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  #46  
Old Jun 25th, 2014, 05:33 PM
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Crusted snow flaked from his flesh unnoticed, enticing the unseen wrath of the storm it seemed. Winds, snow, and temperatures that would be lethal to nearly any mortal assailed this lone wanderer. His bare arms, though exposed to the elements, showed no sign of chill. In harsh, refracted sunlight of the blizzard, the glint of metal flashed under the cured fur over his shoulders.

Those furs, not worn for protection of anything mundane, whipped about in the gusts of the storm. Their significance went well beyond an unneeded warmth for the warrior bearing them. Instead, they stood as sigils of portent among his people. It was not lost upon the warrior that prestige among his people was a moot point, as he no longer was of a people. The Dakur'Guld were gone, and he knew not where.

The lone barbarian had wandered the southern reaches of Nihlus for weeks now, his only guide the fevered images of his dreams. In them, he witnessed the waning power of what he'd come to know as the god of his people. A might proud bear of the celestial realm, sickened by the loss of faith among his chosen. It was entirely possible that his last surviving worshipper now trudged alone through the unforgiving realm of Nihlus. It was also entirely possible that the Bear God, Dakur, was a figment of the barbarian's imagination.

If that proved true, then Tolle had indeed lost everything.

He could not accept that.

Hope of a kind was delivered to the wanderer when he came upon a grove of trees in the eastern region of the Nihlus penninsula. Carvings, in a language similar to that of his vanished people, told of superstitious tales regarding the moon, were-wolves, and a lake of blue fire. He understood the first two well enough. His own absent tribe was the mirror of the wolf worshiping folk of these lands, and were there any were-bears remaining in the world, they would be considered sacred. Unfortunately, he could neither confirm nor deny their continued existence. He could only wander this frozen land by day, and the chaotic landscapes of his dreams by night.

He followed the carvings, axe in hand, senses aflame with caution. This wood was sacred to those that would hunt him relentlessly. As such, remaining undetected would prove invaluable. He stuck to game trails, faint in track, that seemed largely avoided by any creatures of the bipedal nature. One particular path led up a steep climb, a cliff of sorts.

At the top, he found the rushing water of a frozen river. Frost lined and solid, even the raging torrents of water were stilled in time by the unrelenting subzero air of Nihlus. Frozen mid wave, come the spring, there would be a great surge of water as temperatures allowed the water a return to life, though it be brief.

Studying this display of nature's beauty, Tolle suddenly heard voices coming from below the falls. Creeping to the edge, he spied three humans upon the lake's surface below. Curiously, he watched them cautiously move to the shore of the lake, their attention fixed downward. Something beneath the ice had their attention.

The source revealed itself as twin spirits ascended through the ice. Frost folk in appearance, these spirits had relinquished their mortal coils. Likely not of their own free will. He'd seen such creatures before, and knew those upon the shore were in mortal danger. Seekers of heat, the spirits would drain all the life from any living creature they found.

It was now up to Tolle, last son of the Dakur'Guld, to decide if his vision had led him here for a purpose, or if his own fevered dreams were naught but delusions of a lone survivor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

8 years was a long time to nurse a grudge. Not that Muriel needed even a fraction of that time to come to hate someone, but the time she had spent imprisoned in this enchanted block of ice really gave her the necessary opportunity to cement her hatred.

She could blame herself, but that really wasn't an option, now was it? Sure, she planned the same degree of betrayal visited upon her, but anytime Muriel Favreaux came up on the losing side, it was obviously someone else's fault.

Like that backstabber, Gothos Von Crois.

He'd told her of his quest for the library, playing to her desires with subtly dropped hints of hidden power and arcane secrets not seen for centuries. And she'd played the part of the suckered accomplice, knowing he fully intended to discard her when she'd used up the last ounce of usefulness.

The discrepancy in her plan came when her usefulness dried up before she'd ever expected.

They'd found the lake, following the scraps and obscure clues Gothos had gleaned over the years. They'd even evaded those war mongering Frost Folk that seemed everywhere in the wilds. She'd expected the betrayal well after they'd entered the library. And that had proved her downfall.

Magically enhanced, they'd been swimming to the bottom of the lake when he'd spun about, eyes alight with cunning and spite. She knew that look, perhaps too well from her own past betrayals. Pure reflex gave her one ward against his ambush, and it had proved enough. Well, almost enough. She'd warded her mind against any and all attacks against it, but it was a physical impediment she'd underestimated. And he'd planned it perfectly to exploit that error.

The water surrounding her had frozen, almost instantly, encasing her in a tomb of ice. Her last spell, one of gaseous form, had not been enough to escape. Instead, she'd simply become a frozen cloud beneath the waves. Bemused at her predicament, Muriel learned a unique facet of the spell imprisoning her.

