"Oh." was all Eirik really had to say. The tale hadn't really been a bard's epic.

The barbarian stared hard the clearer prints, wondering what kind of creatures might have made then, and what kind of fight they might put up. He hoped it would be a good one.

"So, we go west, right? We'll find the Scarred One, his minions, his magic, and we'll make the whole lot of them sorry they ever invaded Rashemen and messed with our land." He tried a rousing speech, but didn't feel it. He still missed Navarra, of course, and he seemed to have inherited her role as leader, but it felt awkward on him.

Vicril smiles as Eirik spoke. Speaking like a true warrior Eirik. I say we follow these tracks as they are the only one that we can follow. Still some strange tracks here. If only he had taken the ridge line as we went here. Then we would have faced it. Whatever it is. You are right about one thing Eirik. They are going to pay with their lives for entering Rashemen. Stands his full height and stare at the ridge line. After a little while he looks at the sun if it's out to try to find out how long they have till nightfall.

[Private to GM: OCC:
14:26, Today: Vicril Shipsail rolled 20 using 1d20+13. Knowledge nature. ]

Relgar nods and say; "Shall we go immediately to the chase then? I can keep eye on tracks along with Vicril while we travel."

"No time like the present""

Yes let's strike while he is weakend from killing the Thayans. No offense ment Jostyn. You did a nice job of draining the mans power He smiled a cruel smile at Jostyn before starting to move alongside the tracks that he had made out that headed towards the ridge line. Tarnin track. he sayed in rashemen to his wolf companion.
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:51, Tue 20 May 2008.

   The party moves forward, intent on gaining a few more good hours of travel time in an attempt to gain some precious ground on the [hopefully] combat-weary Scarred One and his minions, who must rest to regain their power reserves. This, they feel, is something that cannot be allowed to pass....

   *squaaak!*

   Snowflake, all but forgotten in the uphill press of bodies and magical exfiltration of Cecania from her tiny prison cell, takes a moment to leap off the barbarian's shoulder and streak upwards into the air overhead.

   *Silver is gold! Untouched by the cold! *squaak*

   Tight circles are flown around the party, though whether it is a warning to them of something or just another of the bird's annoying habits, no one knows. Tarnin, however, does not seem to feel that the party is in any danger - though he does look off and to the southwest, over his shoulder.

"Bah!  Stupid bird!" mutters Cecania, seeing it fly around, squawking erratically.  "Whose pet is that anyhow?"

"Navarra's" Eirik grunted, and sighed. "She was my- our Witch. But she had to return earlier this day to her Sisters to seek help against the Scarred One."

He glared up the bird. "What are you on about now, bird?"

Vicril looked at Tarnin and then at the point that his friend looked at over his shoulder. he speaks in a strange language. After that he says to the others I do not like this. Tarnin must be sensing something to the south west. He could not shake this feeling of his mind. He now turn his attention to Snowflake Silver can never be gold unless changed by magic. Untouched by cold would suggest that it's not from Rashemen or has been sealed in the earth and the cold has never touched it. When shall this bird start talking normally and not in riddles. In a low whisper he speaks to himself as he draws breath.

In response to Vicril's rhetoric question, Harto quips "When is a Raven like a writing desk?"

Seeing no one laughing at his quip, he continues, "Maybe the bird speaks of silvered weapons, though they work better against the shapeshifters than the undead. Maybe undead shapeshifters? Now that would be a sight to behold! In any case, as unheroic as this is following the bird, we must keep following. Riddles usually make more sense when their meaning becomes clear", still wearing his almost permanent grin.

What a golden weapon that has been silvered. That seems strange to me at least now. He continues walking alongside his friend Tarnin and kept looking back he as well towards the south west.

"Gold in the sense of being valuable, worthwhile."

"So what, they change shape - and they're still dead? What good is that?" Eirik knew that he shouldn't listen to the halfling. Harto only made his head spin.



"Yeah, when it's far too late to be of any use." He was still thinking of that blood and stones riddle, which he still wasn't sure that he had completely solved. Although... And from stone new blood emerges... He glanced across at Jostyn, unnerved, though the Thayan wasn't exactly new or fresh anymore.

"There's been too many riddles on this mission. We were going west, but the dog says south-west. Maybe the Scarred One has turned south and Tarnin can sense him?"
This message was last edited by the player at 03:18, Wed 21 May 2008.

   Snowflake's spiral continues, up into the sunlight that is still cresting over the tip of the mountaintops that stand between the eastern horizon and the party and then back down into the late morning shadow. In this rugged terrain, the best anyone could hope for is several hours of 'good' light, bracketed by several hours of predatory twilight....

