclaims and accuses. They gaze at each other in concern. Kenai gather all the Rat's Tail Root she can hold in her talons and her beak and flied quickly back tot he safety of Gaia's shoulder. Again the whispering wind speaks, "Vandals!" it cries. And the door to the cottage slams shut in the wind. From outside the terrible sound of the single ancient dry tree cracking bending and splitting sounds and Cröm and Sif spring into action. If that gnarled tree collapses on this cottage with them inside, they could all be killed. As one, The hulking barbarian of the northern steppes of Numeria and the Ulfen shieldmaiden of the frozen lands of the Linnorm Kings crash into the door with all the power of their heavy muscles and bold determination. The flimsy, rotting thing bursts like a thunderstone outward. Cröm's charge taking him several strides into the yard, Sif' mighty kick tearing the rusty iron hinges free of their stone moorings with a shriek of bending metal and the crack and splinter of bursting oaken wood. To both of their surprises, the tree is totally gone. Nothing remains of it but root holes in the Earth.
As Kenai flutters to the floor gathering up the roots, a breeze from nowhere pushes open the cottage door further and a wind whistles and rustles through the room clattering the gristle-chimes and whispering between the stack of witches oddities. A clear whisper sound to all, "Thieves" it exclaims and accuses. They gaze at each other in concern. Kenai gather all the Rat's Tail Root she can hold in her talons and her beak and flied quickly back tot he safety of Gaia's shoulder. Again the whispering wind speaks, "Vandals!" it cries. And the door to the cottage slams shut in the wind. From outside the terrible sound of the single ancient dry tree cracking bending and splitting sounds and Cröm and Sif spring into action. If that gnarled tree collapses on this cottage with them inside, they could all be killed. As one, The hulking barbarian of the northern steppes of Numeria and the Ulfen shieldmaiden of the frozen lands of the Linnorm Kings crash into the door with all the power of their heavy muscles and bold determination. The flimsy, rotting thing bursts like a thunderstone outward. Cröm's charge taking him several strides into the yard, Sif' mighty kick tearing the rusty iron hinges free of their stone moorings with a shriek of bending metal and the crack and splinter of bursting oaken wood. To both of their surprises, the tree is totally gone. Nothing remains of it but root holes in the Earth.
Meanwhile, in the corner of the house, across from the door, near a moldering bed of half rotted hay and poorly tanned furry hides, a coalescence of balefire light swarms and gutters into being at first a series of discorporated balls of light and soon congealing into a glowering humanoid form roughly in the semblance of a man. Gaia looks on in terror as it half walks, half floats across the bare packed-earthen floor of the hovel trailing out on the heels of the warriors. Belton, seeing their pursuer and hearing their exclamations of wonder rushes out to join battle with this menace. Outside in the glimmering twilight of the early evening Belton leaps skyward, his disguising spell flickers and fades away as his radiant halo shines forth, illuminating the dusky gloom and his wings of many blades flash free and sweep wide to carry him skyward. Cröm looks on in stunned wonder at this transformation. The plain peasant is in fact a celestial angel! And lo, Belton sweeps forth the mighty Rosewood Sword of Thorns a spray of deadly poison arcs through the air. The Inquisitor of the Queen of Dreams soars toward the starry heavens and turning, plummets into a deadly dive, swinging the thorny, twisted sword before him to deal out terrible destruction to the Corpselight apparition. He lands behind the thing, preceded by the swinging blade of his weapon and it passes through the incorporeal thing as easily as it swung through the air. Its eerie plasma reforming itself into shape int he wake of his blade.
meanwhile in the hut, Gaia sends Kenai flying to escape this deathtrap. only to watch in horrified disbelief as Kenai stops in midair as though striking a wall or suddenly grasped but nothing. Kenai wails psychically in terror and pain at this unseen crushing force as her tiny, hollow bones creak and crack and agony shoots through her frail body. As her mind reals from the empathic onslaught of Kenai's suffering, Gaia screams in pain. Sif, ever at the ready to aid her friend, rushes back inside past the emerging witchfire horror of the haunting stalker and is momentarily held fast be the look of ultimate suffering that has bleached Gaia's face white and drained all the fire and life from her jewel eyes. As the pair watch in horror, the force that binds and constricts Kenai twists and snaps her neck like a barnyard chicken and tosses her lifeless and flopping to the ground. As Kenai falls, the wicked green form of the hag, her invisibility ending with her attack on the hapless familiar fades into view a look of cruelty and wicked mirth on her gnarled and twisted, hateful features.
