Three Coins, Two Birds and a Gilded Sword: A Norbayne Campaign Log

[Phoenixguard09]

Interlude 4.6: Onwards to Varr

When birds clash in fields of Summer, the struggle will be resolved by those who dare wield the Gilded Sword…
- The opening line of the Greyflood Prophecy, as delivered by Raelda the Seer of Meleret.

To start with, this Interlude is going to cover a fair bit of time. Due to the personnel change within the gaming group, it was decided that the end of the 'siege' of Last Redoubt should be skipped over. So we're going to cover the end of the siege, the companions subsequent journey to Varr and then another scene which takes place in Valewatch at roughly the same time.

As before, Session 5.1 will begin with me recapping the Interlude to the group, so I will edit this post to include the best of the commentary and dialogue.

The companions do not have much time to reassess before the Sons of Wyre commit their heavy infantry. A large force marches into the canyon in good order, armed with heavy shields and longspears.

Breanna attempts to drop her landslide on the oncoming phalanx, but the wall of rock is held back by some quick thinking mages, a multi-coloured aethyric wall shimmering to life before her eyes. The Leathe bolts from her hiding place, unable to warn the other companions of the new assault, as she is still temporarily mute.

Taken by surprise, the companions' forces are unable to reset their ambush and are caught in open ground when the phalanx arrives. Caught in a pitched battle, against a phalanx of heavy infantry with far superior reach with flanks secured by the canyon walls, the Valewatch skirmishers drop like flies.

Faced with such opposition, Harold orders a retreat and does well to prevent it from becoming a rout. Seeing the phalanx brushing aside the skirmishers, Kel'Serrar, Maebh and Breanna, the Leathe having joined them up on the canyon wall, order their archers to loose their arrows. Unfortunately, the enemy shields and armour absorb much of the projectiles, and it isn't long before enemy archers follow the heavy infantry and start shooting back. Maebh's attempts to blast holes in the enemy infantry are generally unsuccessful, the enemy mages, while probably not as powerful individually, are able to curtail her effect on the battlefield by working together.

Frustrated, Maebh unleashes everything she has, tearing apart their attempts to stop her and the sky opens up. Heavy rain starts to lash the battlefield, quickly turning the dirt to churned mud. Golden lightning flashes down into the midst of the melee, giving Harold's skirmishers enough space to disengage completely to regroup with Tremor and Brannigan's reserve forces.
"Steady on Maebh." - LD.
"Nah, I do what I want ay." - Ladyhawk.

Momentarily spent by her exertions, Maebh is helped along by Kel'Serrar and Breanna as enemy skirmishers start to scale the canyon walls to take out the archers. Many enemy arrows are deflected by glints of amber as they impact with Maebh's weakened shield, but some get through. Breanna takes an arrow to the shoulder which almost causes her to lose her balance and Maebh takes a stinging cut along her cheek from a glancing strike. Weary and wounded, the three companions make it back onto the ground behind Tremor and Brannigan's reserves, who have formed up at the end of the canyon, along with a handful of their archers. Up on the wall, the last of the archers are being butchered by the skirmisher Sons of Wyre.

On the ground, Aeva/Lion is looking a bloodied mess, her golden hide rent from many wounds, turned red by blood, much of it not her own.
"Aww savage mate." - LD.
Now disengaged from the combat, safe behind a line of Grimstone infantry, she takes a moment to turn back into her natural form, and grimaces in pain. One spear-strike has opened her forearm up to the bone and Kel'Serrar silently binds the wound with a clean bandage.
"You've leveled up! You're now a proper medic." - LD
"Lol, jokes, it's actually poison sumac." - Ladyhawk.

Calm descends on the battlefield as the Sons of Wyre finish butchering the stragglers from the retreat. The rain beats down heavily upon the field, but the lightning has stopped, Maebh leaning heavily upon her bloodied spear. The ditch before the reserve has been revealed by the weight of the rainwater, and so the phalanx comes to a halt a mere spearthrow away.

One man steps forward from the phalanx. He is clad in an articulated suit of fine bronze armour, similar in design to that worn by the heavy infantry, but more extensive and far more ornate. He removes his tall, full-face helm and reveals a long, craggy face framed by long grey hair and a thick beard.