   Downslope from the party, a figure slowly appeared. Taller than a man, it faded into view not from magic, but from a background that slightly wavered as if heated like the desert sands - an abnormality that was so out of place here. The lower half of the body was wide, like an animal, but the top half was more man-sized. But it was the head that caught their attention.
   Shining like a captured sun, the silvery radiance beamed outward, so bright it left a spot in the viewer's vision if stared at for too long. Tarnin first, then Vicril and Relgar, and then the others, heard the unsteady clip-clop that marked the passage of shod hooves on the mountainside, and as they watched, the figure angled to one side to avoid a rocky outcropping that stood in its path to the party.
   The head ceased to shine, and the diffuse halo that had blinded them to the reality of the figure was made apparent. It was a woman, sitting astride a horse, wearing a face of purest silver.

   Not a face. A mask. A Hathran's mask....

Eirik's response wasn't quite the traditional Rashemi greeting to a witch, or one that the impressive arrival deserved. He groaned and muttered "Not another one." Not that he didn't think they needed the aid, of course they did. But it was because of the bossy witch that he expected, and the one that he missed.

Grinning in bemusement at the emotional warrior, Harto says "My thoughts exactly big man. my thoughts exactly..."

Cecania grins in expectation.  Her last encounter with a Hathran had been over six years ago, during the aftermath of the war, but she remembered her vividly despite their short meeting.

Well aware of the Rashemi witches' reputation as masters of elemental conjuration, she had been looking for an opportunity to meet with another one, but the witches' rarity and secrecy - not to mention her own hunt for the gemstone wand that Eirik now carried - had made it an unlikely goal.

"Greetings!" she shouts to the woman, nudging Eirik forward.  'Go on!  You're a local - ask her if she's here to help us,' she whispers crossly to the warrior.

With one last clip-clop the horse comes to a stop, not 20 feet from the nearest member of the group and neighs.
Astride the horse is seated a small woman robed in close knit green/brown robes that cling to her body, revealing a sultry form. The robes are held at her waist by a wide belt lined with pouches, straps, loops holding scrolls of parchment and short tapering sticks in small sheaths. A quiver is strapped to one side and a bow is strapped by her side to the saddle. A large, fur lined snow white cloak, rests on her shoulders clearly set for the cold. in her right hand is a long sturdy staff.
Her coarse black hair flitters in the breeze.
None of these seem particularly out of place or even in ordinary in the least, her mask however is another matter all together. It is like nothing any of the group have seen. As she looks at you, each directly in turn, you can see your face perfectly reflected in the face of the mask, as if you were looking at a mirror, its reflective surface slightly shadowed from the sun by the woman's hair. Instead of your eyes in the reflection though you see a pair of ice blue piercing eyes, which you can feel as if they were boring into you behind your own eyes.
The masked face rests on Cecania and the dead Thayan for a moment longer then the rest.

After a moment of silence, a voice speaks from behind the mask. You can tell it is a soft voice though it is muffled by the mask, making the voice sound slightly harsher then you suppose it would otherwise.

"Greetings indeed, defenders of our land and the blessings of the three upon you. Eirik, brave warrior of our people. Relgar, scout and tracker of our land. Vicirl, guardian of the land and you"

The masked face turns its attention to the Thayan warrior.

"though we suspect you have a role to play yet, know that you are a blemish and a scar upon our land, and when you have fulfilled your task you will not be welcome. Seek not your eternal rest here."

Finally the masked face turns to Cecania once more.

"You I do not yet know. You must be new to this group of heroes, for I have just recently last looked upon these faces. Know you all that the wychlaran follow your cause and are pleased. I am Bergdis, a Blethran among the wychlaran. Yes, another one."

The mirror mask turns pointedly to Eirik and then Harto, both get the odd feeling that the face behind the mask might be grinning at them as those cold blue eyes soften but obviously then can see nothing but their own reflections.

"I come to offer what guidance and aid I may in your cause, which is the cause of Rashemen itself. A great evil is upon us, this you know but even now you underestimate the damage it would cause. Already the spirits are restless and the earth quivers, the rivers shift paths and the trees and stones whisper. Come, let us move forth as you intended before my arrival, we can talk as we proceed and I shall answer what questions I can and have what answers you may provide. We must not lose a moments time."

With that, as if she had been with the group from the day of their first meeting, she moves her horse so he stands parallel to the group and looks sideways at them. Her head now held high, her back straight, the sun once again shines off the mask and brakes upon its surface. Clearly she is waiting for them to advance.
This message was last edited by the player at 08:00, Fri 23 May 2008.

