The Convergence of Sky: An Exalted campaign.

[Sticks]

Chapter 1: The Rime-Bound Cell
RY 771, Ascending Earth

We must remember always to pay respect to the Dragon of Strife, for her tools are terrible to behold. The Realm must stand against the growing plague of the Anathema, lest Creation be visited once more by her handmaidens.
-Extract from Wonders of the Lost Age

Far out in the Wasting Tundra is a crater in which the sun does not shine. Surrounded by hills of ice, their shadows cover the base of the crater, even during the endless day of Ascending Fire. At the bottom is a basin an arm-span across, filled with steaming water. Within the basin is a wheel, five stars, five suns, five moons, five elements, each inhabiting their own concentric ring.


You were wandering, away from the fire, away from your tent or hut, your passage went unremarked by your companions. Perhaps you were making your ablutions before bunking down, perhaps you just wanted a moment’s quiet. Whatever the case, the unseasonable winds picked up before you returned, the snowfall began, a few flakes at first and then flurries, in the confusion, your absence was forgotten.

The snow swirled around you, mesmerizing in its infinite shapes and patterns, the sun’s light glinting and shining in this rarest of summer blizzards. Eventually, your footfalls ceased, compelled by some unseen force, it was here that you knew you must stop and wait. Entranced by the patterns of sun and snow, your eyes-lids grew heavy, limbs leaden, sleep embraced you.

Did you dream? What did you dream of? Only you know that answer, but before waking, you felt something grip your left arm and lift you upwards, like a friend’s support after prolonged sitting. As they gripped you, they pressed something into your hand…

When you awoke, alone or accompanied by the relieved shouts of your companions, you were warm and dry, blanketed by soft white snow. Whether you placed your hands under yourself to rise, or first wiped your brow, you found in your hand an object you did not possess before. A piece of soapstone, white as the snow and as long as a dagger, pointed at one end but blunt. Intricate abstract carvings entwined it, perhaps clouds or seas, snow or rain, sun moon and stars all represented in minute detail. When you first laid eyes on it, you felt it hum, resonating with your essence. As though of its own accord, the stone fell from your hand, almost leaping to the ground. Once landed, it rolled, completing a circle about you before coming to a rest pointing out into the tundra. Repeated drops produced the same result, always out, away from civilization. To follow such a path may be unwise, but then so is making a life in the north when other possibilities abound. Given that choice, would you remain around your fire, or venture into the unknown? Would you really have been chosen if you took the easy option?

Spoiler: OOC: Please read!

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This thread is a Play-by-post game intended for a specific group of players. If you have not been previously invited, please refrain from posting on this thread.
Here is the OOC Thread.

[Ascension]

Signs and wonders...

Many of the conversations Waldaharjaz has had since he and his kinsmen fled the training camps of Pellervo the Fierce have been difficult, even painful. So many of the questions he has been asked have no easy answers, and he is no philosopher with deep thoughts and koans at the ready. There is one question, however, that he has never had any trouble answering. He is as certain in his response as he is certain that the Sun will rise each day.

"Do you blame Luna?"

Gods, no. Luna herself has given him only gifts. A child of Luna may have led him astray, but Pellervo, for all his strength, is human, not divine. Walda knows that his own Exaltation did not come with any gift of perfect wisdom. Why should he expect any other skinchanger to be so blessed? His experience has taught him to be more cautious of people, and that is all.

So it is that when Walda receives another gift from another god (for who could reach out from his dreams to take his very hand, if not a god?), his first reaction is not mistrust. He has been searching for a new direction for his Moonblades, and the dream-god knew it. The curious stone must be the guidance he has prayed for.

He makes a speech to his army of misfits and brigands, the day after the out-of-season blizzard, the day after his palpable dream. Of course he makes a speech. He stands atop an outcrop of stone, high enough so that all his people can see him, but not so high that he seems to tower above them. He angles his body so that the light dusting of snow clinging to his coat catches the sunlight and glitters like jewels. He grins with pride as he looks out over his motley following, smiling broadly enough for those furthest in the back of the crowd to read his face. As he speaks, the shining silver crescent-mark of his caste sparks into visibility, and gradually an argent nimbus of power wraps itself around him, a visible manifestation of Luna's favor.

"How long have we been wandering, without home or people, without purpose beyond taking whatever we could take from those too weak to oppose us? We were meant for more than this, brothers and sisters! No matter where each of us came from, no matter what path each of us trod before we found each other, are we not now the Blades of the Moon, blessed by a goddess of the heavens and honed to rend the very night itself asunder? We cannot afford to settle for scraps beneath our station!

"Nor must we settle! Once again, we have been favored by divine providence! Yesterday's early snow was a favorable omen. We are children of winter, and never should we fear it. And we have been blessed in more than this! Look! The carved stone which I hold in my hand is no family heirloom, nor the spoils of any raid or robbery. As wondrous as it sounds, this enchanted stone was handed to me from out of a dream this very morning! And when cast at my feet...

"...it shows us our way. Now, friends, I know I am asking much of you when I ask you to place your faith in this. I cannot name the god who granted me this boon, be they a god of the heavens or of the forests or of dreams themselves. I cannot say whither we are led. And I cannot promise the path will be easy... the stone points toward the wild tundra, away from the easy prey of merchants' trails. Yet...

"Not one of us made it this far by choosing safety or security. Each and every one of us has been offered the comfort of mediocrity, and each and every one of us has shouted back, 'No, never!' Does your heart not beat faster just thinking of the possibility, the promise of this spirits' trail? Does your blood not sing in tune with mine?

"Though the journey be hard, the destination uncertain, I will follow this stone! I will answer its call! My friends, my comrades... Who is coming with me?!"

Spoiler: OOC and Roll

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It's probably not necessary to start off the game rolling to convince the entourage I spent half my merit dots on to actually follow the first plot hook, but what better way to showcase Walda's form of leadership-by-personal-magnetism?

Persuasion roll to convince everybody to follow the soapstone.

Charisma + Presence + Charisma Excellency (8m from peripheral, stunting to add Appearance to my dice cap) + bonus dice from high Appearance + Stunt, plus Argent Songbird Voice (2m from peripheral) to ignore the multiple-target penalty.

Spoiler: Roll

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Cha+Presence+Excellency+Stunt: (17d10)[6][2][5][3][1][2][8][7][1][3][6][3][4][5][3][8][9](76)
Appearance bonus dice (assuming base Resolve 2): (3d10)[8][1][9](18)

[Inspector Valin]

Sweetness. She could taste the sweetness of some forgotten drink on her tongue, feel the warmth in the air. There was light, laughter... grass. She was sitting beneath the boughs of a great old rowan on a grassy plane, relaxed and content with the sun high above her in the sky. The shield rested at her side, face downward, unneeded. She can hear laughter in the distance, a familiar voice, even if she can't put a name to it. Alto, rich and ringing. It makes her think of chimes dangling in the breeze, some distance off.

She closed her eyes, leaning back against the trunk of the tree, sighing in reverie at the moment. A breeze started to pick up. She could hear the leaves rustling in the tree above her, One felt strangely cold as it brushed against her face. She could feel a hand in hers, trying to pull her up by her arm. She can hear Katrina, snorting at the sight of her fallen friend. "Hey, get up sleepyhead. Do you hear me -"

And then the light of dawn starts to break through her closed eyes, and she feels the leaves around her give way to a cushion of gentle snowfall. For a moment, the Outlander forgets the climate she's found herself stuck in. It almost feels like she never left that dreamed of plane. She sighs, her hair rustling against the grass beneath her blanket of snow. It's not true, the faint chill on the wind makes that clear in an instant, but that doesn't stop her wanting to believe in the world of the dream regardless.

Getting to her feet, the strange traveller looks out upon the sea spread before her. It was quite the sight. Water stretching off into the horizon, sparkling in the morning sun as an early tide laps at the shore below. She can just about make out bright red sails in the distance. Summer thaws bring trade to the White Sea: it'd been how she crossed it, after all. The Outlander takes a deep breath of salt air, stretching her arms. Anyone watching would've seen a truly strange sight: a woman with copper skin, a black jacket and crumpled skirt standing alone atop the cliff in the midst of the strange, unseasonal snowfall. Perhaps she'd be mistaken for the Stormcrow.

A faint movement in her hand catches the Outlander off guard. Almost jumping away from the strange stone fragment, she takes a second before kneeling down, picking it up and wiping the snow from it. This stone looks almost as white as the snow, and the carvings are so intricate. The Outlander traces the etched lines with her finger: thinking back, she can remember the feeling of the rock her dream, it being pressed into her hand. Had that part not been a dream?

