In reply to Brannon Darrow (msg # 750):

Struggling against the heat of the immense fire, water and ice cascading off the gargantuan figure, Hengist darts forward, Brannon in his wake.

Brannon heaps ice blocks into the fire with while the small Cornumbrian dodges flames to liberally douse the flames in the powder Caith entrusted to him. The noise from chaos surrounds the two lightly armed men. To his left he spies Leaf battling flame while Caith brings ancient witchcraft to life.

The fire fades, flickers, fades and then burns stronger.

Breathing to avert panic he picks slabs of ice and starts kicking at the flame with Brannon.

Then the Chief warns, “you will fail today Fengil, Prince of Darkness.”, before drawing all of the flames into himself, extinguishing them and him. Incredulous.

Hengist never did like Colm, but just now witnessed one of the most humble and yet powerful acts of unselfish genorosity.

A Prince of a man.

Invigorated at the bravery of others, Hengist helps Brannon scatter the dying ashes of each bonfire to deny anyone the kindling to restart the fires.

“Brannon, the Hearthfire, the bastard has dropped it. We need to get to it. I’m with you.”

Ignoring the great Wyrms and trusting INNER SENSE to warn of danger, Hengist will dash and jump to get close to the Hearthfire once each of the flotsam left by the destroyed bonfires is scattered.
This message was last edited by the player at 22:05, Sun 15 Aug 2021.

Hearing Deise - no, Hengist? - well, the Cornumbrian's words, Brannon's head whips around to see the Hearthfire that Fengil his approaching. "Brigantia preserve us - let's go!" He will do his best to race with Hengist towards it, in the hope of moving it further out of reach...

Usopi snarled as the enemy continued to evade his blows. For a moment his attention was pulled by Colm’s sacrifice, the flames drawing in to the man’s body and rendering him to ash. Any thoughts Usopi had on the matter were swiftly shelved for later as the ice burst upward to herald the arrival of an undead wyrm. The beast was headed their way, but they could not let Colm’s sacrifice be in vain. If they at least killed this Fengil fiend before the wyrm ended their lives there would be no one left to relight the flames.

Aphail was suddenly beside him, pushing a potion into his hands, and the large knight downed the fluid without question. Then he swung Moralltach once more toward his enemy.

_{Edited to incorporate Aphail's lower post}
This message was last edited by the player at 07:42, Sun 05 Sept 2021.

Osric eyes gape wide and he shakes his great shaggy head at Colm’s heroic sacrifice. Snarling he blinks away the magically induces blindness and calling upon his finely honed Combat Instincts he surges towards Fengil seeking to cleave the fiend in half.

Turren drops his remaining melee weapons for a moment, trying to get a shot off on Fengil with his trusty bow and fey-touched arrow. He hopes he has a heart-beat to do so before the undead monstrosity comes barreling in.

Seeing the others charge towards Fengil, Leaf turns towards the undead wyrm.

Unsure of how she could possibly stop such a force, she decides instead to go on the defence.

She thrusts her hands through the ground below them, and pulls up a magnificent shard of ice.

She shifts the spear like shard around, and angles it towards the charging dragon.


OOC: Leaf casts ICE SPEAR (5MP) and RAW POWER (1MP)

Alphail's expression is one of intense concentration within the shadows of his hood, a finely crafted elf-shot arrow in his hand, tracking the target that only enchantment seems to find amid the darkness.

The shaft has scarce left the string before his feet are finding the path the foe the stone knife in his hand knows of old, the fire-washed fury of Colm's last act of defiance in the face of a foe beyond any mortal's understanding still burning as he runs, fleet as a deer in a winter bare forest.

His path crosses Usopi's trail and a hunter's hand proffers a bottle from the pouch to the knight, eyes still fixed on Fengil's shade, as all Alphail says is "Drink, then strike again." and keeps moving.

A call older than mankind singing in his blood, the hunt, the song of hunter and prey that needs no spellbound wolfskin to summon it, only the patience of stone and feet that follow relentlessly, to the kill.
This message was last edited by the player at 07:59, Thu 26 Aug 2021.

Caith, for once in her life, does not argue the point with her cousin, and nods as she simply says "Aye, Laird Colm." in assent.

The most unusual application of elemental fire that follows, and it's effects on the balefires would be a matter of some academic interest to her, were it not for the small matter of her kinsman's death already stabbing through her in icy despair.

There is no time to spare in mourning him, but there are better memorials to the dead than tears and sorrow and the howling of the pack for a leader slain in battle.