The ice, it seemed, froze even time itself. Thoughts that took seconds to form before now took weeks. Conscious thought became a discourse of months. The 8 years of imprisonment, while that bastard Gothos had carried on without her, had passed in but a moment to her mind, yet she was still somehow aware of it's passage.

She too became aware of the spirits in the lake, which found her a curiosity, but in her current frozen state, nothing of consequence to their interests. They passed her by, seeking life from any living creature above, relegating her to simple decoration in their aquarian realm.

It was in this state that Kiriel's haste spell reached out to her being, even in it's dispersed, gaseous state. The bolstering of her mental quickness negated the slowing effects of the ice, bringing her mind into sharp focus. Even as her mental facilities returned, a thin crack in the ice began to grow...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Meanwhile Kiriel, Sev, and Jenna had their hands full with the agitated undead drifting towards them. Cold of an unnatural level permeated the air, chilling their very souls.

Sev sorted through his items, while Kiriel's voice bolstered her allies courage and enhanced their abilities. Jenna took advantage of the magically gifted speed to use an ability of her own. Focusing inward, a slight shimmer encased her body, then vanished. Satisfied with her work, she decided against her better judgement to follow Sev's plan. Most of them had worked thus far, at least.

Most.

Taking to the air, she soared up and over the spirits, hoping to draw their attention back to the center of the lake. She was partially successful as one spirit turned to follow her flight, lagging behind her hasted movements.

The other remained concentrated upon it's prey on shore. In this case, that proved to be the beautiful maiden with the melodious voice. Drifting within reach, a whispy limb raked across Ki's forearm. Cold the likes of which she'd never felt burned into her flesh, then through her flesh. Something else was delivered with the incorporeal touch, and her body shivered with the cold.

The spirits of the living wavered while the hated of the undead flamed anew.

OoCOk, lot's to cover here.

Nimlos - You are 20 feet up a frozen waterfall, and then 30 feet horizontally from the conflict.

Moo - You are 20 feet under water. For game's sake, the gaseous form you used was a magic item, since it's not on your spell list. You are still encased in ice, but the reformation of your body might break free. If you can roll a fort save of 18, you break the ice and reform underwater, a water breathing spell still in tact, yet waning. If you fail, you're still frozen, but can attempt again soon.

Chuck, take 5 cold damage, then I need a DC 20 fort save. Then, following that, a DC 21 fort save. The first I'll explain later. The second, if failed, leaves you fatigued.

Alright ya'll, I might be able to put together a map at some point. If you have questions, fire away in the OoC. Hope no one minds how I entered them into the game.... lol.
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  #47  
Old Jun 26th, 2014, 01:59 PM
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Tolle stares down at the tableau before him for only a moment before his mind is made up. Maybe it's courage at the knowledge those souls beneath him are in peril. Maybe it's the possibility of companionship to end the long days and nights of loneliness. Maybe it's the call of combat. It's probably all three of them, mixed in some measure. His lips draw back in a determined smile.

"Athko!" The figure at the top of the falls makes himself known in a loud bellow that carries and echoes across the frozen lake, shouting in some archaic tongue - about the only words of it he knows, and even those buoyed by what he remembers from his recent dreams. He only knows half of what it means, but he knows it's a challenge. "Shmedt hasht Tolle verrunden Hoarsjokull!"

Not bothering with a running start, the figure leaps into the air, seeming almost to take flight. His fur-rimmed hood falls back from his pale face, his leather-bound white hair streams behind him as his walrus-leather cloak flaps and snaps in the wind like a pair of enormous bat wings.

The broad silver head of an ax glitters in the too-bright winter sun, starting its descent toward the spirit threatening Kiriel while its wielder is still in the air. His boots strike the ice with a pair of thick thumps and an ominous crack from below, even as the ax itself cleaves into the ghost's head. It flashes through the apparition, splitting it down the center in a blow that would kill anything mortal. The bright blade bites into the ice, acting as an anchor to stop the momentum of Tolle's jump from sending him sliding away across the frozen surface.

With a grunt and a twist of his arm, the ax comes free, but by now the ghost has drifted back together, looking no worse for the wear from the blow that cut it in two. Tolle spins on one foot, remarkably graceful for someone so large - particularly someone so large moving on a mostly frictionless surface - his ax spinning as well like a counterweight to his own movement. Ice grinds and crackles under his boots, and he comes to a stop, crouched and ready, twirling the haft of the axe in his thick-fingered hands. Eyes slitted, lips drawn back in a snarl, there is still a look about his face of a man ... having fun.

"Come zen," he mocks the ghost in accented Common, pounding his clenched fist twice on his frost-rimed breastplate and sending a small shower of flecks and chips of ice cascading down to the frozen expanse below. "Come howl wit me, wolf bitch."

