The morning light, though weak, brought a measure of peace to the weary travelers. The spectral giant, a chilling echo of forgotten wars, had been banished – for now. Its presence had left a lingering chill, not just in the air, but in the very bones of the land, a subtle tremor that occasionally rumbled beneath their feet, a grim reminder of its inevitable return.
Lucia and Rudever had spoken of the need to find the source of its malevolence, a task that loomed large on the horizon. But for this moment, Ogre’s Thorn offered respite.
The keep itself, though standing, bore the scars of neglect. Frayed banners, once proud, now hung limply from battlements, and the air of prosperity that should have greeted them was noticeably absent. The chill of the spectral giant’s passing seemed to cling to the very stones, a subtle, unnerving cold.
As the companions gathered, the immediate concern was the lingering effects of their ordeal. Lupendous, the grizzled dwarf, though his wits had returned, was still plagued by an unnatural cold. His breath plumed with crystalline frost, and delicate ice patterns traced themselves upon his beard, a stark contrast to the warmth of the roaring hearth he now huddled beside.
“The beast is gone, but its touch remains,” Lupendis rasped, his voice a low rumble, each word accompanied by a wisp of icy vapor.
After a much-needed rest, the companions began to assess their situation. Food and water were replenished from the nearby Tin Lake, its waters clear and abundant. Sternberg, his usual gruff demeanor softened by the promise of open spaces, found solace by its shores.
The Blade’s Whisper
Torben approached Lucia, the magical blade, Narsica, held carefully in his hands. The sword had been a formidable ally against the spectral giant, its inherent distaste for the undead a palpable force. Yet, Narca felt a subtle resistance in its hilt, a slight drag in its swing.
“I think it’s a fine sword,” Torben began, offering the blade to Lucia. “I am not opposed to using a sword like this, but… is a sword influencing me in some way?”
Lucia smiled faintly, a knowing glint in her eyes. “She did. It was… disconcerting, and at first, slightly insulting.”
Hmph. As if a mere mortal could wield me with true grace. She tries, I suppose.
“Yes,” Lucia continued, taking the blade. “She’s a lot. But she does love to hear that.”
Finally, back where I belong. Though the other one had a certain… brute force. Useful, in its way.
Torben nodded, a wry smile touching her lips. “A fine blade, regardless.”
A Donkey’s Burden
As the exchange concluded, two figures approached: Gwyn, a strong swords-woman with fiery red hair, and Tou, a middle-aged man with a bow strapped to his back. Lucia vaguely recognized them from her previous time at Ogre’s Thorn, likely in Kristoff’s employ.
“Mistress,” Gwyn began, a hint of desperation in her voice. “Where is Kristoff? Where is the rest of your group?”
Lucia sighed, the weight of recent losses heavy on her. “Unfortunately, Kristoff was killed. But Rudver here…” She gestured to the transformed donkey-turned-man, who shifted uncomfortably. “…he was Kristoff’s donkey. So, in a way, Kristoff lives on through him.”
Gwyn and Tou exchanged a look, then, to everyone’s surprise, dropped to one knee, presenting their blades to Rudver.
“Our contract was under Master Kristoff,” Tou declared, his voice firm. “We will pledge our service to Rudver here.”
Rudver, still adjusting to his human form, looked utterly bewildered. Torbin, ever the protector, stepped forward. “He’s still kind of getting his human feet, so don’t… startle him.”
Gwyn and Tou nodded, rising. “The Wolfkin Lord who protected us ran off some months ago,” Gwyn explained, her voice tinged with bitterness. “Said minding a keep did not sit well with him. Needed to test his strength.”
Rudver, finding his voice, bristled. “I’m very agitated. You can’t just leave the keep if you’re in charge of it!” He turned to the mercenaries. “I’m sorry, but it looks like you guys have kept this place up pretty well.” He paused, a flicker of his old self emerging. “And funny story, we almost brought someone to help kind of build it up, but then he lost both of his arms and died again. It was a tough journey.”
Gwyn gave Tou a dry side glance. “That seems to be a running problem for you all.”
The Keep’s Woes
The conversation soon turned to the keep’s dire financial state. The Wolfkin Lord’s departure had left them without funds.
“We have run out of money to pay the villagers and ourselves,” Tou admitted, his gaze falling upon the sparse, but tended, fields. “Fortunately, the garden and some hunting sustained us. But it is harvest time. We expect about 300 units of grain, enough for winter if we convert a room to a storeroom.”
The mercenaries, along with a baker, a lumberjack, and three surfs, comprised the meager staff of Ogre’s Thorn. Their combined wages amounted to four silver a day, and 84 silver was already owed.