On the lawn in the gathering darkness, Belton raises his sword to ocntinue doing battle with this ghostly foe and witnesses a strange and worrisome transformation. Cröm, seeing this spirit shrug off the Angel's righteous wrath, flies into a berserker rage, his spirit flares with the power of his clan's totem spirit, the mighty boar-god Urskomung, the embodiment of tough hide and powerful, rending, tearing tusks. His features waver and change, his skin reddening with the flush of fury-quickened blood, his veins bulging visibly on his neck, arms and forehead. His lower jaw seems to grow thicker, wider, stronger and two four-inch yellowed Boar-tusks sprout upward with a sudden jutting burst as his nose pushes back on itself, flattening and nostrils flaring like a wild boar. The corded muscles of his already stout neck seem to multiply and enlarge, straining and bulging as the hairs stand upright like bristles on the back of his neck. His mighty torso hunches forward and he lurches into a thundering charge. His eyes seem to shrink and sink deeper beneath his brows like a pigs, growing mad and glassy and inhuman. Belton stands aghast as the Pigman charges up to the specter and lashes his tusks from down low to on high shearing away the glowing matter of this things completely, splitting it momentarily in two! A bestial roaring howl-squeal rends the silence of the twilight.
Both gaze in frustration as the spirt light reforms it's shape it's python-like arms lashing out to coil vaporously around their throats. But, they feel nothing. This thing is as incapable of harming them as they seem to be of harming it. Not even a change in the cool night air greets their skin ans the thing touches them. It's threat is merely an illusion. it can do them no harm.
In the fire-lit hut Sif draws Arne Saknussem's Singing Sword, it's silver white light filling the room with it's beautiful radiance, it's broad, Ulfen blade humming and singing with the opening verses of the Skaldic poem of battle and glory and vengeance and victory. It's perfectly reflective silversheen blade reflecting with crystal clarity the deeds that traspire around it. Her razor-keen hand-axe seems to spring into her left hand as she advanced on the grim hag and swings with all her might. her blade bites into the steel-hard flesh of this foul witch reaving less devastation then she would hope against the magic-hardened sickly green flesh.
Gaia stirs from her shock into action, her vision goes red with hurt and hatred of this hags cruelty and despair at her soul's deep loss, a hollow ache of void and nothingness gapes like an abyss in her soul where her heart should be. Her left hand flies up and gestured at the witch almost of its own volition, a flashing riot of leaping clashing colors spraying out and hitting the with full center in her leathery, wrinkled breast. Gaia's magic flares from her driven by her maddening chaos of emotion and as she charges forward to follow her dweomer with cold, sharp steel she falters as she sees the ancient crone take the full brunt of her magic and sneeringly shrug it off like rain. Taking no ill effect from it. But she rallies in the last second and thrusts with her longsword into the shoulder of her foe, black blood flows from the wound as she withdraws her sword for another blow. Like a viper the hags two iron-hard claws lash out for the exposed skin between gaia's armor tearing her perfect flesh and ripping a bloody path. Gaia feels a strange power pulling at her vitality, sapping her strength. In defiance of this wicked thing, she rallies her resistance. Fighting for the love of her lost familiar, Kenai, Gaia pushes back the weakening magic of the witch. Indignant rage growing within her at the endless wickedness of this creature.