 
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  #48  
Old Jun 26th, 2014, 03:49 PM
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"Jenna, you egit!" Sev yelled after the psion knowing she would ignore him even if she heard him. He had
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Jenna had become the defacto Crow's Watch since the loss of Mr. Jenkins. Every now and again Chooey would take it, if only to seperate him from Pressly. The old man was too invaluable to let go, so Sev put up with his occasional bouts of racisim, chalking it up to back in his day, that's just the way things were. Sev had collected Jenkin's personal affects from the crew quaters and had them stowed in his cabin. He looked through them and found many letters written to his sweet-heart back home. He figured he'd have to send them off to her with his own letter of bad news. The crew set off to do their parts to ready the ship for docking, the dance was well practiced by now and most of them could do it in their sleep. Before Jenna left the group though, Sev grabbed her arm and took her aside. "I'm sure you are aware of this, but keep your powers under wraps around here. We can't be sure how people will react and you never know when you might need an ace. And someone get the others up here." He said aloud to whichever of the crew was listening.
hoped that Jenna was wiser than her years and was smart enough to keep her skill set as an ace card, but she was too young and curious. Sev couldn't blame her, he was the same when he was younger, but that didn't keep him from keeping double standards.

As his eyes followed Jenna across the sky, he heard Ki's song skip a beat. He looked back down and saw the other wight clawing at her. His senses of *where beautiful women folk were concernedchilvary* and self preservation clashed. For half a second, Sev found himself thinking about what to do next, completely forgetting about the next step in his hair brained scheme. (Looking for something easily set aflame for those keeping tabs)

Sev was kneeling over his bag, on top was his old cloak. Brainwave! Sev tosses the flask & vial in the air, juggling them as if a third item was to come. Sev knew that if he dropped his flask of alchemist fire... *CRACK!

If it wasn't so cold, Sev probably would have pissed himself. The cracking ice sounded just like breaking glass. Out of the corner of his eye, Sev see's a burly mass of furs weilding a big feckin' axe that just fell through the incorporal wight. At the current moment, Sev wasn't going to ask any questions. If the thing was swinging at his enemy, he'd count himself fortunate at least until the common enemy was gone... but one thing at a time.

Focusing back on his task, Sev found his moment in the juggle cycle and reached for his spare cloak. Quicker than a melting snowball in hell, the cloak was tossed to the now cracked ice under the ghost. A moment later, the Alchemist fire burst onto the cloak, catching it aflame, the sudden burst of heat taking the edge off the bone reaching chill. The last ingredient in for the fire, the vial of holy water.

Sev hoped that would be enough to give Ki a chance to withdrawl. With the ice weakend, Sev wanted, even more than before, to get off the ice.

 
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Old Jun 28th, 2014, 12:10 AM
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Gothos.

The philosophers mused that all men were motivated by one of three things: money, sex or power. Muriel Favreaux was motivated by hate.

Throughout the eight years of her timeless imprisonment she thought of one thing -- revenge. Every fiber of her being, every sliver of her formidable will, every spark of her brilliant intellect bent toward freeing herself from her icy prison and exacting long, bitter, agonizing vengeance upon Gothos Von Crois. He would suffer at her hand and beg for mercy before the end... if it was the last thing she ever did. Not that she ever believed it would be. Rather, her vengeful hand would be the first act of many that would establish the name of Favreaux as one to be feared. Men would tremble at her approach. Women would weep and children would flee. And never again would scum like Von Crois dare to cross so much as her shadow, so swift, so brutal and so thorough would be the price exacted for Gothos' betrayal.

Her murderous meditations reached a fever pitch as the errant spell engulfed her incorporeal form. Her mind raced, the world surging to life at lightning speed all around her as her consciousness returned to the present... and the first cracks began to appear in the frozen facade that had so long imprisoned her.

The icy cage burst asunder as the wizardess summoned the fullness of her willpower to reacquire her true form. Deep beneath the frozen lake a woman manifested from the gasses trapped within a block of ice. Pallid skin, long white hair flowing free upon the frostbitten waters, ornate robes of blue and silver, a satchel slung across her chest and eyes as icy blue as that which so recently entrapped her.

Freed from her magically wrought confines, but still submerged beneath the frozen lake, she darted toward the surface as best she could but knew even before her fingers brushed the thick layer of ice which sealed what would become her watery grave that she remained trapped. Numb hands fumbled for the dagger she kept tucked into her belt.

WHAM! Muriel screamed as a massive object landed directly over her. Only a weak but lingering water breathing spell kept her from taking on enough water to drown herself in that moment.