Rudver, surprisingly, held a substantial sum: five gold, 45 silver, and seven copper. Grimnir also had a decent amount.
“I’ll contribute,” Lucia offered, ready to share the burden.
Sternberg, after a moment of quiet contemplation, grunted. “I’ll chip in 15 silver.” Expenses are repair a helmet, use what I found, and drink beer. That beer’s pretty cheap.
With contributions from all, the immediate financial crisis was averted. The companions, now the de facto protectors of Ogre’s Thorn 𒉭, resolved to train and prepare for whatever lay ahead.
Training and Solace
The quarter-day was spent in various pursuits. Torbin, ever focused on defense, honed his melee skills, pushing himself to new limits. Lucia, her mind alight with the day’s events, sought to deepen her understanding of the world.
She approached Lupendis, who, despite his cold condition, radiated an aura of ancient wisdom. She offered him a plate of food from the kitchen, a small gesture of camaraderie. “I know elders like to share their stories,” she said, hoping to coax tales from him.
Lupendis, touched by the gesture, regaled her with exploits from his long life, even showing her his journal, a meticulous record of his adventures. This quiet lesson in observation and record-keeping allowed Lucia to deepen her Lore (increased to 2).
Meanwhile, Sternberg, seeking escape from the lingering claustrophobia that gnawed at him, found his way to the Tin Lake. He cast his line into the shimmering waters, the vast openness a balm to his troubled mind.
The gentle lapping of the waves against the shore, the endless expanse of the lake stretching to the horizon, offered a profound sense of calm. The tight knot in his chest began to loosen, replaced by the rhythmic pull of his fishing line.
“They call me the fish master,” he grumbled, pulling in two units of fish, then two more. His success brought a rare smile to his lips, and the villagers rejoiced at the unexpected protein. His claustrophobia receded, taking 10 days off its grip.
Zara, ever practical, used the time to improve her Survival skills (increased to 2), knowing the wilds held many dangers. She also learned the basics of Sleight of Hand (increased to 1) from Sternberg, who offered pointers between casts.
Torbin, reflecting on the day’s events and his role as protector, chose to embrace the Path of Protection (rank 1) and Path of Fate (rank 1), talents befitting a champion of the Raven Sister. “Protecting the Raven Sister,” he mused, “makes perfect sense.”
Campfire Legends
As evening fell, a bonfire crackled to life in the center of Ogre’s Thorn 𒉭. The villagers, grateful for the return of order, gathered around, their faces illuminated by the dancing flames. Lupendis, now comfortably ensconced by the fire, held court.
“I have a good feeling about this place,” he declared, his icy breath still visible, but less pronounced in the warmth. “I’m going to share with you some stories I have heard over the years.”
He began with the tale of Weatherstone Castle. “Ten generations before your time, the cruel King Algarod declared Alderland overcrowded. He led an army across the mountains to Ravenland, where he fell against the demonic hordes of Zygapur. With him was lost the scepter Nekhaka, his rumored source of power.”
The wind, a mournful whisper, seemed to carry the echoes of ancient battles across the plains. The flickering firelight cast long, dancing shadows that twisted into the shapes of long-dead warriors and their spectral king.
“Legend has it that Algarod refused to die, standing watch in Weatherstone, awaiting the day he would march again to retrieve the scepter and complete his conquest. Though the curse was broken, and the undead king and his men finally found rest, whispers persist that Algarod’s war chest remains in Weatherstone, guarded by evil spirits and beasts. And in that war chest, or perhaps close to the king himself, is said to be his sword, Rustbite, magical in nature.”
Lucia, her newly honed Lore skills stirring, recalled fragments of information. She remembered tales from the Redrunners: the Nekhaka scepter, according to legend, housed one of the Stannengeist rubies. A vital piece, she mused, to keep out of Zygapur’s hands and perhaps return to the elves to complete the Stannengeist crown.
Lupendis then turned his gaze to Lucia and Torbin. “My next story might be of particular interest to some of you here.” He spoke of a fall festival, a gathering of peculiar interest to the Raven Sisters and those magically inclined. “The village is run by three powerful witches,” he concluded, a hint of warning in his tone.
“My sisters,” Lucia murmured, a sense of purpose stirring within her.
A New Steward
As the night deepened and the others retired, Lupendis approached the core group. “The hunters and I spoke,” he began, his voice low. “With the absence of your Wolfkin warrior friend, Ogre’s Thorn is in need of leadership and stronger defenses.”
He continued, “My people banished me, and my family is gone. I find myself without purpose. I can be of use. If you are so inclined, I would be happy to offer my services as your Huskarl, to take care of Ogre’s Thorn in your absence.”