Sif spies something amiss behind Gaia out of the corner of her eye, gazing past her she sees the magically enhanced fires of the hearth stroking and caressing the bowl of the black iron cauldron in an animate, lascivious fashion like a lover at a beautiful breast. Sif's senses recoil at this new foulness as she then witnesses further hell-spawned magic. The cauldron now at an overflowing boil, roils and seethes with a brackish green fluid and in the fluid , dislodged from the bottom of the mixture appear dire ingredients. A pulpy, stewed bestial hand, perhaps that of a werewolf, float to the top appearing for a moment to grasp at the lip of the cauldron before sliding back into the murky stew. Followed by a silently screaming human face, it's dead, lifeless eyes staring wide at nothing. Then in further defiance of the laws of nature, the thick black iron chains that suspend the bubbling pot from the chimney, seem to spring loose and like the legs of a spider swing down tot he floor and propel the searing hot cauldron straight for the unknowing back of Gaia as she faces the Witch. Sif does not hesitate for even the space of a though before charging at this unwholesome thing and laying into it with her singing sword. Sparks fly as ensorcelled mithril and siversheen meet enchanted iron. Metal screams on metal as the sword bites a three inch cleft into the lip of the cauldron and Gaia sees her peril.
Outside our manly heroes rally. Dismissing the apparition of sickly light, Belton turns his attention once more to his companions and their battle within the cottage. Seeing the green hag in the open doorway locked in ferocious combat with the two warrior maidens, he again streak toward the heavens and dives into the doorway, driving the Sword of Thorns ripping and tearing, into the hag's steely flesh. Wrenching it free, greenish sap-like poison flows in and from the wound, mingled with the stinking black blood that sustains her. He staggers back a step with the momentum of his heavy blade as Sif and Gaia stare in wonder as it appears to them that as Belton stumbles aside a huge and hulking boar charges into the room and gores the old witch with it's ivory tusks, ripping her flesh from navel to rib-cage, rending huge gashes in her belly and cracking her two floating ribs as it lifts her bodily from the floor with it's upward sweep. It is only a second later that they realize it is no boar at all but rather the northborn savage, Cröm his features all distorted with fierce rage and berserker strength. Releasing her, the with topples back only to meet Belton's whirling thorny sword yet again, so swiftly to his blows fly as he metes out justice in his righteous inquisitors fury! She is once more dealt a terrible wound and the poison, already coursing through her veins take a further toll, weakening her even more. As Sif steps forth to deal her a much deserved death she wails in defeat and begs for mercy. Yielding before them and holding up her vile claws limply before her face in shame and fear. The battle pauses. and a moment of near silence reigns.
Belton curses and threatens the old witch. Cröm holds a greatsword at the ready, poised to finish her off. Gaia, still heartsick from the loss of her diminutive soulmate, so much closer than ever a mortal's dearest pet was, trembles with the desire for bloody vengeance, barely restraining herself from running the wicked had through her black heart in the instant. And Sif, momentarily thunderstruck that this evil creature would even DARE to call upon the clemency of chivalry and yield in battle like a spineless coward, revealing the fathomless depth of her soullessness and utter depravity and cowardice when mere seconds before she had strode like a dark champion in spite and cruelty as she laid about attacks at her foes, hefts her axe in disbelief, still aching to end this worm in woman's clothing for good.
Belton and Sif demand further that the defeated creature tell them the secrets of the Ibis-headed Cane Gaia purchased at Goose-n'-Gander in Falcon's Hollow. Passively, the witch looks upon the tomb-taken artifact and cackles with lively wickedness at the sight of it. Regaling the companions with hints of it's origin not in Pharoah-lorded Osirion as they had thought but in the magic kingdoms of Nex and Geb, where the Wizard Kings of antiquity battled so destructively as to create the Magic-dead wastes of Alkenstar. She reveals that this is truly a King or overlord's rod. A scepter with the power to command the dead. It once was symbolic of the authority of the regents of Nex over their slavery-slain subjects to rise again from their eternal rest and carry on their endless servitude, never resting hopeless of a surcease to their toil and misery. Eternally shackled to uncaring, iron wills of the god-kings of those foreign lands.