KkkkkrrrrrrrrKK! The ice overhead crackled treacherously and the object... not a falling timber, nor even a bear, but a man -- or something like a man -- slammed a massive axe into the already yielding surface of the sheet of ice.

KKRACK! A massive, long break appeared directly over Muriel's head where her foolhardy savior had struck the frozen surface of the lake with his weapon.

But then... he turned his attentions elsewhere. Panic followed quickly on the heels of Muriel's realization that the axe-wielding man was not attempting to break her free, but attempting to fend off something else entirely. It would take hours, if not days, to chip through the ice sheet with her dagger and quickly numbing limbs. Muriel did not have hours.

She slammed both hands against the clear sheet of ice and cried out, "Down here! Help me!" But scream and motion as she might, she could not clearly tell if the man heard her, much less understood.

Muriel Favreaux took a long, deep breath to calm herself, closed her eyes and reached out with her mind. Above the ice, in the midst of a life-and-death battle with the fiendish spectors, Tolle the wild warrior Telepathic Link (see spoiler)heard clearly and crisply within his own mind, as though the speaker stood at his shoulder, "Free me, my friend. Break the ice and release me, lest I perish."

The request, however reasonable, seemed to be unusually persuasive... Suggestion (see spoiler)even compelling, for while atop the lake a cadre of unlikely companions battled malevolent spirits, beneath its frigid waters Muriel Favreaux wove ancient magics, twisting the substance of the ether planes to her whims and, in effect, commanding the man with the axe to focus his attentions upon her imprisonment rather than the more obvious threat before him.

 

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Old Aug 6th, 2014, 10:29 PM
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A more perverse, fated gathering had not likely graced existence in centuries as that which was converging upon the frozen surface of Blue Fire Lake. Somewhere, upon some plane, a deific visage must surely be affixed to a scrying bowl, feeding it's voyeuristic nature with zeal at the combat playing out in this remote, inhospitable corner of the world. If not, then fate was indeed a fickle beast, and it's plans were unfathomable to any sane mind.

Above the lake, spirit pursued psion in a cat and mouse game of aviation prowess. Jenna strained to keep her distance from the frozen spector tailing her, yet close enough as to not dissuade it's interest. Thus far, she was successful, and this was perhaps the most important factor to those attempting to slay the remaining ghost below.

Ki flinched away from the unholy cold of the frost folk spirit's touch, it's hand print frost-burned into her flesh. She struggled against that invasive touch, the cold stealing more than the heat from her physical self, but the very life from her soul. However, it took more than a glancing blow to steal the shine from a spirit so bright. Kiriel took a moment to steele herself from the scathing feeling, then resumed her song, bolstering her allies.

While Ki recovered, Sev juggled. In a majestic display of street performing skill, the rotated and delivered a 3 phased attack of cloak, fire, and holy water. The cloak floated to the ice beneath the ghost attacking Ki, followed by the shattering glass of two vials. Flames, then a sparkling steam engulfed the incorporeal barbarian, eating hungrily at it's whispy form. The ectoplasmic flesh of the spirit shaman seemed to burn, and it's cold, stern visage turned in the pirate's direction, unholy rage burning sub zero temperatures behind it's eyes.

With a detached sort of single mindedness, it turned up on Sev and raced across the ice, ephemeral hand swiping at the pirate. He hissed as his flesh burned and blackened at the cold. He felt his energy ebb with the touch as well, and fought against the effect.

Meanwhile, the ice splintered beneath Tolle's feet, and the spirit remained oblivious to his presence. A wide spread crack spiderwebbed through the ice. Then came the beckons from beneath the surface of the lake...

OoCOk, Nimlos, I'll let you determine through rolls and rp what happens with the suggestion spell, as it's a pvp action, and I am no P. lol.

Irish, Sev takes 8 cold damage. Then I need two fort saves. Same deal as Chuck's last set. First save I'll tell ya if you fail, the second if you fail you are fatigued.

Chops, if life get's off your back, have yourself two actions, as I didn't do anything with Ki. My hatred of bards has left me berefit of any useful knowledge about how to play them. So there.

I've not combat map for ya'll at the moment. Apologies. I just wanted to get this game post moving again. Tally ho!
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Old Aug 7th, 2014, 12:04 PM
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Teeth bared in a humorless grin, Tolle squares off opposite the drifting specter, expecting at any moment the thing will rush him. His knuckles clench whiter on the haft of his axe and he twists it between his hands. It will have to serve better than it did on its first strike.

With a gruff rustle of thick fabric and the chinking sound of cracking glass, a strange collection of oddments lands on the ice beneath the spirit, abruptly igniting into a peculiar fire that burns the thing, distracting it for a moment. But before Tolle can take advantage, he feels a feather-like tickling in the back of his mind and words suddenly ring out from nowhere.