"Where is the Bastard of Nordtarnet? Where is Tremor Ironfist?" - Ragnak the Butcher, captain of the Sons of Wyre.

Tremor steps forward, shield and the Windrider axe held at the ready.

"I am Tremor Godriksson, of Clan Ironfist, rightful heir of Nordtarnet." - Tremor, defiantly.

"You are the bastard son of a weak king, and your brother will pay me a handsome price for your head. Your troops will all die here if today continues like this. But it does not have to be that way. Your brother will pay for your head, but he cares not for those of your men. Face me in single combat, die with honour and spare their lives. I give you my word." - Ragnak, smug.

"I should trust the word of a man who encourages the title, 'The Butcher?" - Tremor, incredulous.

"Well that's your call. You will die here either way." - Ragnak, shrugging and placing his helm back on his head.

Tremor looks back at the faces of his troops, his companions, the rag-tag group of misfits he has tentatively come to regard as his friends.

"Very well captain, you shall have your wish." - Tremor, lowering his wolf-helm visor and charging forward with shield forward and axe held high.

Grinning, Ragnak hefts his greataxe and brings it down on the charging dwarf, who raises his shield and grits his teeth. They exchange a handful of blows each but it is clear that Tremor is woefully outmatched. Tremor is knocked back by a savage punch to his face which knocks his helm from his head. He spits a gobbet of blood and a tooth and adjusts his grip on his weapons before throwing his battered body back into the fray.

For a moment it looks like Tremor might gain the upper hand, fury serving to redouble his efforts and the Windrider axe melts a long gash in the fauld protecting Ragnak's left thigh, but in doing so he leaves himself open to the Butcher's counterstrike, which hammers the blade of his greataxe deep into Tremor's body, cleaving through armour and shattering ribs.

Tremor falls to the ground, face up in the mud, peering at the grey sky slowly turning red.

"We have the bastard. Now kill the rest." - The last thing Tremor hears before the axe comes down one final time.

As the phalanx closes in on the still shell-shocked companions and the last of their troops, screams can be heard from outside the canyon.

"Sounds like our distraction has arrived Maebh." - Aeva, stone-faced and grim, but the time for mourning would come later.

A bestial roar rings across the battlefield, and the phalanx halts again as Ragnak directs more troops to the rear. More roars bellow out in response to the first and the screaming gets louder and closer. Something is tearing its way through the rearguard of the Sons of Wyre, and it sounds very big and very angry.

And then, there it is, at the far end of the canyon, ripping its way through a company of archers, a massive creature, in shape similar to a Feartarbh but much greater in both size and ferocity, easily fourteen feet tall. Six horns crown its massive, fanged head and it wields a club fashioned from a small tree. It lets out an earth-shaking bellow and more roars ring out in answer. It has not come alone.

"You brought the Krowavir anyway?" - Harold, furious, grabbing Aeva by the arm.

Maebh breaks the Invarrian's grip on the druid.

"It was my idea Harold, and it's a damned good thing we brought them here. Come, quickly, we must escape now." - Maebh, grabbing the duellist and pushing him towards the escape tunnel.

"If they follow us, we can bring it down on their heads." - Kel'Serrar.

"Retreat! Make for Valewatch!" - Harold's last command to their troops, as the companions abandon them to their fate.

* * *

Last Redoubt is left in carnage.

The last of the Krowavir are driven off, dragging corpses with them into the woods. Though victorious, the Sons of Wyre have suffered heavy losses, and will likely not play any major part in any continuing hostilities.

On the other hand, Ragnak the Butcher has claimed the heads of both Tremor Ironfist and Brannigan Runestone, who gave his life in a desperate rearguard action as the underground tunnel was collapsed behind the fleeing Resistance troops.

As for those troops, they make their way piecemeal to Valewatch. Many never make it, and those who do are greeted by a great surprise when they get there...

As for the companions, having gathered their horses and wolves, they make their way west. Harold's sister, Helga, has called him home, and has offered the companions safe haven whilst he deals with their 'family situation.' Harold will give no more details, claiming he is sworn to secrecy on the matter.

The mood is quite subdued as they make their slow and winding way to the coast, avoiding patrols, roving Rocklad and even a splinter group of Krowavir, which Aeva manages to ward away.
"We went that way!" - Delphi, as Aeva to the Krowavir.
The defeat was a bit of a wake-up call to the companions, as was losing one of their own.

