Of Winters and Warm Fires
Farinyir's Basin; Harroc, Mara, Khan
- Galynhun-Khan Tinnudir
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CharacterKhy'eras' Greatest Detective
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Level010p / 0g / 0s / 50c
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Re: Of Winters and Warm Fires
The Druid spoke his own piece on the matter, explaining himself as to his dismay. ”Hnrgh,”Galynhun grumbled at it, feeling some manner of shame again at expressing his own disposition. He raised the cup to his mouth, blowing on the top to cool the first sip enough as to not burn his tongue and took in a moderate amount. Not pensive, not questioning if it were poisoned, but rather to stretch out his enjoyment of it. It would compliment the elk meat and his pipe quite well. He watched as Asfaloth scarfed down her portion with zeal, loosing even a contented burp afterwards. His own consumption was nearly as rapid, from a lifetime of not knowing what was around the next bend; though he took a simple pleasure in eating, however fast. Khan took only a small portion, resigning the leftovers to be cured and dried into jerky for the next trek. It wasn’t unusual for him to eat only every couple of days. Some had joked it was his secret to keeping that elven figure.
”Strange, indeed,” Khan replied to Harroc’s astute judgment of Farinyir’s Basin. One didn’t need magical essence in order to deduce such, only a finely keened sense of observation. He wasn’t new to Irtuen itself, but hadn’t ventured into the den of a great beast before now. A chill started to tingle at the base of his neck, though not from the cold. It was a danger sense that had served him well in his time. But the tingle didn’t always mean there was impending doom, more of a warning that something was afoot; no more than a gut instinct.
With his meal complete, Khan was forced to re-light his pipe by the fire once more. This was the calm before the storm; the quiet before the maelstrom descended upon them. Khan reveled in the almost-unnerving stillness, knowing full well that destiny was likely at work, and would come to shape the things to come for one, if not all, of them.
- Harroc Crownegrove
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CharacterDisciples of Balance, Defender of the Woods
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Level010p / 0g / 0s / 50c
- Race: Elemental and Shapeshifter
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Re: Of Winters and Warm Fires
Now, as then, he was drawn deep into the dense jungle of his thoughts. He stood in a clearing, a place he had crafted over years of focused effort. All around him lay paths, lines of thought and consideration he could follow. He spun slowly, looking over them all before selecting one he had come to favor as of late. It was filled with gnarled woody vines thicker than his arms, and once he stepped out of sight of his clearing the path became rough, uneven, filled with pitfalls and eroded land. It was an uncertain line of thinking, one for which he did not have enough answers, and still he pursued it. ‘Were the druids wrong? Was there a path beyond suffering that still led to strength?’ his thoughts questioned him as his mental path shook.
There was another shake, this one much louder and more violent. Harroc snapped from his reverie and looked around, a thin line of panic worming into his awareness. Then a third booming rumble came, followed by the brittle cracking of distant snow tumbling down the mountain. “Thunder,” he said in a half-shout as his hearing adjusted to the sudden return of silence in their small cave. A fourth boom rang out across the skies, this one preceded a roiling rumble as the mountains themselves quaked in fear. “Hunter, no matter what happens, do not fire directly on the beast,” Harroc said as he steeled himself. “The great one is not normally this far, nor this angry, but I am still a keeper,” he added as he stood and moved to ensure Mara was unharmed.
“Lightbringer, I will need your help, in any way you can, but most especially when this ends. Be the beacon that draws me back,” he said with a wry grin and gentle squeeze on the woman’s shoulder. “Cover your ears when I howl, it will be painful otherwise,” he added, and then he moved out of the cave, sweeping his staff before him in great curling motions. The snow packed ground lept at his command some thirty meters from the cave. A sloped platform of frozen snow and ice formed, softly crunching into place as it was bent to his will. It would act as a focal point, draw attention away from his allies, and force the Great Beast to confront him alone if necessary.
His magic done, Harroc lept forward and shook himself mightily as the roiling smoke of his shift faded away. As the wolf, he took slow strides to the top of his new outcropping and planted his feet in a wide supporting stance. He gave his head a final shake to build his confidence before letting loose a frighteningly loud and mournful howl. It asked a single question, posed it unerringly to the entire mountain and sky above. ‘Why?’
- Mara Whitewood
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CharacterDisciple of Ristgir
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Re: Of Winters and Warm Fires
Mara felt her grip on the conscious world loosening one ephemeral finger at a time. Her lids were leaden but she forced them open long enough to put her mug of unfinished tea aside, lest she drift off with it in her hands and end up wearing it later. The thought did cross her fuzzy mind that Harroc would have spared her the indignity before it came to that. Best not to trouble him if she could help it though.
The first boom sent a powerful vibration through the air that she felt on the surface of her skin. Mara jumped, overturning her mug of tea, and the fine hairs along her arms stood on end as if statically charged. Beside her, Harroc stirred slightly but his focus remained inward.
Looking across the cavern towards Khan, she started to ask, "What was that?" when another earth-rattling crack interrupted her. The cave walls shivered and so did she.
Her druid companion roused fully then and seemed to grasp the situation in a matter of seconds. He understood much sooner than she what the sound represented and began to act accordingly.
Mara hurried to stand and meet the mild concern in Harroc's eyes. She shook her head, wordlessly indicating that she was uninjured, and then subsided to listen. His words planted a seed of disquiet in her belly that she fervently ignored; it wouldn't do either of them any good and he needed her faith.
"Harroc," she said, stopping him from leaving with a hand on his forearm above the wrist. The other hand found the sigil of Ristgir on its leather cord about her neck and squeezed. She invoked the power within herself.
"As night yields to day and shadow retreats before the candle's flame, go fearless into the dark with Ristgir's blessed light ablaze in your soul."
Her hand grew warm as the magic swelled within, shaping the spell that radiated from her fingertips and covered Harroc in a glittering, golden shroud. The effect was visible only for a second and then seemed to fade from view. Any with a discerning eye -- or the appropriate spell -- could see it still.
Mara turned him loose and stepped back to watch him go. The evening and the snow swallowed him up, obscuring him from her meager sight, but she clung to her faith. Obediently, she placed her hands over her ears and waited, breath caught, until she heard the dire wolf's booming howl reverberate through the mountainous valley. Even before the last notes faded, Mara turned to retrieve her visor, her cloak, and her staff of polished yew. The first two were donned quickly with a mind for what might follow, and she held the last firmly in one hand.