"Free me, my friend. Break the ice and release me, lest I perish."

With a gasp of surprise, he turns his gaze to the ice at his feet. There, beneath the thick crust, a deeper shadow in the shadowed water, something moves. Dimly, he can guess the shapes of flailing arms and legs, of fists beating uselessly on the frozen surface.

How? How could someone be below? No holes broke the surface, none he had seen from his vantage atop the frozen falls. The spirit he threatened a moment before is drifting away, pursuing another of the strangers, and Tolle turns, planting his feet wide. However this one - with the strangers or yet another party? - came to be there, she has little time. A death beneath the ice - such was counted among the most terrible of the many ways this land could slay. Yet the ice was thick. Was there time?

The touch brushes his mind again, but stronger this time, more insistent. Demanding. Compelling. On instinct, he marshals his thoughts against it, but too late. The touch rides over his defense, turning his want to rescue the trapped woman into an irresistible need.

His ax sweeps high in a broad arc and the tall warrior puts the full might of every muscle in his body into the blow as it descends. The blow strikes the ice with a thunderclap of impact and a quiver of protest at such abuse trembles up the haft into his hands. Well that the weapon is enchanted, or the blow would likely have been its last. A hundred frozen razors of shattered ice flash white and silver in the sun as they scatter in every direction from the crater that suddenly appears in the lake's surface.

Chunks of ice grind together in the gap, and Tolle drops to his hands and knees beside it. With another blow, he drives one meaty fist through the last fragments of ice and into the frigid water below, reaching and grasping until his thick fingers find purchase, closing around a grip that's equal parts Muriel's hair, clothing and pack. With a small cry of triumph he surges back to his feet, dragging Muriel out through the buffeting debris of ice.

The compulsion gone as quickly as it came, he holds her aloft for a moment, staring into her face, his eyes a blue so pale they're almost clear. "Strange fish," he deadpans. In a flash, he goes from stillness to motion, spinning halfway around for momentum and flinging her, arms and legs flailing, into the relative safety of a snowbank on the shores of the lake, some twenty feet away.

He gathers up his ax again, a low, soft growl in his throat. Time enough to deal with the matter of trying to compel him in a moment. After the dog-ghosts are dealt with.
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Old Aug 13th, 2014, 04:29 PM
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The beautiful bard's voices falters only briefly as the undead things icy touch rips through her flesh and soul. But Kiriel is no stranger to cold, and while perhaps her home isn't quite as frigid as this gods-forsaken land it's not much warmer, and her song recovers after only a note or two missed. Her allies, including the muscular stranger and the sopping woman he just somehow pulled from beneath the ice That's a story I must know. are all fighting for their lives and she will do no different regardless of the pain that this thing might deal to her.

Dodging ice chip shrapnel Ki reaches out for the bear of a man standing a good foot taller than her and weighing easily twice her weight. Her petite hand barely grips half of his....bicep and she quickly intones the Heroism. +2 to all attacks, saves and skill checks for the next 90 minutes.words of a spell that infuses him with strength of body, spirit and mind, filling him with the knowledge that he is a true hero. With a wink and a smile she catches his eye, "You ready to take that thing down?"

Drawing her sword, again about half the size of bear man's axe, Kiriel moves quickly and easily across the ice, clearly familiar with the sliding shuffle-step required to remain well balanced on the slick surface. Part way there her step turns into what can only be described as an Looks sort of like this, only with a sword. erratic spinning dance. With oddly jerky, unpredictable motions she covers the last few feet of ice between her and the frosty spectre.

Ki's longsword hums with an echo of her own voice and with every swing lets out a shrieking whistle that is loud enough to those standing nearby, let alone the actual target of the attack. Her breath puffs into frost as she burns intense energy to keep up this hectic combat style. After a few howling strikes all three gems on her belt glow brightly and fade, allowing her to continue the audible onslaught. The bard's blade catches the essence of the incorporeal creature several times, each ripping out some portion of whatever magic it is that keeps the thing locked here instead of moving on from the world.

One final thunderous retort and Kiriel gives a flowery riposte, ending with her arm held out straight, longsword a natural extension of the appendage and her cloak settling quietly behind her. The hum from her blade dulls to a tuning fork resonance, still on pitch with Ki's inspirational song. Still holding that position the bard takes a single step back, clearing a path for the newcomer or Sev or anyone else that might feel the need to get close to the thing. One deep breath is exhaled as a sigh as her body tries to keep up with the frenetic pace of the fight.


OOCKiriel AC 25 (26 to closest enemy) Touch 16 (17 to closest enemy). HP 52/57. 30% miss chance on all attacks against Ki (Blurred Alacrity).

Phew, that was a busy pair of rounds. Dice and Mechanics.