Eirik found himself thrust forwards, and glanced up fearfully at the new Witch. How was one supposed to greet one of the wychlaran, especially this one, who seemed haughtier than Navarra had been. But fortunately for him, she seemed capable and willing of carrying out introductions and conversation all by herself.

He winced, embarrassed, as she repeated his disrespectful words, and managed a crude "Uh, right, welcome." Settling back into his place in the march, he added "Let's go."

His first question found itself easier to say. "Did Navarra send you? Did she make it back okay?"

Without looking over and down at the barbarian, the witch replies to his question and something in her voice seems almost compassionate.

"No, I was sent by others and I do not know my sister's fate but I am sure the Hidden One watches over her and the presence of her soul mate reassures me."

Having spoken and after a pause, the witch looks over at the barbarian, her eyes scanning him momentarily.

"Are you wounded?"

Soul mate? Oh, she must have meant the bird. "Oh, okay."

Eirik rubbed the frost burns that the Thayan wizard Shaene had inflicted upon him; he'd forgotten them in all the rush and fuss. "Yeah, a bit."


OOC: I forgot to update my biolines at the last level-up. Thanks for reminding me. :)
This message was last edited by the player at 07:47, Sat 24 May 2008.

"Come nearer."

As she speaks, Bergdis moves her mount closer to Eirik and reaches and outstretched hand to touch the top of his head, the closest extremity to her. Firmly connecting the top of his head with her palm she speaks.

"Bhalla invigorate and heal this warrior of your land!"

Instantly as those words are spoken Eirik can feel the warm, momentarily burning, sensation of magical healing flow from his head down through his very core and out to all the bruised and burned areas. Bergdis retracts her hand and pulls up the hood of her cloak so that it covers enough of her face to ward the sun off her mask and cease any reflective effects.

"Scars are a sign of prowess, those of the lodges would say, you should ware them proudly. But it would not do to have our fierce warrior wounded if battle should ensue. Bhalla preserve you."


((OOC: Healed Eirik back to full hp.))
This message was last edited by the player at 17:56, Sat 24 May 2008.

Vicril could not hide the look of discomfort with the witch entering the party. He merely looks at her as she speaks with Eirik. He was always the one who got best along with the witches. He did not care to stop for long before continuing to follow the trails he said only Well with that out of the way let's move. The trail is getting colder by the moment spent here chatting. I'm sure that you would not want that. Also don't assume to much about what we can imagine or not. We know maybe more then  you who has watched it from afar. We have seen the rivers, felt the earth. I have felt the spirits and what they feel. I'm almost surprised that you have not striked me down yet as you know my name. He then continues to walk the trail that he had his wolf track.

Judging by her reaction, a slow turn of her masked face to look over at the man, it would seem Bergdis is little bothered by the hint of scolding and imparted wisdom Vicril's words, if not his tone, suggest.

"I do not make it a habit to strike down those who aid in saving this land from the machinations of the Red Wizards. Regardless of their past."

Her masked face moves to regard the undead Thayan with a glance but she soon returns her attention to Vicril.

"As for assuming, I do no such thing, assumptions are for the arrogant and are, more often then not, the mother of all failures. There is much I do not know and could not scry from afar but now I am here, so by all means, tell me, defender of the spirits, what it is the spirits have told you. Who or what is this evil that threatens our lands? Before you speak though, you too look wounded wise Vicril. Would you let a witch mend your wounds?"

Her voice and manner seems sincere.
This message was last edited by the player at 21:39, Sun 25 May 2008.

Vicril looked at his scratched and cuts. They can wait. I can heal them myself. He takes a few breaths before looking at the witch. The one who is responsible is after what we have found out someone called The Scared One. A thayan madman. I do not know how he makes the changes that happens to our land. It's magic that is above all that I have seen. AS for the spirits. I asked for their aid at the dried riverbed. It was close to a small village that had been abandoned a while ago. What I felt was. Extraordinary. I felt trapped and buried alive. Trapped. A prisoner of the earth. Whatever is happening is somehow trapping the spirits somehow and thus changing our lands. That is what I know for sure.

He shakes his head. Is it not strange. That a spirit of the earth should feel buried alive inside a earth grave. Also it appears that the thayan idiot who fancies himself as Jostyn has told a man of nature, has stolen a artefact from the thayan wizards who so often defile our lands with their evil acts. As most of the wizarding kind so often does.