We have suffered a defeat, something very much foreign to me. While we have been forced to leave places in a hurry, sometimes with a great amount of damage to all along the way, never before have we been unsuccessful. Never before have we actually failed our missions. It hurt to lose a companion, especially one that has been there, with us for so long, but it was nothing to the reminder that we are not infallible, we too can lose, we too can die.

That moment was a portent, and a question. The question being, was it a portent for how difficult things are going to become, or was it a turning point for the usefulness of this group?

Is it perhaps time we went our separate ways, or more to the point, Is remaining with the companions still within my best interest, or is it now an unwritten death-wish?

Conversation is scarce at night when camp is struck. For Kel’Serrar, this suits him well enough. He takes up woodcarving, and while his first efforts are questionable he keeps at it long into the night by the fire. Breanna too seems withdrawn, especially compared to her usual self. During the days she scours the wilderness for potentially useful poisons and at night sorts them into ingredients which will complement each other. Sadly, she cannot find any peaches, which only serves to further deteriorate her mood.

Despite her being such a recent acquisition to their party, Aeva appears to be the one most affected by Tremor’s passing as she and the dwarf were quite close. For her part, she viewed him as a friend who would never let her down, and now feels her hands are stained with blood as she was not able to protect him at the last.

Maebh, still angered by what she sees as Harold’s failed plan is very withdrawn and spends most of her time practicing her magic. She communicates little, and when she does it is usually with Toirneach.

It takes the better part of a month for the companions to reach the port-town of Kabysholm on the west coast of Drakon. The companions do not tarry long in the town, but take two days to replenish their supplies and see to a few last matters before leaving Unterguardt.

Harold, who wishes to do one last thing for the people of Nordtarnet before leaving them to their fate, spreads the story of the last stand of Tremor Ironfist, who fell with his companions, bravely defending the rights and freedom of the people. In addition to hopefully providing a rallying cry and a martyr for the cause, Harold hopes that the rumours might help to conceal their passage from any enemies who might still be hunting them. The companions also visit tailors and smiths to repair or replace damaged clothing and equipment.

After accompanying Harold while he purchased the party’s galley, Kel’Serrar abandons the others for the evening, obtaining a collection of small blades for carving purposes before finding a small inn for a warm meal and soft bed. He is not looking forward to the sea voyage on the morrow.

For Breanna, the time in Kabysholm passes too swiftly. She purchases a handful of vials to keep her poisons in and commissions a specially-built hand-crossbow and a dozen darts. She has to splash out a fair bit of gold for the work to be completed in a timely fashion, but the assassin is quite literally loaded.

From Kabysholm, they travel by sea to Ravnsalm, the village Harold reveals is ruled by the Oakenshield family. The voyage will take a couple of weeks, and in foul weather, but compared to the squall they weathered on the trip to Unterguardt it is nothing to complain about.

* * *

The small galley, named The Tide Tremor by the companions in memory of their lost friend, is a perfect size for the small complement of crew available to Harold. Generally speaking, the Invarrian just about does everything, with the others chipping in when they feel like it. They do however, make good time and with Maebh’s control of the weather, sail adjustment is kept to a minimum. Aeva’s days are mainly spent on the masthead, looking out over the ocean with her hawk-eyes. A pack of three hakal, carnivorous toothed whales approximately seven feet long and native to the northern oceans, approach the ship on a calm day and Aeva takes the opportunity to acquire the form of one of the creatures. After that day, the Selkye spends a significant period of time under the water, exploring. She even manages to dredge up some treasures from the sea-floor in the form of salvageable valuables from shipwrecks.

When not bending the elements to her will, Maebh retreats to her cabin and pores over books and scrolls of spell-craft, ones both discovered across their travels and a few purchased at a reasonable price from Kabysholm. Her mantikor egg finally hatches on the voyage, the hatchling emerging without difficulty. She is smaller than she should be, likely a result of the temperature the egg was kept at being too low and stunting her growth in the shell. Still, for all that she is strong enough to eat and will probably survive. Her scales are grey with a blue iridescence to them when the light hits them right, and Maebh names her Crithtaluin, after one of the Danann gods, the Mountain Shaker, one of the most powerful of that pantheon.