Belton decries and admonishes the with warning that she had better have it within her power to bring back Kenai, Gaia's familiar, or her life is SURELY forfeit. Sif casts doubts as to the truth of the witches surrender and with a surprising indignance, the crone snaps at her, asking if she TRULY doubts her word-bond!? Sif knows that such creatures are power-bound to keep their foul promises by the same magic that feeds their unholy, devil's-bargains with their hapless, foolish victims who come to trade for power or love or vengeance with them. Sif angrily relents, hopeful that Lady Gaia's hurt and loss can be reversed. They allow the hag to toddle over and pick up the Raven's deathly still corpse from the blood-strewn floor. She carried it in her crooked, gnarled claws with care to the cauldron, now lifeless and resting on the floor where it was. And depositing the body carefully in the evil liquid, she surprises everyone by gathering up the heavy iron chains in her claws and hefting the enormous, Iron cauldron up from the floor and carrying it across to the hearth. A weight of easily 3-4 hundred pounds!
As she places the cauldron over the fire the chains animate again, lashing upward and securing themselves to the iron beam in the chimney over the fire as the fire roars to greater life, blazing with heat and energy as it stoked by a mighty bellows. Leaning closely over the brew, Ulizmila whispers dark words to the mixture, abyssal, infernal words, black speech of the foul things of the night. Powerful words of deep ancient magic. in time the glossy, black feather of Kenai appear at the surface of the brew and the witch lifts the raven from the bath. The bird shudders and hops to it's feet in her cupped claws. ruffling it's feathers and peering about with it's black eyes. Only Gaia notices that it's once black eye rims and lids are now bloody red and livid looking. Taking her companion from the witch. Gaia is shaken by the fact that she feels nothing from it. No familiar joining of minds, no sharing of soul and will to battle. Kenai is an empty space in the universe to her.
This blasphemous yet subtle trick on her part is the last straw for Sif. Enraged that this cruel creature would DARE to raise Gaia's hopes only for the evil pleasure of seeing Gaia's renewed suffering at the mockery of live that is given to the cauldron-born she can take no more. She hauls the singing sword from it's scabbard to strike down this monstrous creature and is nigh to delivering the final stroke as the Shining blade goes inexplicably dark for the first time and from without the cottage a peal of resounding thunder crashes and a golden celestial light shines in through the gap of the ruined door and the teo mullioned windows at the front of the bent old house. A voice of surpassing imperiousness and grandeur calls Sif's name from the yard.
Our heroes and the bent old hag emerge to the presence of the most powerful steed they have ever seen. A Sleipnir stands before the door, fully 7 feet tall at the shoulder, 12 feet long, and weighing upward of 1,600 pounds.
Astride this magnificent mother of all horses sits a being of surpassing majesty. A mighty Valkyrie, shieldmaiden of the Ulfen gods who scour the battlefields of the Material Plane for warriors of great prowess and legendary renown. With a glance, a Valkyrie can tell who is near death and ready to give up life and who fights on to live another day, and can either claim the soul of the slain or aid the living to continue the fight. Valkyries are always female, and appear as strong and beautiful women. This Valkyrie is 6 feet tall and weighs close to 200 pounds. Her resplendent spear is fully 12 feet long.
As the celestial speaks the cowing power of her voice drives down the mortals before her. Cröm in religious awe falls to one knee in reverence, overcome by her holy beauty and presence.