The stranger shivvers, more with the growing cold than with fear. She'd left her cloak back in the tent, not expecting the blizzard to kick up from so clean a sky. This was all too strange to be attributable to coincidence. Something had drawn her out here tonight. Something had wanted her to sleep under the stars, to witness the lights of the blizzard and this new dawn. They'd wanted her to find this strangely opinionated little rock too. She lets the soapstone needle fall to the ground a second time, studying its movements as it rolls about. It certainly seems to have a clear idea of the direction she should be heading in. And it wasn't the road to Diamond Hearth.

Advice of her fellow travellers begins to gnaw at the stranger. She's spent time in holy places, prayed to gods of wind and sky, but it feels like there's something else in this place. Something strange and old that she couldn't really begin to comprehend. The Outlander glances towards the road she'd travelled yesterday. It would be logical to move back, to head towards the nearby port town and try to catch the ferry to Fair Isle in the name of getting as far away from all of this as possible. Old magic is best not trifled with, even for her. She might have the power of the Sun to call upon, but there are strange, ineffable things in the wilderness of Creation. She's heard too many stories to take monsters lurking in the dark lightly

But for all she knows, this could be important. She'd heard a familiar voice in the dream. This could be someone who knows her, reaching out to her. The start of a path back home.

It takes her a couple of minutes to find her campsite: the snow last night was thick enough to mask her trail, unfortunately. The campfire is nothing but ashes, and the pail of water is lukewarm, but needs must. After some simple ablutions, the strange traveller starts uprooting tent poles with a flick of her knife, keeping a grip on the fabric as she does to ensure it doesn't blow away. In a few crisp seconds, the Outlander's tent is once more within her pack, her fur cloak across her shoulders and her staff is in her hand. The stranger hums to herself as she strolls forward, dropping her marker-stone to the ground occasionally to ensure she still has its barings. Wherever the stone might be leading her, she likely has some ground to cover if it's taking her away from the sea and civilization. She'd better keep moving if she's to find where this trail leads in the end.

[Malozing]

Snow flies into the air as a four-foot tawny cat thrashes its way out of the deep snow. Spotted paws spread wide kept the feline from sinking back into the snow once it pulled itself free. Large black and grey rosettes dominated its coat while black spots covered its legs and paws. Disjointed black stripes run from the leopard’s cheeks and corner of its eyes down the neck.

The leopard turns its head to lick some stray snowflakes from its shoulder when it realizes something was stuck to its rough tongue. With mouth opened as wide as possible, the cat shook its head violently to dislodge the item. The white soapstone falls quickly onto the snow, and as it begins to circle, the leopard’s pupils form into slits as the cat followed the stone. When it stopped and pointed off into the distance, the leopard sniffs the rock and bats it away. It again circles the feline and ends up exactly where it did the first time it fell.

Head tilted to the side, the leopard stares off in the direction indicated.

‘This could be a clever trap. Best to keep patrolling.’

The cat stretches and begins to wander away from the strange rock, only to look back at it a few paces later.

‘How could anyone have gotten that in my mouth without me knowing?’ The leopard shakes its head in a very human gesture. ‘It’s a trap. Ignore it, Decks.’

A few more steps away from the stone found Decks looking back again. A huff of air escapes from Decks’ mouth, as he pads back to the mysterious soapstone. Golden yellow eyes study it; the mind clearly debating what to do. After several moments passed, sharp teeth gently scoop of the white stone, and the feline trots off in the direction indicated.

‘Curiosity is gonna kill me one day.’

[pfm1995]

A handful of people stood in a small huddle a few miles outside of Iceholm, far enough that the city's lights were faint glimmers on the horizon set to dancing by the fresh-fallen snow. Well coiffed, brocaded, each bore the mon of House Nellens over their heart and fear in their faces. They surrounded a body. They hadn't dared to touch it yet. They were all cowards. Oh, to be sure each of them had something to recommend them even if just an accident of breeding, but none were especially bold or especially foolish. Of the three hours since word of its discovery had reached their desks, they'd spent two getting their own affairs in order and the last standing in this huddle, sharing meaningful looks and desperately postponing the inevitable.

Which made the looks on their faces all the more amusing when the body sat up.

The tittering whispers of his servants dragged Nellens Adorei back to Creation, bubbling up through the sea of susurrus he'd been gently floating in. Whispers. He couldn't get away from them even in his dreams. Ę̶v͏̸̛eń̷͢ ́͞i̷̕n͘͡ ̛d̀e҉a͟t̢ḩ҉ Crawling courtiers, sycophants, and desperate men surrounded him always... though rarely so literally. Adorei yawned, blinked, stared at the assembled retinue scrambling to debase themselves in the snow. A hand shot out to seize the closest man by the collar and Adorei dragged himself to his feet, belatedly realizing that he, too was covered in snow. "Where... where am I?" he rasped. He'd been out drinking, he remembered that much. Drinking and gambling and....

...stumbling through the outskirts of Icehome as the first snowflakes fell, the superstitious locals thronging around hastily-erected shrines to Autumn Frost...

...falling into a fresh-fallen snowdrift, asleep before his hair had finished settling...

...drifting, peacefully, the endless tide of locusts bearing him upon their backs as they sang the swan-song of their crushed brethren. Then, a presence. Confusion. A cautious detente, as the rustling stilled and ten thousand eyes turned as one. A sudden rush, and...

The soapstone fell from his hand. "M-m-my Lord, t-two miles from the city! W-we thought you dead!" one of the hangers-on stammered, but Adorei had already lost interest. He crouched down, eyeing the strange little rock rolling on the ground. Had he picked it up last night? No... no he had not. Slowly, cautiously, he picked the stone up and threw it again. Again it rolled, finishing pointing the same direction. Hm. Artifact? Loadstone? Trap? More titterings like mice in the background, but he ignored them all. The working was too fine to be local fare, and the way it sung in harmony with the Dragon's blood in his veins made it nothing of mortal ken. And it was clearly pointing somewhere.

Grabbing the soapstone, Adorei stood, flared his jacket, and the snow exploded from him in a sudden sourceless gust of wind. "I am returning to the estate." he said, to no-one in particular. "See to it that I am not disturbed - I must consult with my family."

If any of the newer retainers were surprised at this, what with Adorei being the only member of House Nellens within hundreds of miles, they were quickly silenced by their elders.

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'Estate' was somewhat pretentious, though not entirely untrue. Under the auspices of one of their many, many mercantile interests House Nellens had acquired almost a full block of red-roofed apartments in the Old Market District; Adorei now sat kneeling in the center of a room inside. He'd shed most of his dynastic finery for simple greys that, were it possible, made him look paler than he already was, and he'd tied his hair back into a quick tail. Ephodion hung openly from a leather thong around his neck.

Across from him was a wall-to-wall mirror.

Adorei was alone.

Adorei was never alone.

From the lazy curls of incense smoke and the dark letterings of prayer scrips, figures began to emerge. Dim, hazy at first, but they quickly grew in definition until around his reflection sat a crowd of almost a dozen people. Each was dressed in finery. Each bore the mon of House Nellens. Each was dead. In the center and looming over Adorei's shoulder sat Nellens Aibo, his Great-Uncle and ever-present mentor. Fat and bearded, bright-eyed and cunning, his words would carry the most weight in the coming discussion.

When all had settled Adorei bowed and, by way of starting the discussion, tossed the soapstone onto the floor there to roll about and settle. "This was given to me in a dream. Handed to me by I know not whom. When it rolls, it points always in the same direction - north, though not directly towards the Pole of Air. I believe it is some manner of lodestone, some part of a greater whole. The question I pose to you, revered elders, is this: what next? Follow where it leads? Discard it? Return it to the family vaults?"

"Silly child, obviously it is a trap!" His aunt Roni cried, high and shrill. She was prone to seeing figures in every shadow - unsurprising, given she still bore the wounds from when the assassins had caught up to her. "Destroy it, sell it, it has no place here."

"No, no, it must be studied!" Rose two or three voices at once. Something about thaumaturges made them curiously unwilling to leave the world behind. "Divine it's properties, that we may know it is safe!" "Hand it to the artificers!" "Give it to that son of mine, he will know what to do!"

Adorei sighed, his face freezing as he fought not to roll his eyes. "Honored Cousin, your son died some ten years past - lost at sea. And the nearest House thaumaturge is months of tra-" "And a good thing too!" His aunt crowed, interrupting him. "The boy was a wastrel, always forgetting my birthday. The House is better without him!" "Why- You- He was twice the dynast any of your children were! He made it into the Heptagram, as a mortal!" "And failed out!" "My son was a senator!" piped up yet another relative. "We know Bohat! You've reminded us every day for a hundred and fifty years!" "Well, he was..."