The dead eyed wyrm rising up from the ice is a rather more pressing matter to deal with, and one that Leaf already seeks to battle with the ice under her grown to a tall and sharp tipped spear.

Caith considers the foe, a dead creature held together with the darkest of magic and a dreadful will to destroy, both an enemy to be slain, and once kin to Hljod besides, but even a scatter-brained squirrel knows that a twice dead corpse is good for nothing but treefodder, no matter how large the corpse.

"Gift of the Aos sí..." she breathes softly upon the little black acorn in her hand, the acorn that has hung around her neck from a red woolen cord since her second venture into Siren Woods, then flings it straight toward the dreadful white wyrm's gaping maw.

As it leaves her hands, Caith calls the earth's green strength to her and gives the acorn a little extra encouragement to take root in dead flesh, and seek both light and deeper ground beyond it's sapling cage of dragon bone.

OOC: Caith casts TANGLEROOTS (3MP) at the nearest plant life, an acorn, and hopes Ratatoskr is listening.
This message was last edited by the player at 11:55, Thu 26 Aug 2021.

Aphail races forward like a sleek hunting hound, his senses fixed upon his target even as he passes the flask to Usopi who downs it at once.

Hengist scrambles for the Hearth Flame, with Brannon at his side....he ducks and weaves around the falling ice...though with the bonfires extinguished the water has almost stopped falling and far less ice finds its way to the cavern floor. As Hengists hand closes around the Hearth Flame brand, Brannon began scattering the kindling of the bonfires.

Prince Doron comes in and clasps Usopis shoulder as they both brace against the dead wyrms charge, " Together!"

Osric charged Prince Fengils shadowy form even as Turren released another shaft. Ghost-Eye cleaved through the spectral form, Fengil screamed wordlessly as another of Turrens shafts took him in the face.

Fengil almost fell to nothingness but pulled himself together through strength of will and raised his arm; the ice and stone in front of him split apart revealing a cleft full of grinding 'teeth' of stone and blue ice. Osric teetered on the edge...

Leofwyn gathered elemental forces and shaped the frozen surface into an enormous spear which took the charging wyrm full in the chest, it reared up and opened its jaws.  Caiths oaken missive landed within them and, as she channeled energies into it, green shoots began to grow from it and rapidly began to overwhelm the ragged scales and bone....

At the top of the cliff Hljob crushed the last of the dead up there to naught but scraps and began sliding down the slope towards the companions her head seeking her dead sister with an unreadable expression.

OOC:

Fissure Speed 18: Evasion roll from Osric needed or he will fall and almost certainly die.

Anyone close enough can attempt to assist him with their action.

Aphail will be in striking distance of Fengil this coming round.

Without hesitation Turren launches to grip Osric and heave him back. The knight sees along the dull glint of his Selentium wrist-piece as his free, outstretched hand spears toward Osric.

Hengist jumps and then dives toward the sacred flame, driven by the one goal to get firebrand of a god he does not know, away from the evil and chaos that is this Fengil.

“Brannon, help we have to get this away . . .” While spying the safest course of retreat away from the madness and violence.
This message had punctuation tweaked by the player at 08:33, Sun 19 Sept 2021.

Brannon looks up from scattering the ashes, and nods. "Aye, Dei- Henist. These fires are done - we must see that they are not relit." He moves away from the scattered remains of the bonfires and towards Hengist, readying his shield to protect them both as they make there way away from the melee.

OOC: Brannon will stick with Hengist - I guess the first priority is to keep the flame away from Fengil...

Usopi nodded at Doron’s words and turned to face the oncoming beast.

With the ice spear successfully hitting it's target, and seeing Caith's vines starting to overwhelm the wyrm, Leaf takes a moment to hide behind the base of the enormous icy spear to catch her breath.

Even with the success of her comrades around her, she felt a rising panic at the prospect of failure. After the death of so many of their friends...

She knew if she stayed huddled where she was, she would spiral and potentially stay there. She steeled herself, pulled out her borrowed dagger, and stood up - looking for where she could assist one of her friends.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:26, Mon 27 Sept 2021.

Alphail's hurried calculations narrow down to only one conclusion.

There is a dead man awaiting a swift second death before they harm anyone else, and it would be a great shame before Artia's eyes not to see the task done properly.

There is no little risk in using such a short blade against a foe that sunders the ground themselves as a last ditch defense, but that is the task at hand.

Or more properly, to foot, as he looks, then leaps towards Fengil's shade with one hand toward the moontouched arrow that is calling to him even now, and a stone dagger seeking Fengil's flickering heart in the other.