First, Tolle now has +2 morale bonus to pretty much all d20 rolls thanks to Heroism, duration 90 minutes.

Everyone still has a total of +3 to hit, +2 to damage, +1 to AC, +1 to saves vs fear and Reflex saves, +30' movement, and an extra attack when taking a full attack action.

Unless I mis-added, that looks like 69 damage to the frosty bitch.
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Old Aug 17th, 2014, 12:35 PM
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The ghost reached out to Sev and touched his soul. The treasure hunter had a fair share of personal experience with undead, as comes with the territory of raiding ancient crypts looking for relics, but he always had Duncan with him, someone who always knew what to do with them. Sev had never felt anything like this before though. Even though the burning cold hand slashed at his arm, it felt as if it tugged on his heart. His whole body felt drained and sluggish.

Ignorant of the more painful effects that the touch could have caused, Sev stood up to face the assailant. Hoping for the best, he drew his silver dagger and waved it awkwardly at the ghost. The touch had left more than some scratches.

 
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Old Sep 2nd, 2014, 09:55 AM
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Muriel gasped as a hand closed around her hair and robes and pulled her violently from beneath the icy lake. Fear momentarily gripped the wizardess' heart as she came eye-to-eye with her rescuer -- a man who appeared no more friendly than the malevolent specters that assailed him. A spell half-formed upon her numbed lips before the man discarded her like so much refuse.

Scrambling from the bank and spitting snow from her mouth, Muriel hastily wiped the slush from her pale face and surveyed the tactical situation. She knew nothing of those who opposed the protective spirits, but anyone seeking to cross the lake seemed likely to share her purpose, at least in part.

The Library... and the secrets it contained might still be hers. Perhaps Gothos had done her a favor, preserving her here until a more competent group of explorers came seeking the same power the two of them had so coveted. If the spirits assailed Gothos Von Crois with the same unyielding ferocity that they now displayed toward these strangers -- some stranger than others, she mused, with a glance at Tolle -- then Gothos was dead and Muriel deprived of her revenge. That alone seemed cause for obliterating the willful spirits.

Her hatred warmed her and words rose to her lips, trickling off her tongue slowly at first as the chill departed and her vocal chords groaned at their long disuse. "The power of the storm belongs to those with the will to summon it.Puterea de furtuna aparține acesta."

The air around Muriel crackled with power... an invisible tension. Individiual strands of her limp, wet, blonde hair rose to stand on end. Pale blue eyes shimmered with arcane light and the final words of the incantation spilled from her lips, "Come, storm, rage.Pridite, nevihte, bes."

The very air rippled and a blinding arc of light streamed forth from the tall woman's delicate hands. Lightning shot forth, coursing through the very core of the frostborn spirits. The flash of pure light reflected brilliantly off the frozen lake, followed immediately by a deafening clap of thunder. The faint scent of burning lingered in the wake of the spell from where the heat had scorched the very air around it.

She turned her cool stare from the ghostly creature to the embattled bard and inclined her head faintly. Friend, not foe, said the nod.

 

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Old Sep 2nd, 2014, 09:57 PM
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Theirs was a cursed existence. Millenia spent unfeeling, uncaring, and full of unnatural rage. A caustic passing of ages, corroding the spirit of that which began as something so beautiful, it deserved generations of song. Twisted into a mockery of it's intent, an tragedy to span the ages.

Names have long since eroded under time's unrelenting assault. Nor are they relevant any longer. The story is not unique, nor unusual to begin. A couple, bound in love beyond reproach. Theirs was a time of savage disquiet among the tribes, for they had lost their gods. Banished, fled, slain, none could fathom where The Pack had gone. Confident in their beliefs, and in each other, the couple set out to find that which had been lost.

Their path brought them to a lake, frozen and peaceful. Nothing stirred, no tracks marred the pure layer of snow across the ice's surface. Above, a waterfall frozen in descent. There, perched upon that icey monolith stood an omen. A wolf of pure black fur, watching their approach. The couple fell to their knees, faces flat in praise of what could only be an omen of their gods' return. Hand intertwined, joy beat through their hearts.

Omens are fickle creatures, and often scene were none exist. Had they kept their eyes upon their supposed omen, they would have seen their blessed symbol flee in fear from what their praise awakened.

Something old beyond time provoked to awareness, reaching out it's awareness to grace the two souls prostrate upon the ice. It's caress, gentle at first, brought joy to the hearts of the seekers. They wept with resplendent, overwhelming happiness. It was in this moment of bliss the being stole their souls, ripping them from their mortal coils. With that, went all the love and joy contained within the two. All that was left was malevolent hatred for losing what they had possessed. It coalesced, engulfing them. Reforming them.