Adorei tuned them out - there was no interrupting them, once they got like this. Instead, he leaned in to inspect the stone, his Great-Uncle, still silent, doing likewise. These carvings... sun and moon, air and water, they seemed to speak to him. Almost like...

Sudden pain lanced into his brain. His tongue boiled. His eyes froze. He seized, almost collapsing, clutching his head as the ten-thousand insect sea burst asunder with words like rot and the death of children.

Ś̸͝ş̵͞s̸҉s҉͡s̶̷s̵͞s͡s̀ss̡sş͜ss͘͟s̸̢͢s͡͏ss͞҉́s̴͘ ś̸ss̀̕ss̡͢s͝ss̷̨sś-͘͢T̵̛͠h̨͢e ͜rá͟t́͘s̢ ̡i̸n̶͞ ̢t̶͞҉he̵̛ ͝w̴̵͜a̵̧͢l̶̛l̴̷s̸͘͞ ̢́͟s̷̕͟ṕ̛ę̷a̴͞ķ͜҉ ̶̢͟a͏̡ń͢͝d͝ ͏́͝t̛h͞e͡͠ wa̴l͜͡l̡͡s̵ ̧Lis҉te҉n͟ ̶͏͝F̴̀l͝e̶s̵͡h ͟m̧͘͢a̸d̵͡e̕͝ ̡҉of ̕d̸̸̸re҉ą͞m ̧͟V́o͝r͝a̛c̵̵io̸͏͟u̧s͏͝ Ab̨̕s͝t͏̵͜ŕ̕͠a͞c͟t҉ ̸̧w̷e̴̸̷ ̕͢a͘͜r̸e ̶̵w̧e͢ ͘w͡o̷u͜l͢d̕҉ ̛͠ḩa҉̀͟v̴e ̛y-̸͡Y̢͘҉-yo̢͜͠u̸̢ ̧͢T͜o̴d́͟a̴͡y ͡͝w̕͠e͢ ̧̕͟w͘a̢t̶̵c̨͢͠h͢҉ed̨͡ ͘҉t̕͟h̶̕ę ͜ra͢t̶̛s͏ ̀d͘est̴͠҉r̡͝oy̢͘ ̛͡án͞ ͢a҉̷n̴̷cie͝n͡҉t̢͘ ̕t̷͏e̢m̛̀p̶̕l͘͝͝e̷͟ ́ç̢l̢ę͟͡v̷̧͘er̷̕ ̨c̴l̸̶eve͘r̕͡ ̀̕͞t̢͠h̴e͡y̨ ̶̛ca̕͢n̶͘ ̴̀̀s̕ưŕ͟͟v̴͜i̛͢v̡e̴͝ ̸̧a҉̕ny̶ẁ͠he͝ŕe ̧Íņ̴v͡as͘͝i̛v̸̢̛e͘ ̶t̵h͠e̛͟y̡͝ ҉̛i̡n̵͘͠f̷͘͞e̶̵c̛t̛͝e͏d҉͟ t͞h̨ę͝ ̢l̴an̶d ̛lik̷̛͝e ̵̨a͞͡ ͜p̴l̛a͟͡g͢͟u͏̀e҉ ̕We ̶r͞em̨̧͠ém̛͏be͞r̢ ̶̸t͘he m̷̕͟o̵̡n͜҉kś͡ ̴̡We̢ ̴re̵͘m̕em̨͘b̨̨ę̕r҉ ̡th͞e̸ t̢͘e͢͠m̢p̷͢͝l̀͡e̢͏ ̸̴͟ţḩ́è͢ ̨̧m҉̨o҉n͞k̸͡͞s̛͟͡ ͜ą͢͢re͘͜ ́po͠ẁe̶rl̢e҉s̡s̨̀͟ ̶͝N̢͡͞ơ̶͜ ̡m̵̢a҉t̷̢͢t̡͟e̵ŗ̛͘ ̷̛w͞h̷͡à͢t̡̛ ͞͝t͢ḩe̶̴y̵̵͟ ҉̶t̴̨ŗ͏̕y̨̨͡ ţ̕h͟͠e̷ ̧͞rat͝s̨҉ ̛dè̀s̛̛͘t̶͢r͜͏ò̢̧y͜ t̷̡̛h̨e͝ ̛́͢è̷҉dif̕ic̡e̷̵͜ ̛҉o͝f҉͜ ̛̕͝t̷͠h̢e̛͏i҉͜͡r ̀b̷͘͝e͞l̵͡i̶é͞f̕͠͡ ̷̛͡ẁ̵į͞th̴̢̨ ̢͞ś̸͘c̨̧҉r̴a̵ţc͢h͟i҉̡n̶̛̕g̡̕ ́à̧n͟͝d͝҉ ͘͡gn͘awi̛͜n͡g̵ ͞͞a̕͡n͘d ̀u̧ŗi̛͘n̡̧è ͘͜and̸͡ ͢fe̸͢ç̕͠e̷s̸͢ ̨͏̨A̴͝͠ ̶m̵on̶͢k ҉͏s͘҉̴h̵ed͏̨̛s҉ ҉̸à͘ ţ͘e̴͞a͏̷̵r̵̵͠ ͟͡a̧̕͞n̶̡d ̷̀i̧n a̷͏ ̨mom͘͞e̴̴̕n͢t͏͢ ̢Un̷͘d̨̨͞ȩ̕͢r̸s̡͡t͏̨a͘n̶̶d̸͟͡ś ͘͘T͜҉h̷̵e͢͢ ̀̕V̡͏o̴̸̢id̀ ̛́ẃ͞ai̸̸ts̛̕ ̡Ý̴̢-̢y-͏y̶o̧҉u ̶̀͟wi̶l͘͢l̴̀̕ ̀g̵o̶̢͡ ̛̀͡ỳ͟o͘u ̕ẃi̷͟l̴͟l̨͟ ͠҉Un̴̛ḑ͞e̡͘ŗ̕s̵͡ţa͜͠ņ̶d̴͟ P̨l͢͝e͘͘á̕se̸ hé̵͏l͏p̸͜ ̧m̕҉̷y̛͟͜ ̀͟҉n͠͏͏a̛m̧e̵͘͘ ͞i͏̛s̀ ̸̷̧A̴̡̡FE͝N͏Ą҉ ̛͞I ͜͜w͞á̢͠s͢ ͢͠w̢͟a̕l͠͏͡k̨̕͡i̧ǹ̛g͏́ h̀ǫ͞me ̷̨̀Ţ̡h҉̸͏e̷̛y ̵́͝m̴̷̴a̸̡ke ̴͠m͏͠e̡͠ ̛t̸a̧l̴ḱ̨ ̴̕t͏͟ơ̴ ̴͢͠y͘͏o͏͠u̧ ̀m̕a͠͡k҉̴̧e̴̕ ̷me͝ ̕s͏̸a͡y͟ ̸̡҉t̛͢h͘e͡͞se͜ ͡t͏h͢҉i͞͡n̷̶g̴͠s̛͝ ͡͡L̵e̸͞t́͜ ̸m̸̧͞e̵ ̶f̵̧eèl̸ ̡͠y҉ò̧̕u ͡le͝t̷̡̀ m̵̸e̷͠ ͠t̷̨̢ơ̢uc̀h̨ ̨͡ýó͘u ̢̢l͏̢͠é̶̵t ̷m͟͞e̡͘ ͞h̛͞a͏́v͘e ͏yo͏u̕r̸̡͢ ͏̴̕c̀hi̧͢ld̨ ͝let̕͝ ̷̸m͝͝e̡͞ ̕͠͡ŕe̵̕ś̴c̴͠u͢e ͟͡y̧o҉ur̸ ̧̀͞ģ̨h̴͝o҉̛ś̡t ̕͞f͞r̷om͠҉ t͟h͝ȩ͜ ̶męat̷ Yo͟u̸͟҉ w̸il̶̢̛l̡ ̴͝f͢͏o͜l̕͢l҉́͢ow͟͞ ͘͟yo̵͝u͟ ̵w̛͢i̸͘l̸l̶͘ ̴̨s͏̧t́͠a̵y̛ ̸y̸͟o̧̢͘u ̵̨͜w̛il͏l͠ ̧̡͟r̛u͟n ̷̴͜i͝n̴ ͜c͟į̸ŕ̵c̵l̢e̶s̀ ͜l͘ik҉̵ę͘ ̷̧ą̡l͢l̷̡ ̧o͘͢͏f̴͡ ̸yò̢u̷̶̧r̸̀ ̀m̢i̕͞s̵̀͢e̸r̡̀a͞b͡l̸̶̢e͞ ̢̧ki̷n̷d́ ͏̢Y͢͟͞ơ̧͞u ̀͢w҉i͠҉̶l̷l̸͘͜ fol̸͘͢l̴̀͢o̡w̴͝ ͟͠a͏̢͞n̴̕͞d̷ ̷w͜͡e͞ w͏i͠l̵͠l̷̢͜ ̷͞w҉̢a͟͟͠tc҉h͘҉̀ ͞͞͏y̴̨̧ớu͢ ̡ĺ͡o̴͘͝se͏ ̨ỳ͟o͠u͞r ͝d͢į͘g̷͘n̶̴ì҉t̕y͢͢ ͠an̡d̸͏ ҉yoú͘r̕ ̧͠d̴e̕͟c̷͞e̴n̵c̷͝y ̀e̕͡͝-̕͡e̷̡-̴e̸̛ver̨y̵ ̡n͏̵͡i̵͡g̷h̷͠t͢ ́b̵͠e͠͞ç̴̡à̶̡ús̨͠ȩ͠ ̶͝͝i̡t̴͞ ̷͠i̶s͏̷ ̴̨͟t̢̀h̛͢͠e̸̢͞ ̛͘c҉̀l̕̕o̸̷͟ş̴es̕̕t҉ w̶̧̡e̵ ͢c͢͜a̵͜n̕͞ ͏̕g͏̶ȩ̴̛t̡͘ to͜͢ ̵̡͠ĺ̴ơ͘v҉̕͝ing̕ ҉ỳ̸o̸̶͟u̶̧
̢
͘L͜҉̛i̛͜ś͢t̡en̷͏ t̀o̷̶̷ ҉t̛͢h̕e̢̧ ̡͠r͏a͜͡t̢s ̸̴į̷n̸͞ t͞h̴e̛͠҉ ̴͢wa̷͘͠ll͟͡s