Sif, enraged by being denied her foes head and in seeing to her shame that Valhalla has looked upon her breaking of the bond of yielding as a betrayal of honor beneath a candidate for the Einherjar, stands erect, square jawed and defiant in the presence of this Angel's holy gaze. For a second Sif is almost sure she sees a measure of approval spark in this woman's eye before her manner turns stern and the unyielding justice of the Lords of Asgard is meted out. The Valkyrie reveals that she bears witness to all of Sif's acts of valor, to her bold and unbowed pride in her naked body as she swims for all to see in any clear pool she comes upon. To her right and good spirit of compassion that is befitting a woman warrior that she has shown on occasions. And she reveals that these strengths meet with her approval. She reveals that it is she who placed the holy Leaf of Glasir for her to uncover. It is she who took down the Singing Sword of Arne Saknussem from the boundless armory of Asgard and laid it among the treasure of the guardian of the holy grove for her to win, IF she could survive against that legendary creature. And that with each victory her pride and love for her mortal sister in arms grows.
Then her words turn dark and she levels her accusation of Sif's base and un-befitting act in letting her foolish rage be her master, admonishing her for wearing the yoke of the slave-master, Cruelty. And bending her knee to it's control. The Valkyrie bids her to master herself for the coming wars. To overcome even those who would master her from within! Rage, Savagery, bestial hate. and to lord over her own being with the will of the Queen. Dominating, commanding brooking nothing but obedience from her own body and mind. The Valkyrie communicates this and more in the Ulfen tongue to Sif. Then in the common language of Avistani mortals, she passes the sentence that in order to regain the good favor of Asgard, she must grant a Blood Boon to this vile hag. She now must serve her for one day, to make the honor between them whole again. When Sif repents and angrily submits to this judgement, the Vakyrie turns her mighty Sleipnir's head and rides back into Asgard.
Belton curses and threatens the old witch. Cröm holds a greatsword at the ready, poised to finish her off. Gaia, still heartsick from the loss of her diminutive soulmate, so much closer than ever a mortal's dearest pet was, trembles with the desire for bloody vengeance, barely restraining herself from running the wicked had through her black heart in the instant. And Sif, momentarily thunderstruck that this evil creature would even DARE to call upon the clemency of chivalry and yield in battle like a spineless coward, revealing the fathomless depth of her soullessness and utter depravity and cowardice when mere seconds before she had strode like a dark champion in spite and cruelty as she laid about attacks at her foes, hefts her axe in disbelief, still aching to end this worm in woman's clothing for good.
Belton and Sif demand further that the defeated creature tell them the secrets of the Ibis-headed Cane Gaia purchased at Goose-n'-Gander in Falcon's Hollow. Passively, the witch looks upon the tomb-taken artifact and cackles with lively wickedness at the sight of it. Regaling the companions with hints of it's origin not in Pharoah-lorded Osirion as they had thought but in the magic kingdoms of Nex and Geb, where the Wizard Kings of antiquity battled so destructively as to create the Magic-dead wastes of Alkenstar. She reveals that this is truly a King or overlord's rod. A scepter with the power to command the dead. It once was symbolic of the authority of the regents of Nex over their slavery-slain subjects to rise again from their eternal rest and carry on their endless servitude, never resting hopeless of a surcease to their toil and misery. Eternally shackled to uncaring, iron wills of the god-kings of those foreign lands.
Belton decries and admonishes the with warning that she had better have it within her power to bring back Kenai, Gaia's familiar, or her life is SURELY forfeit. Sif casts doubts as to the truth of the witches surrender and with a surprising indignance, the crone snaps at her, asking if she TRULY doubts her word-bond!? Sif knows that such creatures are power-bound to keep their foul promises by the same magic that feeds their unholy, devil's-bargains with their hapless, foolish victims who come to trade for power or love or vengeance with them. Sif angrily relents, hopeful that Lady Gaia's hurt and loss can be reversed. They allow the hag to toddle over and pick up the Raven's deathly still corpse from the blood-strewn floor. She carried it in her crooked, gnarled claws with care to the cauldron, now lifeless and resting on the floor where it was. And depositing the body carefully in the evil liquid, she surprises everyone by gathering up the heavy iron chains in her claws and hefting the enormous, Iron cauldron up from the floor and carrying it across to the hearth. A weight of easily 3-4 hundred pounds!