Content with it's harvest, the being returned to it's ageless slumber, yet the two lovers remained. For eternity.

It took a bard's blade, a pirate's cunning, a barbarian's savagery, and a mage's power to cut deep enough to draw the heart's blood once more.

With a horrid shriek, the first spirit dissipated into a fine mist. Facing it, Kiriel was allowed a fleeting glimpse of the face reveal as the hatred died. Peaceful, grateful, and full of love. Even as it burned away, it turned skyward and whispered a word in a tongue unrecognizeable to all but one upon the lake.

"Nak'thulas...."

Tolle, looking on with masked eyes, echoed in the common tongue the meaning for any near enough to hear. "Beloved..."

Jenna glanced back to find she was no longer pursued. The spirit behind her was fading into the ephemeral beyond that scholars and priests the world around debated. Be that the afterlife or empty oblivion, she had the impression the creature was content to pass on.

With the passing, the lake grew still once again. Steam rose off of each of those present in waves, whisking away into the frigid mountain air. The only sound the hammering breaths of those struggling for their lives only moments before. Friends, strangers, and reawakened souls each now shared in the peace, though it would likely be shattered by the first word spoken...

OoCOk, you annihilated that ghost! Even though it wasn't a ghost. Hard enough to make me fabricate a story about their past lol. That, and it's been a while since I got to post here!

So, 2 ghosts down. For you new jacks, I don't do XP. I'll just tell you when you level. This is not one of those times lol.

You all now have a frozen lake to yourselves, a great deal of explanation to cover, and hole through a sheet of ice. Enjoy!
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Old Sep 3rd, 2014, 09:58 AM
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The strangers all stood around for an awkward moment, sizing each other up. Well, the enemy of my enemy and all that I suppose. At least for the next hour or so. the swashbuckler thought to himself.

Trading looks between the two new faces and Ki's, Sev pulled out a small box he kept on his belt. Without looking away, he shouted up to his friend, "Jenna, since you're up there, be a dear and fetch some firewood. No point letting this fire go to waste." In all honesty, warming himself up was his first priority, but he had to keep his
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poker face on. From the box, Sev produced what looked like a bit of paper rolled around dried leaves. He placed one on his lips and pulled another small item from the box, a tiny stick with a wee blob of something waxy on one end. He dragged the stick along the side of the box and the top of the stick burst into flames. With the stick now on fire, he lit the bit of paper in his mouth.

Tossing the used match into the fire that was the still burning cloak, Sev offered the box to the new faces. After taking a long draw on his own cigarette, he looked to the others, a smile on his face.

"So..." he started, interrupting himself with another draw on his cigarette, "Come here often?"
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Old Sep 3rd, 2014, 11:13 PM
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The two spirits gone, or perhaps even destroyed, Tolle lets himself breathe a sigh of slow relief. It lasts only a moment, though. Now there was the matter of the strangers, and the one who had tried to compel him. Still, aside from the compulsion, they had done nothing yet to suggest they were of ill intention. And the prospect of company was enticing. Particularly the chance to meet hotlanders.

The pale-skinned warrior looks doubtfully at the small package the small man offers him, unsure what it is and equally unsure whether refusing would be considered some manner of insult. Instead, he reverses his ax and drives the tip of its head a couple of inches into the ice, resting one hand on the butt of the haft.

"Hullo," he says amiably, turning to look at each of the newcomers. "And no. Zis would be first time I am here." He slaps his left hand lightly on his chest. "I am Tolle, of Clan Hoarsjokull."

He's barely gotten the words of the introduction out when his face looks suddenly alarmed,the expression of a man who's forgotten something. "Very sorry," he blurts out, covering his left eye with one hand. "Give me moment." He digs into a pouch of sealskin at his belt, sorting through its contents. "I have heard it that you hotlanders fear us," he says, finally seeming to find what he's been looking for. "Und so I have made zis." He ducks his head and fastens a somewhat crude eyepatch in place, concealing his left eye. Once he's sure it's secure, he looks up again, smiling hopefully at the strangers.
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Old Sep 7th, 2014, 09:28 PM
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The tall woman with the sour expression stepped forward and with trembling hands accepted the case proffered by the curiously casual man. "Th-thank you."

Her eyes darted repeatedly upward, skittish and distrustful, as her pale blue hands -- numb with cold and trembling more with each passing moment -- fumbled with the delicate brown leaves and the thin papers. Assembling what passed for a cigarette, she closed the tin and handed it back to the man before edging over to warm herself beside the smoldering fire.

The heat stung at first. Cold's ancient enemy, she mused. The cold had claimed her body in those moments beneath the frozen lake and now the fire wished to bring her back. As Muriel Favreaux knew well, such reclamations were not without pain. She lit her cigarette from the fire and brought it to her pale blue lips, her hand trembling apoplectically.