Spoiler: Crithtaluin, when she grows up.

Show

When Harold mentioned we were journeying to his homeland, I was mildly surprised that we were neither going to a kennel, nor back to whatever remained of Summer Hill. Instead we would be travelling to another Naya-forsaken island with completely unreasonable weather. It didn't take long before my mood soured. Boats, it would seem, are not my friends.

On one hand, there are always people moving around who need to be somewhere, on the other, everything is wet. And I mean everything, it makes it very difficult indeed to be an archer of any description, that the boat does not stop moving doesn't aid my archery or my carving.

Speaking of carving, I have continued my efforts to properly learn how to carve, however this is not the simple task I originally had intended. I have yet to have made... well anything really, unless someone wishes to purchases malformed sticks, those I have a plethora of.

I have also resumed my observation of the companions, and generally everyone seems to have mostly recovered from the death of Tremor, however there are still moments when it is obvious that it still weighs heavily. I also feel that Harold is about to show us what he has been hiding.

At least my efforts are not wasted, the rest of my companions believe that I am working hard to learn a new trade, and I have not let my healing abilities lapse. Thankfully, there have been no new injuries since our retreat from the Last Redoubt, but boats seem to be very dangerous, and not just due to the creatures of the sea...

Ravnsalm…

The town where Harold was born and raised looks quite different from what the companions expected. The town itself is built on a high cliff overlooking a small bay. Long, winding roads lead up the cliff-face from the substantial docks along the shoreline up to the town proper.

It is a rare bright morning when the companions finally arrive, gulls crying loudly in the sky and the warm sun behind them.

The docks are busy, merchant ships and Invarrian longships crowding the bay and it is lucky that the companions’ galley is so small or it would have been a far more difficult approach. As it is, Harold is able to skilfully guide the small ship into shore and a team of young Invarrian dockworkers tie the galley in. As they work, the companions can overhear them speaking quietly of Harold in awestruck tones, which Harold ignores stoically.

Upon disembarking, the companions are stopped from wandering the dock-side markets by an elderly Invarrian standing beside a beast-drawn cart. The creature drawing it is fascinating and most of the companions have not seen it’s like before.

“This is a seilbak, and yes that does just mean sail-back. I am well aware that we are not the most imaginative when it comes to naming things. They are very strong and are about as easy to tame as a horse, so we use them as beasts of burden. A seilbak may not be as fast as a horse, but it is far stronger and has much greater endurance. You will find that many of the animals here are probably quite different to anything you have seen before.” – Harold, to his companions before greeting the old Invarrian.

I have a few pictures I drew of the seilbak, but for now just picture a fluffy edaphosaurus.

“Well met Harold Oakenshield. It has been a long time but I am glad to finally see you home.” – Ansgard Av-Kaerhund, and he and Harold embrace each other warmly.

“It has been a long time indeed my old friend. I take it that Helga has sent you down to collect us?” – Harold, indicating the seilbak-drawn cart behind the old Invarrian.

“Yes, that’s right. Hop on in folks and I will take you up to Ravnsalm proper.” – Ansgard, mounting the cart himself and taking the reins.

* * *

The long, winding path up the cliff to Ravnsalm is very busy, carts packed to bursting with trade-goods, either freshly delivered or to be taken to buyers over the sea.
“Of course, trade-goods is probably a slightly misleading term, as that suggests that the goods were traded for. Most of these wagons are filled with spoils from the reavers.” – Harold, to the other companions, he and Maebh riding behind the cart.

“So Harold, this is where you grew up?” – Aeva, trying to make small-talk.

“Yes, this is my home. I spent most of my life here, when I was not away reaving of course.” – Harold, quietly.

“And when you weren’t in the capital acting as the Stormlord’s First Reaver!” – Ansgard, the old Invarrian’s voice brimming with pride.

“The Stormlord’s what now?” – Breanna, incredulous.

“First Reaver to the ruling Stormlord Bjarn Tordenwulf, granted the title many years ago for saving the then-prince’s life in combat.” – Ansgard, oblivious to Harold’s growing discomfort.

“Exactly Ansgard, that was many years ago. I put that aside when the Stormlord sent me south.” – Harold, unable to stay quiet any longer.

“You mean, you never told your companions of this? That they were travelling with one of the most honoured warriors on all of Varr?” – Ansgard, astounded.