Caith stares at the results of her handiwork, an expression somewhere betwixt despair and determination on her face as she steadfastly informs the dead wyrm "Lady Heidr, she who was held in icy darkness, Lord Hrimnir's daughter and Lady Hiljod's sister in frost and scale. Go in peace, for ye need no wings to fly from here now. Ye be free."

There is a sound like the creaking of a ship's mast in high winds, the scent of a thousand leaves uncurling as the tiny but enchanted acorn within the ice wyrm's frame grows into a mighty oak faster than any natural tree, fed blood and bone amid the ice, hungry roots reaching for earth in the remnants of a city that once held gardens and fields before the ice came.

It does not occur to Caith to simply flee for her life. The dead must be laid to rest, no matter their size, but small tree would simply not suffice for a great wyrm's grave marker.

Without hesitation Turren launches to grip Osric and heave him back. The knight sees along the dull glint of his Selentium wrist-piece as his free, outstretched hand spears toward Osric. Osric is already throwing himself back from the brink and is steadied by Turren as the fissure continues to grind away.

Hengist jumps and then dives toward the sacred flame, driven by the one goal to get firebrand of a god he does not know, away from the evil and chaos that is this Fengil.

“Brannon, help we have to get this away . . .” While spying the safest course of retreat away from the madness and violence.

Brannon looks up from scattering the ashes, and nods. "Aye, Dei- Henist. These fires are done - we must see that they are not relit." He moves away from the scattered remains of the bonfires and towards Hengist, readying his shield to protect them both as they make there way away from the melee.

Snatching up the flame the two men retreat away from undead prince, though they are a little disconerted at seeing the titantic serpentine form of Hljob sliding across the sloping ice towards them.

Usopi nodded at Doron’s words and turned to face the oncoming beast. Stymied by Caiths magics and Leofwyns icy spear in its skeletal chest the undead wyrm was further battered by their attacks.

Leofwyn knew if she stayed huddled where she was, she would spiral and potentially stay there. She steeled herself, pulled out her borrowed dagger, and stood up - looking for where she could assist one of her friends. Seeing Hengist and Brannon suddenly stumbling back at the sudden appearance of the other, very much alive, wyrm she could see they were in need of support.

Alphail's hurried calculations narrow down to only one conclusion.

Or more properly, to foot, as he looks, then leaps towards Fengil's shade with one hand toward the moontouched arrow that is calling to him even now, and a stone dagger seeking Fengil's flickering heart in the other.

The stone blade plunged into the shadowy form and for a moment time froze...and then Fengil let out a piercing scream so high pitched that several of the companions hearing was momentarily damaged. And then it was gone, Fengils form shattered into a million flecks of ash and shadow and a blackened skull fell to the ground.

Caith stares at the results of her handiwork, an expression somewhere betwixt despair and determination on her face as she steadfastly informs the dead wyrm "Lady Heidr, she who was held in icy darkness, Lord Hrimnir's daughter and Lady Hiljod's sister in frost and scale. Go in peace, for ye need no wings to fly from here now. Ye be free."

There is a sound like the creaking of a ship's mast in high winds, the scent of a thousand leaves uncurling as the tiny but enchanted acorn within the ice wyrm's frame grows into a mighty oak faster than any natural tree, fed blood and bone amid the ice, hungry roots reaching for earth in the remnants of a city that once held gardens and fields before the ice came.

It does not occur to Caith to simply flee for her life. The dead must be laid to rest, no matter their size, but small tree would simply not suffice for a great wyrm's grave marker.

As the oak grew the sorcery soaking the bones fled and the tree grew until it was almost as tall as Balors knees, now slowly becoming rime-coated once more.  The wyrms bones fused with the bark and wood as the trunk broadened and the branches spread.  Sunlight seemed to dapple the leaves though they were far from the sun indeed.

Hiljod roared as her sisters body was destroyed and a rumbling avalanche gathered in her throat as she glared at the tiny things before her, her claw raised to come crashing down on  Brannon, Hengist and Leofwyn.....and then she stopped, her head cocked to the side as if hearing something they could not.

She lowered her claw and growling low in her chest padded across the ice towards the tree and coiled around it.

OOC:


14:57, Today: GM, on behalf of Osric Grim, rolled 2 using 1d20.  SPD- 18 - EVA 7.
15:16, Today: GM, on behalf of Usopi Venia, rolled 14 using 1d20.
15:16, Today: GM, on behalf of Prince Doron, rolled 6 using 1d20.
15:29, Today: GM, on behalf of Aphail MacRoach, rolled 5 using 1d20.