y̴̡óu͜ ͞͞w̨͏i͠͏̢ļ͏l҉̧̧ ͟͞U̸̢n͠͞d́҉e̶ŕs͘͝t̛͝a̛nd̨

The pain receded, staining his brain with filth as it left. It was like someone had shat in his soul. Adorei's stomach heaved - the voices had always been there, had occasionally spoken but never for that long. Never so loudly. It was worse than the first time, when he'd been five and playing and almost drowned in the koi pond. He was crying. He'd bitten his lip. He'd soiled himself. Uncle Aibo knelt, put a hand on Adorei's arm. "What did they say, boy?" He asked, gently, the other ancestors silent. "We- we're-" Adorei tried to pull his thoughts back together, gasped for air, tried to stop the sobbing. "We're going, I- I think. We're not to leave this to someone else. They... they want to see. They want me to see."

His great-uncle nodded. "Then it is settled."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two weeks later, Adorei set sail from Icehome. It'd taken him almost a week to figure out where they were going - there were two lines drawn on the map he carried, one starting in the city and one a few day's travel to the east, and they intersected in an empty spot in the northern wastes. The journey would take almost a month; the rest of the week had been spent preparing. Food, clothing, shelter, even firewood needed to be arranged for and Adorei had put all his gifts and the weight of House Nellens behind his planning. He brought with him a half-dozen of his most trusted retainers, initiates into the family secrets all, and in the water's spray he caught glimpses of his equally-strong ghostly entourage. When they arrived in Diamond Hearth, they'd have yeddim and trained sherpas waiting - a retainer had been sent ahead to ensure it. This was no leisure cruise. It was an expedition.

As they sailed away from Icehome, the ten-thousand-eyed susurrus watched eagerly from behind Adorei's eyes.

[Sticks]

Waldaharjaz:

The Moonblades' trek across the tundra has not been easy, but perhaps that is for the best. The hardships of travel offer many oppertunities for cooperation, as well as arguments and fights. There are many thrown punches, broken teeth and some claw-marks that leave distinct scars, but those were on the early days of the trip. As the soapstone's course held true, becoming less varied with each passing day, anticipation has stilled any arguments. The bandits eagerly discuss what might be at the end of this journey, where Walda is leading them and what comes next.

During the mid-day break a scout returns. She briefly stops to talk to Wrek, one of the Wolvermen (as they have taken to calling themselves) and the de-facto leader of the group. An older net-man from Olgost, Wrek leans a weathered, ruddy ear in to hear the scout, then straightens, looking about. When he spots Walda, he hitches up his seal-skin leggings and approaches at a trot. Another figure rises and joins him, a woman. Had she not covered her head with a heavy elk-hair hood, her vibrant green hair would have stood out. As it was, her fine-bones and fair skin mark her as foreign enough. Her name is Zheng, a deserter of the Tepet legions. She may have been a sergeant or something before, she certainly has taken it upon herself to keep order in the ranks, such as they are.

The two meet en-route, then converge on Walda's position. Wrek speaks first. "It's like we figured, Walda. We're getting close t' something. Hoof found something about two hours ahead and ran back hard. There's a copse of trees at the end of the ridgeline, and past that is a big ol' storm. It's not coming our way or anything just...staying put. She said it was a...a 'wall of wind.'"

Zheng looks in the direction the scout returned from, eyes taking in the skyline. "It cannot be natural, sir. The clouds are not thick enough and at this distance, we would feel the wind. The breeze has been gentle for days, I've not had reason to note it until now."

They both look at Walda. "The soapstone is pointing that way. What should we do?"

The Outlander:

The wind had been growing milder with each passing day. Every now and then, the Outlander's feet had paused, the scent of sea-water incongruously reaching her nose despite the days of travel between her and the shore. When those moments came, she looked down at the snow-covered ground, and felt the crunch of ice beneath her feet. This close to summer, the hidden salt-lakes of the Wasting Tundra made their presence known through wafts of saline water and ominous crunching sounds. Without the whistling of the wind, those cracks and crunches rang out before being swallowed by the vast emptiness around her. At this time of year, the ice was at its most treacherous. She had to make many diversions, but could get the sense that her goal was close. Hills white with snow rose before her, a promise of solid ground after so much careful travel. Beyond that, she could just make out the shape of whirling movement, a veritable maelstrom of snow unlike any she'd seen. What could be beyond that?

And did she hear something behind her?

Decks:

Scampering, skittering, the little creature had stayed out of Dex's reach all day. It was following him, it had to be, that little white mouse that dove in and out of the snow. First it had nibbled at his soapstone while he slept, then leapt out and grabbed it when he checked his bearings, now it was leading him on a merry chase. He'd almost had it too, when that Icewalker woman had come crashing through the trees and stared up at the still-storm. She hadn't seen him, of course. She'd just taken in her surroundings, swigged from a water-skin, then turned and begun running back the way she came. Once she was out of sight, the mouse popped out of a tree-hollow, still carrying the soapstone, and darted away, long tail flicking as it went.

Nellens Adorei

It had been a week or more since they'd had to abandon the ships. The captains would return in two months to retrieve the expedition, but that would be the last opportunity. Any later and the seas would be full of new ice, hard and sharp and ready to puncture an oak hull. The Yeddims would be out of food by then as well, the summer's thin blanket of heather and moss would be buried and awaiting next year's thaw. The humans had food to last past that point, more still, if they butchered the beasts, but then they would have to drag the sledges themselves, along with whatever they wished to cart back upon them. The ice-track had been their best bet for swift travel, and fortunately the frozen salt-lakes had proven stable thus-far, though distant hills had been spotted in their way. In the meantime, the regular movement of the beasts made the over-ice travel itself soothing and uneventful. There was much time to talk.

"I am glad you chose to head the expedition, nephew. If this find is significant, it could elevate your stature within the house. I know you might have other ambitions, but it's certainly a poke in the eye for those old fuddy-duddies who doubted you, and validation for my faith in you, no?" Nellens Abio's voice reached Adorei. It was much the same line of conversation as on the ship, but the ancestor spirit's excitement had grown. "I wonder who has placed this stone in your path. Not one of our ancestors, I would know. Could it be someone who knows of us? Is there anyone even out here?"

As if in answer, a shout rang out. Something had been spotted on the hills ahead.

[Inspector Valin]

The Outlander almost sighs with relief at the sight of the hills. This seems right to her; the kind of spot a strange magic rock might be leading her to, hidden amidst the treacherous tundra and its lakes. If it hadn't been for that faint hint of the sea each time, she might well have already met a dire fate. Even for her, these beds could kill.

Yet here she stands, at the feet of something strange and glorious. It brings a relieved grin to the Solar's face. But there's something out there, on the other side of these hills. Strange indeed. The traveller ponders what could lie before her. Were the hills and storm defenders of this isolated spot? Would the stone help her pass by, as it'd warned her of the frozen lakes, or would these be challenges ahead that she should face without assistance?