Rudver, surprisingly, was the first to respond. “I vote yes.”
“I ask nothing but a place to stay, help when I call for it,” Lupendis added. “I don’t intend to take a salary, but I might need to dip into your coffers from time to time to make improvements as per your instructions.”
“That sounds amazing!” Rudver exclaimed. “You know, in another life, I was a mine foreman before I became a warrior,” Lupendis said, a rare, genuine smile gracing his icy features. “Until you find someone better, I believe I can help you make do.”
The hunters, Tolu and Gwyn, also pledged to remain as scouts and gamekeepers, solidifying the keep’s defenses. With Ogre’s Thorn now in capable hands, the path ahead lay open for the adventurers.
The Road South
The next morning, with Ogre’s Thorn secured, the companions decided to press onward. Their initial goal of heading southwest, towards Amber’s Peak still beckoned, but the lure of the witch festival and the legends of Weatherstone also pulled at their minds.
The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant pine. The rolling hills stretched before them, a tapestry of muted greens and browns under a sky the color of slate. A faint, unsettling tremor occasionally vibrated through the ground, a subtle reminder of the spectral giant’s lingering threat.
Lucia, leading the way with her keen Survival skills, guided them through the plains. They discovered a dilapidated shepherd’s hut, a potential winter hunting cabin for Ogre’s Thorn’s scouts. Pressing on, they continued southwest.
Their journey led them to the broken remains of an ancient outpost, a testament to a forgotten civilization. Nature had reclaimed it, leaving only fallen remnants and memories lost to time. Rudver, his Lore proving invaluable, meticulously examined the site. He pulled out a strange arrowhead, similar to one found near the Dankwood.
“I believe this soldier was part of the same army,” Rudver declared, his voice firm, “and not only that, I believe that he was part of Algarod’s army. We could be getting close to Weatherstone.” The ancient standard of Algarod’s forces, though faded, was unmistakable on a tattered piece of cloth snagged on a broken wall.
The group considered their next move. The witch festival, Hexenwald, was a compelling destination. Lupendis’s tales had hinted that a direct southern route, then southeast, might lead them there.
“South and southeast,” Torbin affirmed, “If we have an intuition, that’s the way to go.”
The Ominous Procession
The companions pressed on, their boots crunching on the dry grass of the plains. Lucia, ever vigilant, led the way. Zara, her eyes scanning the horizon, kept watch.
The wind, which had been a gentle caress, now whipped across the low-growing shrubs, carrying a strange, rhythmic sound. A vast hollow in the ground offered a temporary respite, a natural shelter from the elements and prying eyes.
Suddenly, Zara froze. “Something approaches,” she whispered, her voice tight with alarm. Her sharp eyes had caught movement in the distance, giving them just enough time to conceal themselves in the hollow.
From their hiding place, a chilling sight unfolded. A large procession emerged from the plains, moving with a disturbing, unified purpose. Dressed in black and wrapped in blackberry thorns, they whipped and beat themselves, their cries a horrifying symphony of pain and devotion. Several had cut off their tongues or ears; some had even picked out their own eyes.
At the front, a group of women in red carried a plate with burning incense, one holding a pole adorned with a strange iron symbol. In the middle of the crowd, a wooden construction on wheels groaned through the mud. From ropes, naked people hung, hooks attached beneath their skin. Chained slaves, their faces grim, pushed the macabre structure forward.
“Do we want to get involved in this?” Narca whispered, her hand instinctively going to her sword.
“Does it appear that the people hanging are hanging there consensually?” Torbin asked, his brow furrowed with concern.
Lucia, her mind reeling from the horrific spectacle, focused her insight. These were fanatics, she realized, their devotion twisted into a grotesque display. The slaves, however, were a different matter; their servitude could be born of debt or defeat, their faces unreadable.
“Unless we’re trying to join a new cult,” Sternberg muttered, “I suggest we just give them a wide berth and let them go about their business.”
Torbin, despite his heavy armor, moved with surprising stealth, leading the group in a desperate attempt to avoid detection. The fanatics, lost in their zeal, passed by, their whips cracking, their chants echoing across the plains.
Lucia and Zara, however, found their concentration shattered. The sheer horror of the procession had left them shaken, their wits momentarily dulled by the profound insanity they had witnessed. The images burned behind their eyes, a grim stain on the otherwise serene landscape. The wind, now a cold, unsettling sigh, seemed to carry the lingering scent of incense and suffering.
As the last of the procession faded into the distant horizon, the companions remained hidden, their hearts pounding, the memory of what they had seen etched forever into their minds. The road to Hexenwald, it seemed, was fraught with more than just witches and ancient lore.
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