“The years had not been kind to me my old friend. They would not have believed me even if I had told them when we met. I am in far better shape now than I was then…” – Harold, wondering.

It is something that has had the Invarrian somewhat confused for some time in fact. The years of solitary travel in the Midlands of Norbayne since leaving Varr had indeed been tough on the old sea-wolf. He had lost a lot of his old muscle-mass and his skills fell into disuse. Since becoming embroiled in these recent travels however, he has quickly reached a physical condition which, while it may not surpass the days of his youth, at least rivals them. While the high-pace lifestyle he has been living over the past half year or so would have had a beneficial effect on a young warrior, at his age he should be slowing down, not speeding back up again. And it is not just him. The accelerated physical development is also very prevalent in Breanna, who has packed on a truly obscene amount of musculature in a short period of time. That, coupled with the companions swift recovery from reasonably serious injuries, has had Harold thinking that there is something unusual at play here for quite some time.

* * *

Ravnsalm proper is a bustling little town, with tall, somewhat ramshackle-looking wooden buildings lining the packed dirt streets. Townsfolk and wagons crowd the roads and street-side vendors hawk their wares over the sound of the traffic. Thankfully, Ansgard is a skilled navigator and the companions find themselves at the gate of Herregard, the seat of the Oakenshield family.

“Brother, it is good to see you.” – Helga Oakenshield, warmly embracing Harold.

“It is good to see you too sister. How are the pups?” – Harold, warmly.

“Growing strong and eager to meet their uncle.” – Helga, proudly, before turning to the other companions. “As friends of my brother, I consider you my friends too. Please be welcome to Ravnsalm and avail yourselves of what comfort we can provide you. Sadly, the task I must ask my brother to perform will see you leaving my home swiftly, but I hope that your time here will be pleasant. Now, my servants will show you all to your rooms for the night to allow you to freshen up after your voyage and I will have them bring you to the private dining hall in an hour for lunch and a proper talk.” – Helga, who beckons the servants forward.
"I really like her. I hope she doesn't die." - LD.
"Or at least that we aren't directly responsible." - Sins.
"True. At this stage, anything more than that is probably too much to ask for." - LD, as Dev looks on uncomfortably.

The rooms granted to the companions are spacious and far richer than anything they are accustomed to. The furnishings are an eclectic, but for all that charming mix, a reminder that practically everything in the room caught the eye of a reaver, who grabbed it, probably at the point of a sword, and took it home. Laid out on the sumptuous beds are warm, high-quality clothes in the Invarrian style to replace the cold-weather gear which is currently being cleaned, or in some unfortunate cases, burned.

After tidying himself up, Harold hurries upstairs to find his sister’s pups and spends the better part of an hour playing with and getting to know the boisterous children. He enjoys himself, but with a certain melancholy, can’t help but wonder about what might have been had he rejected the Stormlord’s request and instead settled down with the love of his life…

* * *

The private dining hall is a small affair, and even during the day requires a fire for warmth and light. A light lunch of various fruits, dried meat and bread is laid out on the table and the companions sit around one end of the table, Helga at the head.

“I’m just going to cut to the chase Harold, you’re needed at Isenhjem. You probably haven’t heard about them, but there’s been drownings. No one really knows what is going on, but it seems like they’re connected. Bjarn fears that the Greyflood Prophecy is finally coming to pass.” – Helga, grim.

“Aye, I fear that to be true. Worse, I think I may in fact be caught up in it all.” – Harold, unhappily.

“To make matters worse, Bjarn’s not getting any younger and after the business with his brother, there’s no heir.” – Helga, worried.

“Reinn? What of him?” – Harold, alarmed.

“He was found delirious in the wreckage of a longship on the south coast. The remnants of his crew were strewn about the place, torn to pieces. Most of them looked like someone had begun eating them. Apparently he was ranting and raving when they found him, covered in blood. Being the Stormlord’s brother, they couldn’t execute him, so Bjarn had him sent to Stillhet. That was maybe six months ago now.” – Helga, quietly. It is obvious that she is still quite upset by the business with Reinn.

They finish their lunch in relative silence and then spend the rest of the afternoon and evening either exploring Ravnsalm or in their rooms. In the morning they will take ship once more to Isenhjem, the seat of Bjarn Tordenwulf, Stormlord of Varr.