Alphail, his ears still ringing with the passing beyond of an ancient prince and a thrall of darkness looks to the solitary remnant of Fengil's physical remains with no little caution, an unusual arrow in one hand, and stone blade in the other in readiness...

...But also with a smile creeping slowly across his usually dour expression, and a whisper that he cannot yet hear clearly himself of "My thanks, Lady Artia." from his lips as he flicks the skull carefully into a sack, still avoiding touching it's pitted surface even in death.

The expression on his face turns to utter astonishment as he looks up from that task and about the largely quiet battlefield in search of other survivors, seeing a new full grown oak tree with a live great ice wyrm twined about it's dead sibling's memorial where furious rage and icy doom held sway moments before.

"Can't take my eyes off of you lot for a moment without finding a surprise or three behind me!" he grumbles as he picks his way from the edge of the rift towards the party, watchful for any further sudden changes in terrain.

"What happened?" Alphail asks, not quite sure he'll understand the answers, but asking anyway.
This message was last edited by the player at 09:36, Wed 27 Oct 2021.

Ears still ringing, Sir Turren approaches, looks at the fallen black skull in disgust as Aphail deals with it. Turren isn't sure how to answer Aphail, but he takes a moment all the same:

'Well shot, master bowman.'

Turren kneels just deep enough to snatch up Falchorus, sheathing it at the side of his tattered backpack. His next steps include a quick appraisal of his other friends, and finally a most unexpected embracing of Leofwyn, which completely breaks his usual strict and stoic protocol.

'I suspect the Saviour has a soft spot for you, my friend,' he tells her with a relieved grin.

Then Turren's eyes drift back the way they all came, and the grin vanishes.

'Sir Uthen, might rest easier with a marked grave, slightly closer to heaven, with some proper words. I would carry him to fresh air above one last time, if such does remain.' 
This message was last edited by the player at 09:55, Sun 24 Oct 2021.

In reply to Sir Turren Uvedale (msg # 769):

Hengist uncorks a flask of cider, offering a sip to all of his comrades.

“I can scarcely conceive of what has happened, but we have come far since we met at Castle Ereworn. A dark foe lies defeated, but we have paid a heavy toll. Let’s drink to Brother Giles, Sir Uthen and Laird Colm. I am humbled by their bravery and will carry their memory and selflessness in my heart and deeds till the end of days, so help me God. Drink up, they deserve our cheer.

To departed warriors, rest in peace friends.”

Caith, seemingly frozen to statue stillness in shock, abruptly shakes herself, like a wolf shedding water from it's fur and looks about for signs of life, a small and worried woman in a three-wolf warcoat grown a little too tight about her middle in the last month.

She silently looks from one face to another, counting the cost in lives in sorrow, yet being heartened that not all is lost, nor has the end she feared yet happened, even as her gaze travels upwards to a face unseen.

A chittering sound in her warcoat's toothmarked ear reveals a different sort of rodent than previously seen, not a little grey mouse, but a squirrel, red as a as the first light of a dawning sun's rays.

"Ye little..." she begins, but looks to the particularly large bee cradled in it's protective paws and wisely continues in a more respectful tone "...Messengers of the gods. What do ye ask of me?"

The squirrel looks towards the tree, then to the hooves taller than a city's gate towers, then back at the hedgewitch.

"So that's why Queen'O'Hive's with ye then? Well that's a different answer than I was expecting! As ye ask, it will be done..." Caith says in sudden understanding, her relief evident in the change from a wary posture to a more relaxed one.

With the sound of a thousand bees humming in the morning sun, and a woman's voice singing lullaby softly in words no living man speaks, an acorn cup of milk and a fragment of salted oatcake daubed in honey are laid at the sleeping giant's feet, a plait of red hair and red wool laid in a circle about the offering.

The squirrel lifts the bee into the air, and flits faster than the eye can see up the oak as if it were no more than a simple beast of the forest in search of a home.

The offering vanishes like pollen into a beehive, borne away by more bees commanded by their queen to deliver what cannot be carried by human hands.

Caith bows to the tree enthroned wyrm, and walks back to the cares of a rather more human scale of understanding.

"We must honour the dead, heal the living and hold the land against those who would despoil it in greed." she offers by way of advice followed by a cheerful observation of "And I ken what that blackened egg is for now too." as she makes a throwing gesture by way of illustration, and looks to the lad who would be Prince, no, King of Glissom as she explains "Ye need nay slay kin to take your throne. She who watches from above on pale wings will ken who to take when the time comes."