Regardless, she should take care. The Outlander glances behind her, frowning at the distant sound. After so much silence and isolation, someone else braving such treacherous ground is not a comforting thought. Slowly, she lowers herself, kneeling amidst the snow. She dusts a hefty amount of the white powder over the back of her cloak before starting to slowly ascend the hill, treading as lightly as she could. Someone might note movement, but with the midsummer sun still high in the sky and a great expanse of blinding white still blanketing the land, such was dubious. Even to a skilled observer, from a distance she'd seem more like some hunched cat stalking its pray than a human traveller. Something to be noted, watched for, but nothing more.

Even if she wasn't an Icewalker, she'd been taught the art of the hunt by the Freshspring tribe, and the Outlander couldn't imagine finer tutors.

Spoiler: OOC

Show

Outlander might not be Decks-good at this, but she can sneak when she has to.

(13d10)[10][7][4][10][4][7][10][6][8][5][3][9][4](87) Stealth + Dexterity + 3m Excellency. I have the option of a reroll, thanks to Perfect Shadow Stillness
(2d10)[5][3](8) Stunt

Aaand an Awareness roll to spot the other group, just in case they try to be sneaky too!
(3d10)[4][4][8](16)
(2d10)[10][3](13)

[Ascension]

On some level, Walda realizes he should have seen this coming. He was never much good at recalling the details of storytellers' fables, but even he remembers enough to know that when a hero is sent on a god-given quest, there are always trials to overcome... trials more memorable than the tedious struggle to keep a variegated army of brigands fed, organized, and on task.

How is he supposed to meet a trial like this, though? Stories aren't any good for telling him that, unless the soapstone itself serves as some kind of magic key, reveals some hidden pathway through the tempest. Unless the solution is that convenient, though... What can he do? It's not like he can cut through a blizzard with his swords, or wrestle the winds to the ground. In his bear form, with just his wolvermen at his back, he could probably simply muscle through the tempest, and perhaps the deserters could make it through as well, but what about his stricken kin and the healers who accompany his troops? Would they be able to handle the strain? There would be losses. He won't have their losses on his conscience. Not like this.

They're waiting for an answer, both his de-facto lieutenants. They expect an answer, Wrek because the two of them have been to hell and back together, and Walda's winning smiles and shaky plans have always somehow been enough to see them through, Zheng because she's still a soldier at heart, and that mindset of hers demands orders to implement. Their expectation means that Walda has to produce an answer.

He fixes his face in a confident-looking expression and runs his hand slowly through his hair, buying himself a moment to think. He can't just stand around and look conspicuously pretty all day, though, no matter how good he is at it. He has to say something. He has to do something. Oh, Luna, think!

"Hold position at the ridgeline. You can set up camp, but stay on guard. Fell some trees for a perimeter fence if you like. I'll try to fly up above the storm, see if I can get an idea of its scale. I should also be able to confirm whether the soapstone is truly pointing into the storm, or whether it may be directing us past it. Call it wishful thinking, but we might be able to just go around this."

He shrugs, laughs, plays his sincere hope off like a joke.

"We'll see. I promise I'll be back by nightfall, and we can all gather around a roaring fire to discuss our further plans. If all else fails, we'll see if the god of this storm is bold enough to stand against the Flashing Blade of the Moon!"

There's that smile, that glint of teeth. Walda's trademark grin guarantees that everything's going to work out alright. It simply must, mustn't it?

Walda tosses the soapstone to the ground again, lets it clatter to a halt, and plants his foot on top of it. Moments later, that foot is a grasping talon. His body shrinks, folds in on itself. Hair and fabric fade into an enveloping coat of feathers, white flecked with points of black. A snowy owl stands in place of the man.

The owl Waldaharjaz lets out a throaty hoot as a temporary farewell to his seconds, and then, stretching his wings, he takes to the skies, the soapstone clutched securely in his claws. He beats hard through the calm air surrounding the storm-wall, winging his way up, up, hoping to gain a vantage from which he can see over the clouds, past them...

[Malozing]

Decks’ growls and rushes after the mouse. ‘Stupid mouse. Trying to get me seen by people. This better not be a damned trap. Gonna ****ing drinking its Heart’s Blood.’

The rodent took to hiding in another tree hollow. Ears twitch, and legs bunch underneath the lithe body; this time Decks will be ready for when the small critter to pop out. The clouded leopard waits, eyes focused on the hollow. However, his black ears perk up and swivel to face towards the left of Decks, and his golden yellow eyes follow. Suddenly, Decks leaps from his position and dives headfirst into the snow. Jaws snapping hoping to grab hold of the insolent white mouse or the magic rock.

Spoiler: OOC

Show

Dexterity 5 + Awareness 3 + Stunt 2 [spoier=dice](10d10)[5][8][5][1][9][10][3][6][6][3](56)

[/spoiler]

[pfm1995]

Adorei trudges through the thick northern snow, shivering. When he was little, he'd heard stories of air aspects who's skin was as ice and who could walk as naked in a blizzard as he did in the bath, and he cursed every god he knew that he wasn't one of them. He'd exchanged his dynastic finery for thicker furs and hides, but even they seemed to do little against the dagger winds and he'd learned quickly to walk always in the lee of one of the yeddim for shelter. The big beasts would be their saviors, out here - if they did die, how they'd get back he didn't know. His guides had refused to answer that question. Walking in their lee, though, meant not following their footsteps and trusting the snowy drifts that stretched endlessly in all directions. Every other step seemed to plunge him knee-deep in white powder and now and then he heard the blistering cracks of ice beneath his feet. Each one made him look up, look around, but none of the locals seemed bothered. They just steered the yeddim here and there, using what signposts Adorei couldn't begin to guess.

He hated to admit it, but he was slowing down. Each stumble cost him momentum, each drift, energy and every few minutes he was forced to quick-march to get the yeddim back between him and the toothed wind. He couldn't let any of that show, though. Not his weariness, his soreness, his disgust at the rancid fat he'd been told to smear all over himself or his chills. Above him, the rest of his retinue were watching. They'd long since commandeered one of the sleds as their carriage and were hunkered down inside it; now and then Adorei would see one of them peek their head out before withdrawing it quickly, regretting it. They needed to see him marching. Needed to see that he was on the ground, in command, leading them. He could retreat to their sled. He could hunker down with them, sharing cups of whatever was wafting up from inside. But that would mean the drivers were in charge, not him. It would be weakness. Showing weakness in front of your lessers simply wasn't done.

So he persevered. When his uncle made conversation he did his best to answer, lamenting every warm breath that escaped into the northern air. "Succeed or fail, Uncle, I fully expect to be reprimanded by the Council. Life is not like it was in your time. Civil War is at hand, the family can ill-afford one of the blood to risk death off in the northern wastes on some foolhardy adventure." He suddenly surged forward, catching back up with the yeddim, and took a moment to gather his breath. The unfairness of that rankled, a little, but it was inevitable. It was the cost they paid. And his uncle was right, he would be praised - in public if nowhere else - and if the find was large enough...

"I understand the goal, but I would be more concerned were there someone out here. To survive in this godsforsaken place..."

As if on cue, a shout from the lead driver. In a single explosive leap Adorei mounted the closest yeddim, trying to peer through his cloth blindfold at the horizon. Adrenaline kept the cold off, for the moment.

Spoiler: Rolls

Show

Been a while since I rolled something with no charm attached.

(8d10)[2][1][5][8][3][6][3][1](29)

[Sticks]

The Outlander and Nellens Adorei

To the dissident dynast astride the great Yeddim, it appeared as though there was nothing out of the ordinary. The drovers who first raised the cry had abandoned the search, their gazes directed once more on the crackling ice of the lake. From his exposed, woolly perch, Adorei could make out a vague shape, perhaps a bit of snow disturbed by the...whirlwind. Beyond the slope that initially held his attention was a massive wall of flying snow, as though a northern storm-spirit raged within invisible confines. Yes, any disturbance was likely due to the effects of this storm. Or possibly it was that white bird circling above.

On the slope, the Outlander could make out distinct noises even among the crackling of ice. She heard chain and wood, steel runners grinding on ice, indistinct conversation broken by a momentary, watchful silence. The wind was against her, blowing over the ridge and down to the lake, but it seemed likely she could reach the crest undetected.

Decks

Decks' scything jaw connects, and he clenches down on soapstone and...snow. The mouse is nowhere to be seen, it's leap from the tree was intercepted mid-air but there is no mouse to be found, just a mouthful of soft white snow gently melting in the Lunar's mouth.

Walda

Flying on silent wings, Walda is quickly able to find what Hoof relayed to Wrek. Indeed, there is a dome of whirling snow not far from his army's camp. It is not tall, by cloud standards, he can fly over it easily, but finds that it is enclosed, the winds blowing too fiercely to penetrate from this angle. Even with strigine eyes, he cannot not make out what was within. Circumnavigating the whirlwind does not take long, and Walda sees much during that time. There is a ridge-line running from south to east of the whirlwind, matching its curve. At the eastern end of the ridge is a dense copse of squat trees, their branches bearing dark green-brown leaves. At its southernmost point, the ridgeline boarders a frozen lake, with some large band of travelers crossing its ice-bound surface.