As she places the cauldron over the fire the chains animate again, lashing upward and securing themselves to the iron beam in the chimney over the fire as the fire roars to greater life, blazing with heat and energy as it stoked by a mighty bellows. Leaning closely over the brew, Ulizmila whispers dark words to the mixture, abyssal, infernal words, black speech of the foul things of the night. Powerful words of deep ancient magic. in time the glossy, black feather of Kenai appear at the surface of the brew and the witch lifts the raven from the bath. The bird shudders and hops to it's feet in her cupped claws. ruffling it's feathers and peering about with it's black eyes. Only Gaia notices that it's once black eye rims and lids are now bloody red and livid looking. Taking her companion from the witch. Gaia is shaken by the fact that she feels nothing from it. No familiar joining of minds, no sharing of soul and will to battle. Kenai is an empty space in the universe to her.
This blasphemous yet subtle trick on her part is the last straw for Sif. Enraged that this cruel creature would DARE to raise Gaia's hopes only for the evil pleasure of seeing Gaia's renewed suffering at the mockery of live that is given to the cauldron-born she can take no more. She hauls the singing sword from it's scabbard to strike down this monstrous creature and is nigh to delivering the final stroke as the Shining blade goes inexplicably dark for the first time and from without the cottage a peal of resounding thunder crashes and a golden celestial light shines in through the gap of the ruined door and the teo mullioned windows at the front of the bent old house. A voice of surpassing imperiousness and grandeur calls Sif's name from the yard.
Our heroes and the bent old hag emerge to the presence of the most powerful steed they have ever seen. A Sleipnir stands before the door, fully 7 feet tall at the shoulder, 12 feet long, and weighing upward of 1,600 pounds.
Astride this magnificent mother of all horses sits a being of surpassing majesty. A mighty Valkyrie, shieldmaiden of the Ulfen gods who scour the battlefields of the Material Plane for warriors of great prowess and legendary renown. With a glance, a Valkyrie can tell who is near death and ready to give up life and who fights on to live another day, and can either claim the soul of the slain or aid the living to continue the fight. Valkyries are always female, and appear as strong and beautiful women. This Valkyrie is 6 feet tall and weighs close to 200 pounds. Her resplendent spear is fully 12 feet long.
Sif, enraged by being denied her foes head and in seeing to her shame that Valhalla has looked upon her breaking of the bond of yielding as a betrayal of honor beneath a candidate for the Einherjar, stands erect, square jawed and defiant in the presence of this Angel's holy gaze. For a second Sif is almost sure she sees a measure of approval spark in this woman's eye before her manner turns stern and the unyielding justice of the Lords of Asgard is meted out. The Valkyrie reveals that she bears witness to all of Sif's acts of valor, to her bold and unbowed pride in her naked body as she swims for all to see in any clear pool she comes upon. To her right and good spirit of compassion that is befitting a woman warrior that she has shown on occasions. And she reveals that these strengths meet with her approval. She reveals that it is she who placed the holy Leaf of Glasir for her to uncover. It is she who took down the Singing Sword of Arne Saknussem from the boundless armory of Asgard and laid it among the treasure of the guardian of the holy grove for her to win, IF she could survive against that legendary creature. And that with each victory her pride and love for her mortal sister in arms grows.
Then her words turn dark and she levels her accusation of Sif's base and un-befitting act in letting her foolish rage be her master, admonishing her for wearing the yoke of the slave-master, Cruelty. And bending her knee to it's control. The Valkyrie bids her to master herself for the coming wars. To overcome even those who would master her from within! Rage, Savagery, bestial hate. and to lord over her own being with the will of the Queen. Dominating, commanding brooking nothing but obedience from her own body and mind. The Valkyrie communicates this and more in the Ulfen tongue to Sif. Then in the common language of Avistani mortals, she passes the sentence that in order to regain the good favor of Asgard, she must grant a Blood Boon to this vile hag. She now must serve her for one day, to make the honor between them whole again. When Sif repents and angrily submits to this judgement, the Vakyrie turns her mighty Sleipnir's head and rides back into Asgard.
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