And with that, Caith Cernach turned to her husband, and placed a hand on her belly as she smiled again. Softly spoken in his ear the hedgewitch tells the hunter "The quickening is swift, but I will walk home afore ye'll be a father, nay fear." to Alphail, then took her first step into a more hopeful future, and out of the darkness of the past.
This message was last edited by the player at 05:33, Mon 25 Oct 2021.

“To fallen heroes and companions! Skol!” Osric intones with a rueful smile.

He glances at Turren and Leaf and adds with a wolfish wink “And perhaps to new beginnings too?!”

“I will carry brave Sir Uthen back to the sunlit lands with you Sir Turren. If your god can find no place for him there’s a seat by the fire and a horn full of mead waiting for him in Wotan’s Hall!”

“I am no skald to sing to tell the tale of their mighty deeds but word must be taken to Colm’s and Uthen’s kin and Jarls and to Giles’ brother monks - it is only right that they write his saga in those little books of which he seemed so fond!”

In reply to Osric Grim (msg # 772):

Turren welcomes the sip of cider - but just a sip.

He marvels at Caith's magic.

He then nods to Osric, sober faced. 'Let's see then what we might find of brave Sir Uthen.'

Brannon accepts the cider and raises it in a salute before taking a drink. "Aye - to Brother Giles, Sir Uthen and the Hearthfather. Who died in the service of the Hearthmother, may their spirits fly true to her halls."

He passes the flask on. "I will say a prayer for the passing of Hearthfather Cernach. And for Sir Uthen, too - once we have tended to the living."

He will do his best to assist with the wounded, little though his skill is. He eyes the Hearthflame. "Our battle is not entirely over. We must yet get the Hearthflame home. And there will be matters to deal with in the City." He glances at Doron, then at Caith - now the last of the Cernachs.

Once he has ascertained that the injured are stable, he draws in the floor with his spade a large circle, around the area where Colm self-immolated. He stands at one end - the South end, as best he can estimate - and readies his holy symbol, and preparing to lead the funeral rites for his fallen leader, he gestures for the others to join him around the circle.

As the others gather round, Brannon declares the rite of passing from memory et there be peace in the East, so let it be. Let there be peace in the South, so let it be. Let there be peace in the West, so let it be. Let there be peace in the North, so let it be. Let there be peace through all the Worlds. So let it be.  We gather in peace, soul to soul, with clear intent, to witness the sacred Rite of Passing for Hearthfather Colm Cernach, Sir Uthen of Stadely and for Brother Giles. Together we come to honour them, who — in body – have left our company.

He pauses, then resumes: "Let us now call to the Four Directions, to the four elements of creation, that we may ask for their blessings at this time of change.  Hail spirits of the East, spirits of air, bright spear’s shaft of sunrise and of spring, great eagle, you who see far and fly swift and true between the worlds, I call upon you that you may bless and inspire this rite. I bid you hail and welcome!

"Hail spirits of the south, spirits of fire, keen-edged sword of summer and the noonday sun, great stag of seven tines, you whose strength of purpose protects the herd from harm, I call upon you that you may bless and inspire this rite. I bid you hail and welcome!

"Hail spirits of the west, sprits of water, cauldron of many changes, of sunset and the year’s fall, sleek salmon of wisdom, you who give the gift of knowing this world and the worlds beyond, I call upon you that you may bless and inspire this rite. I bid you hail and welcome!

"Sprits of the north, spirits of earth, stone of fate, of winter and of midnight dark, bear mother, you who nurture your young, holding them within your cavern warmth through the long night, I call upon you that you may bless and inspire this rite. I bid you hail and welcome!

"Hearthmother, provider of warmth and wisdom. We give you thanks, and bid you welcome.

"We mourn the passing of our friends and mentors and ask you guide them to the halls of the Hearthmother, that they may join her there in their earned repose. We give thanks for them - for what they have brought to our lives, for the courage they have shown in adversity for the sacrfices they made to save the lives of others. Not just those assembled here, but across Glissom, Ereworn and the whole of Albion. I commend their spirits to your care.

"We will keep them in our hearts, and tell their tale to those who come after, that their deeds will not be forgotten. This celebration ends in peace, as it bega in peace. May the spirit of the Hearthmother and the blessings we have received go with us all as we depart this place, to nourish, strengthen and sustain us until we meet again."

With that, he lowers his holy symbol and stares sadly into the circle, mulling ove that has been won this day - and what lost.