Spoiler: OOC

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So to be clear, Outlander is aware of Adorei's group, Adorei can see Walda (in owl form) Walda can see Adorei's group. Decks can't see anyone, but has his stone back. Good roll, Malozing.

[Malozing]

Fur ruffled, Decks snarls around the rock. ‘That’s what I thought!’

Decks cautiously tosses the soapstone between his paws to check where he should head. The lithe form slowly creeps along the treeline, and the Lunar hears the winds before he sees the cyclone of snow and wind. ‘That won’t be any fun to travel through…’ He glances around, suddenly remembering the Icewalker from earlier. ‘I wonder why they are this far out? Setting a trap or following a stone of their own.’

Decks slowly ascends into the canopy, claws digging into the rough bark. His back paws rotating more than most cats’ would typically. At a suitable height, golden eyes scan for signs of the woman.

Spoiler: OOC

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Perception 4 + Awareness 3 + Stunt 2

Spoiler: Dice

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(9d10)[3][6][6][9][3][9][10][3][10](59)

[Inspector Valin]

The Outlander takes a second to look back across the ice, listening to the distant sounds of iron and wood. She's definitely not alone anymore. With the general scape of the landscape, any company is surprising, but tracks across the ground and voices suggested that a group of people were out there in the snow, pressing forward together. And unless there was some other significant landmark around here she's overlooked, the strangers are likely to be coming her way.

Hopefully they're explorers, some band of friendly travellers braving the ice for reasons of their own. But there's no proof of that. As such, best to take advantage of her lead while she has it. With a final breath, the Outlander turns and resumes her slow but steady path towards the summit. If nothing else she should see what the soapstone has been leading her to before deciding if it's worth approaching her fellow strangers.

[Ascension]

Walda eyes the expedition, with its yeddim and sledges, with great interest. He intends to finish investigating the dome of storm-winds, just as he promised Wrek and Zheng, but the soapstone and the storm are still strange, unfamiliar things, and the fruit of their witchery is unclear. To rob a band of travelers such as this, however, is a thing much more easily understood, with clearer and more immediate rewards. At the very least, it would guarantee his Moonblades food for another... what, two, three weeks? More if they were to slaughter the yeddim, much more if they could salt the meat.

Even if the treasure inside the storm is great, treasure alone won't fill a man's belly, won't still a woman's hunger pains.

But yes, yes... the storm, the soapstone, the dream-god's quest. That's important, too. On the far side of the storm from his Moonblades, he flies low and drops the soapstone before lighting down beside it in the snow. He watches as it spins to a halt, expecting its answer even as he hopes otherwise. But, sure enough, it points back into the tempest.

'You couldn't make it easy on me,' he thinks as he takes hold of the soapstone again, takes to the air again.

He wings back to his people as quickly as he can. He swoops in over the center of the nascent camp and shifts back to human, dropping the last foot or so to the ground. Even in the company of his own comrades (perhaps especially amongst them), he's a sucker for a flashy entrance.

"Moonblades!" he shouts to whoever is in earshot, "I have returned with news!"

A wiser leader would likely discuss the intelligence he's gathered with his trusted seconds first, before trumpeting it to his army as a whole. A wiser leader would likely have spent more time reconnoitering the potential foe approaching from the south. A wiser leader would likely have thought out his plan before gathering air into his lungs to announce it.

But Waldaharjaz is not a wiser leader; he is only himself.

As his comrades gather closer, drawn by his shout or by the quickly-spreading news of his return, he continues in a slightly-less-booming voice, "Though it is constant, the unnatural storm ahead is small. While this enchanted stone does point to its heart, I won't have to ask you all to brave its winds. If need be, I can go it alone, and drag back whatever treasure waits inside with my own two hands. But!"

He looks around at his men with an excited grin.

"I'm not asking you to sit idly by while I play the hero. There's excitement ahead for all of us, and spoils enough to share. You see... we aren't the only ones who have come out to have a look at this witch-storm."

He draws one of his swords, the bright sword which gleams in any light. It slides smoothly out of a straight scabbard and then, with moonsilver's fluid grace, its tip curls over in a hook. He gestures toward the south with it, toward the approaching voyagers.

"Travelers come up from the south! They travel in luxury, their baggage laden on yeddim-drawn sledges. They are not of the tundra, not like us! They don't have the fortitude to march until their toes turn black in their boots! They don't have the courage to face a blizzard! The witch-storm's prize isn't meant for them. Their weakness demands that we take their fine things from them and send them right back where they came from, empty-handed!"

[pfm1995]

Adorei's eyes narrow when he sees the snowstorm - if the bird passes through his mind at all, it's as an insignificant background detail. This new hurdle demanded all of his attention. Anywhere else, anywhen else, he'd assume some local god was having a snit and would need either to be propitiated or shown its place, but this was here and now. They were almost on top of the intersection he'd drawn on his map, the loadstone pointed unerringly towards the center of the maelstrom. They'd need to cross through it if they wanted to continue.

Or, rather, he'd need to cross through it. He turned to look back at his small train, their native guides, guards, and the few dynasts he'd deemed potentially useful this far away from home. He didn't know if they could make it through that storm. He doubted they could. Holding up a hand, he called a general halt and gestured for the guides to come speak with him, to talk next steps. While he waited, he turned to his uncle. "Have you ever seen anything like this?" He murmured.

[Sticks]

Nellens Adorei

Uncle Abio's voice is pensive. "Hrm, not this in particular. I've seen squalls on the western ocean, when the Storm Mothers were annoyed, but those were all wild fury. This is too controlled. It looks to me like it is protecting something, or perhaps containing it."

One of Adorei's cousins approached, Nellens Bosro. He was heavy-set, but strong, a natural athlete who had been eager to get away from his job as a grain factor for a northern expedition. He'd wanted to be a soldier, but without an exaltation he was stuck in whatever role the family would give him. That didn't stop him from dreaming of action and sparring with retired legionnaires. "Cousin, I am concerned. We are very exposed here. Should we send somebody up the ridge, then follow?"

Decks

The leopard's paws easily grip the knotted wood of the trees, a kind of dwarf birch, would be Decks' best guess. He cannot see over the ridgeline from his less-than-lofty perch, but he can discern the woman's tracks. They lead back the way she came, and she seems to be deliberately stepping in her own moccasin-prints, perhaps to confuse pursuers. She is well out of sight, but Decks gets the impression that she will be returning soon, with company. There is even a distant sound, though it is hard to make out over the gale past the trees.

Walda

A roar goes up as the camp rises to its feet. Furs are rolled up, hoods replaced, rations stowed. There is a hum of excitement among the camp. Walda does notice Zheng pursing her scarred lips somewhat. She's used to the quiet ordering of soldiers, and it is not an easy adjustment, the leader speaking directly to the forces, rather than intermediary officers. She would adjust, or leave, in her own time.

It's only a few minutes before the moon-blades are on the move, and within an hour they can make out the dome of the whirlwind.

The Outlander

Cresting the ridge, the Outlander faces the storm directly before her. It rises above the ridge-line, a whirling, howling mass of wind and snow, following a definite, smooth curve. She can make out the ground at the base, brown packed earth scraped free of snow. More than a foot in, and the gale is too fierce to see through. Looking back, the party with the sledges and beasts have stopped, they seem to be talking. Off in the distance, there's a dark mass moving across the land toward the shore of the lake, visible from this ridgeline, but hidden down below.

[Inspector Valin]

The Outlander just stands there at first, taking in the view. The storm was grand, imposing as it towered above the hilltop. It seems to loom up to heaven itself: a strange swirling ladder to the sky. The misplaced Solar chuckles, imagining for a second climbing up the storm and finding her home somewhere in distant lands above the world. The image brings warmth to her face, and she sets to work glancing around the rest of the area. There doesn't seem to be any signs of... anything outside the storm. The traveller hums, kneeling down as she studies the earthen boundary set before her.

This didn't 'just happen'. How long has it been since snow touched the ground here?

There's no way to answer that, unfortunately. The traveller withdraws the soapstone shard from her jacket pocket, holding it up against the storm and studying it wistfully. It's made a fine charm thus far, but an unending hurricane is likely to prove beyond her little talisman. Going through this kind of wind and snow is probably going to be difficult, draining and trying. And she'd much rather do that after having had a chance to rest her bones a little, maybe even eat a hot meal if the gods were willing.