* * *

Within the main hall of Valewatch, Ersun Blackbear sits upon his throne, crossbow resting across his lap and a great cave-bear resting at his feet before him. Huscarls have allowed the other lords of the Resistance into the room with their retinues and they stand before Blackbear’s throne.

“Lord Blackbear, we have not had word from Last Redoubt for some time now, and now reports have come to us which suggest that it was soldiers under your command which attacked my scouts. What is the meaning of this?” – Harrick Stonehammer, clutching the polehammer of his office tightly.

“Harrick, it is time that your eyes were opened to the truth. We cannot win this war. Tremor Godrikson has been revealed as a bastard, and with the death of his legitimacy dies the legitimacy of the Resistance. This war is no longer about reinstating the rightful heir. It never has been, but now he has been revealed as false and is probably dead anyway.” – Ersun Blackbear, voice rising with every word.

“You have no way of knowing if he is dead or not!” – Barandin Stonefist, angrily.

“You are his cousin, and so your judgement in this issue is clouded. We must look to life after the bastard.” – Blackbear, with some venom.

“Our lands are still under threat from Ironfist though. We cannot halt the war now!” – Frieda Grimstone, fully armed and armoured. Behind her, her huscarls grip their weapons tightly.

The doors into Blackbear’s hall close and everyone present can hear great wooden beams being dropped into place to bar them. Panic ripples through the gathered lords as they realise they are surrounded by Blackbear’s own huscarls.

“I thought you might say that. It has occurred to me that we cannot win this war. My only remaining course of action was to strike a deal with Bain.” – Blackbear, quietly.

“You traitorous bastard!” – Arald Redclay, roaring and drawing his sword.

“Skremmende, kill them.” – Blackbear, taking his crossbow and putting an iron pellet through Redclay’s eye.

The great bear rouses himself and ploughs through the lords and their retinues as the Valewatch guards fall upon them from the sides. The fighting is brutal, but over quickly. Only Barandin Stonefist, clad in the armour Tremor forged for him in Dreven, still stands. One of Blackbear’s huscarls holds an axe to a wounded Frieda Grimstone’s throat and is about to swing when Blackbear halts him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Wait, we can give her to Bain… Take her to the dungeons. Finish the others.” – Ersun Blackbear.

Barandin, axe and shield in hand lays about himself at the slowly encroaching huscarls. He is a formidable combatant, and fells a few of them before he is eventually overwhelmed and his head hewn from his body by the vengeful axes.

Harrick Stonehammer, lying prone on the floor, scrabbles desperately at his polehammer, his legs a mangled ruin. Ersun Blackbear stalks towards him, greataxe cradled in both hands. Hvitt, Blackbear’s white weasel-fox looks at the felled godsman with an evil, predatory gleam in its eye.

“I always despised you and your kind Harrick. Die knowing that your machinations were for nought, that the rightful king will rule Nordtarnet and that Hvitt here will devour your corpse.” – Blackbear, bringing his axe down on the priest.

The Wrap-Up:
I originally intended for the players to actually play the scene in Valewatch out themselves. I got them all to put in a request to play their choice of a list of characters present in the scene and we were going to do it until recent events.

Harrick Stonehammer – Chief Godsman of Nordtarnet (Sins)
Frieda Grimstone – Ruler of The Crag (Ladyhawk)
Arald Redclay – Rightful ruler of Lord’s Ridge (Dev)
Barandin Stonefist – Tremor’s cousin (Wings)
Haelda Disdottir – Frieda Grimstone’s ‘handmaiden’ (LD)
Lyria Fisher – Arald Redclay’s swordbearer (Delphi)
Gladrek Threksson – Brannigan Runestone’s second in command (Possibly Scotticus)

Unfortunately, I decided that, for pacing reasons it would be best to just move on from the Nordtarnet conflict completely, so chose to represent this as an epilogue of sorts to the arc.

I hope that this was entertaining for you all. Session 5.1 will be played tomorrow, our first for the new year. I’m pretty excited.

*EDIT: I have incorporated the pick of the OOC comments when we went through the Interlude at the beginning of Session 5.1. I think the Interlude was received well by the group, and it definitely tied up most of the loose ends in Nordtarnet.
Cheers,