Dark blue and bronzish brown robes clung thickly to her form, outlining a thin but womanly physique. Damp white hair had plastered itself to the sides of her face, held back in part by a dark blue headband set with a sizable sapphire. The trappings of an adventurer were about her. A leather satchel, a sturdy belt, a stylish padded chestpiece no doubt concealing some form of armoring, a gnarled old staff and a silvered dagger tucked into an ornate leather hilt at her hip.

She inhaled deeply and blew out smoke. Slowly her color returned and her voice along with it. She arced a single perfectly manicured brow at Tolle of Clan Hoarsjokull and pursed her pale pink lips in a show of distaste at his makeshift eye patch.

She turned her attentions to the smoker and the woman. "Muriel. Who are you? And what is your business here?" She glanced around warily and frowned sharply, tapping the ash from her cigarette impatiently into the cloak fire. "Have you any dealings with Master Gothos Von Crois? He is... or was... my partner." Her tone remained coy but her ice blue eyes burned with a feverish intensity as she awaited the answer to her final question.
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Old Sep 8th, 2014, 05:40 AM
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'Von Crois!?' Sev returned his glance from her clinging clothes to her mouth, so he could better listen to what she had to say. "Lady Muriel, I am Captain Seven Black. The beautiful minstrel behind me is the famous Kiriel, with voice or blade, she's the best bard between here and Evermere. Overhead is Jenna...
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our lookout."
he said with a smile and a flamboyant bow. He was always hesitant to be forward with a psion, as he never knew how people would react to it. Sev took another puff to buy a moment before deciding his next move.

"Come, let's get you out of those damp clothes, My lady, before your heroic rescue causes you to catch cold." Sev stuck his cigarette in his mouth and looked back through his pack. A brief moment later he pulled out his spare warm clothes... minus it's cloak. "Funny you should mention Von Crois, we're hear looking for him." sev removed his cigarette and exhaled. "He disappeared some time ago, owing our patron a large sum of money. He apparently borrowed through the teeth to fund his expedition. We're here to collect on his debt." Sev
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lied. 'Oh, and hunt down a blood thirsty Vampire-demon lord who can turn into a giant, blood-thirsty gargoyle... but you don't need to hear that part just yet.' "Come, let's get you warm first."

Sev could hear Ki mentally rolling her eyes at the back of his head, but he knew she was smart enough to roll with it. Any master of the road (or sea) knew it was unwise to share one's true purpose. However, Jenna was too naive to have learned that lesson yet and Sev would have to be quick of wit when she joined them.
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Old Sep 9th, 2014, 02:30 PM
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Kiriel looks into the eyes of the creature as the anger burns away in the maelstrom of unraveling magic. The pure love she sees there breaks her heart. The bard's eyes fill with tears as she follows the tortured soul's gaze upward toward her ancient lover. One of those tears breaks loose and rolls down Ki's cheek and crystallizes into ice before it can drip from her face. Puffs of breath come hard and fast from her exertion in the combat and mix with the dissipating vaporous image of the undead soul who only moments before was trying to kill them.

Legs and arms shaking with the strain of initiating that vigorous dance, even if only for a few months, cause her to slip on the ice and end up on her knees, still looking up as the last traces of the two lovers vanish into the frigid night. "Such love..." Taking a deep breath she lets out a sigh as he head falls to her chest. Memories of her younger days in the village of her home and later in Antheos with her love Garion flood through the bard. To have a love like that, a love that literally spans the ages, would be the best thing in the world. But even with that love look how these two ended up. A swift pain of old loss flashes through Kiriel, but she stifles it with her typical indomitable cheerfulness and forces a smile onto her face.

Using her long sword to help her get to her feet she moves toward the two newcomers and Sev, catching the good Captain's lies and frowning internally at them. Unsteadily she comes up beside Sev, rolling her eyes to Muriel at his come on. "I am Kiriel Swiftsong, pardon my friend's forwardness," she gives Sev a friendly elbow in the ribs and a glare with no real venom behind it. "I have a spare heavy cloak as well that should help keep you warm, Muriel," at that she reaches into the small satchel at her side and pulls out a thick warm fur cloak sized for a man much closer to Tolle's build than her own. "It'll be a little big but it will do in a pinch," she offers with a sincere smile.

"As Captain Black said, we are searching for Gothos Von Crois, or at least anything remaining of his expedition. We were led to believe that there is some sort of library in the area, perhaps below these dark waters, and had hoped to find some clues there." Kiriel's expression turns quizzical as she looks to the dripping Muriel and the gaping hole in the ice that Tolle yanked her up out of. "How did you survive below the ice for so long? Von Crois reportedly came through these parts some time ago."
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