The Outlander turns, looking across the ridge. She can see the sledge-riders now, come to a halt at the base of the hill. They don't seem too threatening at a glance: one more group of humble folk, travelling the lakes. There's something else too though, something she can't quite make out, circling the lake. A second group, come to meet with this first band of travellers? It could be two tribes of Icewalkers, meeting to discuss something important. Though the motion of the blur seems fast for that. And coming that way, so the other group couldn't see them...

Could it be the Hushed Ones?!

Possible. She's only heard tell of the creatures in campfire tales, yet the thought of the legendary predators of the northern shadows makes the Outlander shudder. She should go down there, see if things are alright before bargaining for food or a place to rest. Pulling herself upright, the Outlander sets off at a brisk run down the hillside, taking just enough care of her footing to ensure she doesn't slip while making for the travellers' group, her staff out just in case she needs to catch herself.

[Malozing]

Carefully moving from branch to branch, Decks follows the tracks towards the sounds he can faintly make out over the winds swirling about. However, the suddenness of people rushing past underneath him nearly causes him to lose his grip. Claws dig deep into the bark as the branch shakes, and Decks arched his back instinctively.

Once he calmed down, Decks notices the beastmen among the ranks and curiosity compels him to drop down and follow the mass of people. Running just behind the group, he catches glimpses of the group’s intended target. The mon of a Realm House stood out the most to him, and anger coursed through him.

His body shifts in mid-stride, and instead of a four-legged leopard running towards the Nellen’s expedition, a leopard-man hybrid charges forward with teeth bared and claws extending. Moonsilver tattoos swirled elegantly around and between the rosettes.

The Realm will learn these lands are not for them to claim.

Spoiler: OOC

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Spending 5m and 1wp to go into Hybrid Body Transformation/Deadly Beastman Transformation.

Decks is not hiding.

[Ascension]

Waldaharjaz leads from the front. He runs lightly over the fresh snow, taking short, sure-footed strides, his balance on the uneven terrain assured by long years of practice. His swords are already in his hands, the one in his right gleaming brightly, the one in his left darkly tarnished. With the vigor of his motion, his sleeves ride up, and thin strips of flesh are exposed above his fingerless gloves, thin strips of flesh marked with shining silver runes.

Following behind Walda as he rounds the curve of the ridgeline, the tramp of his Moonblades' charge churns the snow into muddy slush. They're used to such unpleasant conditions, and they press on with undiminished fervor. Beyond the southern end of the ridge, the fruit of others' labor stands ready to be harvested by the sword.

They're getting close now. Already they can catch glimpses of their prey, and soon the whole body of the expedition will come into sight. Walda sends up a shout, a shout echoed and amplified by his soldiers, an inarticulate war cry.

But then something happens which gives Walda pause. He doesn't stop running, doesn't stop charging ahead with blades in hand, but the shout does die on his lips.

He sees... another Lunar? A ferocious leopard-man, marked with silver, charging on a parallel course, charging toward the same foe. Who is this stranger? And why is he leaping into the fray? Could he be some agent of the Vanguard, sent by Pellervo the Fierce? Is this Walda's past, calling for a reckoning?

[pfm1995]

"You may be right, cousin." Adorei demurs. Why they'd be less exposed at the top of the hill with the sun shining down on them, he had no idea - Adorei was no tactician - but he refused to ask. Asking would show ignorance. So, instead, he nodded. "Very well, then. Call over..." The sentence died in his throat. From the top of the hill and out of the shining sun came a woman, running straight towards him. From the east, he heard a sudden chorus of yips and howls.

Adorei panicked. Dragons preserve us, it was an ambush. was all he could think. Aunt Roni had been right, he should've left the damnable thing in the snow where he found it. Fey artifice and trickery, undoubtedly, and now their hounds were coming to collect their due. He'd heard the stories, of men twisted into half-beasts and leashed into great packs while too-beautiful masters set them on the hunt. He could here them baying, and he trembled. But, the carvings on the loadstone, they were stars. The moon. The sun. Anathema. Even to Aldorei, no favored son of the Immaculate Order, the word carried a fearsome weight. Were these icewalkers, then, under the Bull? Was he about to die like the Tepet legions had? His heart pounded, he felt suddenly faint. His brain skipped a beat, looking at the snow around him. All he could think was, why hadn't he worn white?

It was only the endless grueling hours under his tutor's switches that stopped him from falling apart completely. He was a dynast of a Great House, no less than any other. "Swords." he managed through clenched teeth and then again, louder. "Swords!" He saw the guides look up in alarm and a few heads pop up out of the dynastic sled. "Swords, damn you all! To arms!" Movement exploded on all sides as, simultaneously, a dozen people realized what was about to happen. Under him, Bosro drew his sword and the guides began to coax the yeddim into a circle. Faint figures appeared in the swirling winds, Nellens ancestors readying to help how they could. But Adorei could already tell it was going to be hopeless. The howls were growing. There must be... there must be dozens of them. Hundreds. His head whirled, casting about for salvation. There had to be a way out, there always had been before. He'd always managed to find something. But all around them was nothing but snow and ice, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. There was nowhere, unless...

The storm. Behind the hill, they could hide in the storm if they could make it in time. And the howls were coming from the east, the only person between him and safety was one woman. They could fight one woman, couldn't they? A knife dropped out of his sleeve and he threw it, tumbling end-over-end until it hit Bosro pommel-first on the shoulder. The mortal Nellens looked up with a start and Aldorei gesticulated, shouting "The storm! Get everyone moving towards the storm!" The man's eyes widened in understanding. The drivers started cajoling, the yeddim turning to face the hill and starting to picking up speed.

It was a race, then.

[Sticks]

Shrieks arise from the caravan as servants and patricians alike scramble for weapons. Yeddim bellow as they are egged on up the slope. There is a ring of steel as the local guides draw their swords, ready spears and axes all around Adorei, though they do not drop their packs. It is likely that they plan on running at the first opportunity. The woman charging down the ridge. The Outlander sees the oncoming mass of icewalkers, and the beasts among them.

The Moonblades crest the small ridge-line on the lake's eastern shore and begin pouring over the side, though some of the rearguard are turning to face the Leopard-man newcomer. Decks vision is full of surprised faces, flashing weapons and glints of claws and teeth. Walda sees an unexpected confrontation brewing on his northern flank, engaging the newcomer.

Over all, a new wind sweeps down from the north, cold and full of snow flurries. Battle is joined.

Spoiler: OOC

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Roll join battle, if you please.

[Ascension]

Walda's sharp eyes take in the scene as he and his Moonblades close in on their prey. He sees that the expedition is not a martial one... he sees how the core group... made up of soft folk, like merchants or scholars... prepares for flight, and how the men-at-arms who surround them in a protective ring dress and carry themselves differently... local guides, hired men, who show little readiness to die for their employers.

Such foes do not have to die. Such weak wills can be defeated without any need for bloodshed. But will he be able to act in time to forestall a slaughter? Or to forestall the enemy's escape? Inwardly, he prays to Luna, beseeching her aid.

'Great goddess! Let me preempt this violence!'

The Moonblades are, on the whole, significantly less conflicted. They're soldiers all, now, whether trained by the Vanguard, the Legions, the Bull, or merely by their peers. They see their foe, and they know their purpose. Strike and subdue. If Walda's silver tongue cannot break the enemy's will to fight, their steel blades will do the trick. Onward they charge.

Spoiler: OOC and Rolls

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Perception-based Join Battle (via Unwavering Predator's Eye) enhanced by 4m Perception Excellency.

Maybe I ought to spend more on JB if I want to win it, but my first-turn action plan is mote-heavy, so 4m it is.

Also, I'm rolling the Moonblades' Join Battle as well.

Spoiler: Rolls

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Walda: (14d10)[6][4][8][9][2][3][5][8][9][2][1][8][7][1](73)

Moonblades: (8d10)[8][2][3][9][9][7][8][10](56)

[Malozing]

Decks doesn’t notice the confused glances from the members of the massive group. He focuses entirely on the meager expedition group ahead of him. As the yeddim begin to trudge toward the storm, the Leopard Lunar cuts around some of the Moonblades to give himself a better chance to intercept.

Occasionally, one of Walda’s people would bump into Decks, and the Lunar’s jaws would snap in their direction warning. This newcomer isn’t used to being among a pack.

Spoiler: Join Battle

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Join Battle 7+ Stunt 2 (9d10)[4][9][2][5][8][9][5][7][9](58) + 3

[Inspector Valin]

The Outlander is used to being confused. Everything confused her to some degree, and as such she didn't stop running towards the sledges even as she heard the cries or saw people begin to move. The situation is growing more complex, but understandable as she starts to draw closer. The sledge party don't look ready for a fight, while the attackers are armed and closing rapidly. One of them seems to be surging ahead to cut the Yeddim off, a great brute that looked like it was half-leopard, fangs and claws gleaming in the sunlight, silver lines rippling across its spotted fur.

Yes! She'd been right! Monsters! Well, a monster... with people. Strange, but when they're attacking an outnumbered traveller's camp, it hardly matters. She needs to remember that. Punch first, think about it later. The traveller pulls a strand of essence into her hand; the strange ephemeral substance invisible save for a faint ripple in the air. Glancing around a final time as she draws close to the camp, the Outlander pulls back her hand and tosses the projectile right above the Nellens campsite. A krak rings out across the lake dotted plain, sharp and crisp, as just for a second the sky is covered by a blinding light.

Most of the warriors were able to get past it swiftly, rubbing their eyes with a backhand as they continued their forward march or scrambling withdrawal. But it'd won the Outlander the seconds she'd needed to slip into position. She's moving beneath the Yeddim now, keeping pace with the great beasts and dodging their footfalls as they ascend the hill. Between the kicked up snow flying every which way and legs like furry tree trunks, the creatures were almost a walking hiding spot for the Outlander as she joined her chosen side.

She can't keep this for long. But she doesn't have to. Just until the attackers reach them, and get a surprise they weren't banking on

Spoiler

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Blinding Battle Feint from Personal! Gonna retain the right to use Perfect Shadow Stillness if this roll doesn't do so hot. Also putting 4m Peripheral on the Excellency for this

(14d10)[6][1][6][9][1][9][7][2][10][9][7][1][5][10](83) Stealth + Dex + Excellency
(2d10)[7][5](12) Stunt Dice

[pfm1995]

All Adorei can do is hold on. He has both hands buried in the yeddim's shaggy pelt and is being bucked violently up and down by the creature's canter; he had tried to keep an eye on the woman but between the bucking and the bright glare of the sun he loses track of her. Not that he cares overmuch - he has larger concerns. The beast-folk have crested the hill and, armed and unarmed, two-legged and four-, each is uniquely terrible and looks the equal of any of Adorei's guards. Their apparent leader is worse still, half-cat and half-man with a shining full moon on his brow. Anathema.

This just kept getting worse. With his knees, Adorei did his best to drive the yeddim to greater speeds, shouting for his men to do the same.

Spoiler: Charms

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Remind me which of you convinced me it was a good idea to not have an awareness excellency?

Spoiler: Rolls

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Join Battle - (6d10)[8][1][5][8][2][2](26) + Stunt Dice - (2d10)[10][2](12) + 3

[Inspector Valin]

The Outlander weighs the situation as best she can while dodging between the Yeddim's legs. The attackers are significant in number, but most look more or less mortal. She could probably thin the heard significantly if she was willing to commit to it - but that would leave the leopard man leading the charge more or less free to attack. That's not acceptable. She can't be sure how strong the attacking creature is, but judging by the expedition's reaction, none of these people seem likely to be able to match the monster. That left it up to her.

It takes the Solar a few seconds to rally herself. She's used to fighting mundane odds that would baffle any mortal warrior, but magical foes are unnerving. Dangerous. She takes a deep breath, and lets the essence of her garb flow through her own. She can do this. These people can help her get through the storm, find what's waiting on the other side. They're her path home. She will not let them be killed today. She's got her armor. She's Exalted.

She's ready for this.

---------------------------------

Suddenly Decks catches a figure charging towards him from the corner of his eye, seemingly fading to existence from nowhere, running right at the oncoming storm of white and silver. The Outlander lets her furs and pack fall away as she sprints, her strange garb shifting and flexing in a way that doesn't quite fit with the wind. Her hair radiates behind her in the breeze, curls twirling as her eyes glint in the sunlight. Both sides' nearby mortals pause, gaping in wonder at the two figures seemingly running for each other like bolts of lightning lancing across the hillside

Soon enough the two combatants are face to face, the Outlander bringing her staff around in a sweep to try and force the leopard to halt and face her. She's ready for the inevitable counter, ducking low and falling into a swift jab forward. From there she twists, almost as if she's being pulled around full circle and into a swift rising kick to Decks' side. The stranger laughs, smiling wide at the white furred Lunar as the two draw close together, grinning at him with a predatory look of her own.

"Hey, Stripey? You're in. my. way!"

It continues for a few frantic seconds more. The leopard-man is too quick, too strong to fall easily even when on the back foot. But that's fine. If she can just land one solid hit past those razor sharp claws...

Spoiler: OOC

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-1 defence from DBT, -2 from a surprise attack? Yeah, it's narrow between him and the Moonblades, but Decks is Outlander's first target. Decisive attack. Since this attack is messing with her forward path, I'm gonna throwdown 2i on Evolving Quicksilver Body for an autosux on the attack roll: makes the damage roll a little lighter, but hey, OOC don't wanna hurt Decks too bad. Also 3m Excellency from Peripheral

So time to make like Ash, and complete my... poke-a-Decks.

Spoiler: Roll

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(14d10)[7][8][9][8][9][6][4][3][1][6][3][10][2][9](85) (+1 Sux) Dex + Brawl + Specialty + 3m Exc
(2d10)[7][1](8) Stunt Dice.

[Malozing]

This woman jumps in front of Decks, cutting him off from his intended targets.

"Hey, Stripey? You're in. my. way!"

‘Stripey?!’ A growl begins to rumble forth from Decks’ chest. “You’re in my way, blind idiot!” Claws slashing at the empty air as the Outlander predicts his counter. The leopard man hops back to avoid his opponent’s jab. Her kick, aimed for his ribs, gives him the opening he needed.

One arm guards his side while the opposite hand, with claws extended, shoves the offending leg away. Leaving long scratches on the Outlander’s armor.

“You shouldn’t get in the way of a predator defending his territory. Especially when you side with his enemies and insult him.” With mouth open wide, Decks flashes his fangs, which seem exceptionally long in comparison to the rest of his jaw. “Now you’ll serve as their warning.”

Spoiler: OOC

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Spending 4m to boost Decks’ Parry up by 2. Deadly Beastman Transformation knocks his Defenses down by 1, so in total, Decks has Parry 5.
I am also going to roll for limit. The Outlander is most definitely deliberately frustrating Decks! Also, she insulted his beautiful coat!
Limit Roll (3d10)[2][2][2](6)

[Inspector Valin]

The strange woman doesn't even try to draw back away from Decks' counter slash. The Lunar sees claw shred through humble fabric, and his foe fall to one knee before him, head bowed. Yet before Decks can strike again, or turn away, he hears the traveller laugh, and looking down the warrior can see the Outlander smiling too. "I... don't know about that."

Strange. Glancing at her wound, Decks sees... something bizarre. The seemingly thin cloth of the Outlander's skirt is shifting. Mending itself. Even without touching it, he can recognize the strange ebb and flow of the quasi-metal as it returns to its original shape. Moonsilver?

It'd given way to him just to try and convince Decks that his hit'd landed. He hadn't actually managed to cut through the disguised artifact mail, and now his enemy is in arms reach of him. The Outlander is grinning as she rises, taking less than a second to step up and around, her staff arm across Decks' shoulder. She whispers in her new friend's pointed ear. "Gotcha. Jóutáu, Stripey!"

With that, a step to the side and a swift shove to make the Lunar face her again, the Outlander is ready. Her palm impacts against Decks' torso, and a mighty, groundshaking boom echoes across the battlefield.

Spoiler: OOC

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So, you thought this was just going to be a regular damage roll. But what's that? Valin's spending 7m extra and grinning like a jackass?

Ladies, Gentlemen and Friends, allow me to introduce you to one of the Outlander's favourite charms.

Heaven. Thunder. Haa-mmer!

Declared after it's confirmed I hit, but prior to damage being rolled. Outlander's Supernal activated the E3 upgrade. This baby's Solar Brawl's super knockback effect, classically used to knock people into/through walls, over the side of cliffs, into the Mouth of the Void: You get the picture.

(Oh, and it also steals 1 point of initative for after the Outlander resets to base)

Spoiler: Damage

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(12d10)[10][9][6][6][1][3][1][2][9][4][10][8](69)

Now, two questions.

1: Sticks, I'd like to share a passage from the charm.

The Solar can use Heaven Thunder Hammer to knock her opponent into a high ceiling, forcing him to contend with falling damage on the way down. She might also choose to smash him through a weak point in a nearby wall, causing him to suffer a collapse. She might aim to hurl her opponent into a spike protruding from a surface, turning the damage lethal, or knock her enemy from a rooftop, causing him to suffer a fall from a much greater distance. The player should include the environment in their stunts to enhance this Charm’s effectiveness.

That said, what would the effect be of the Outlander smashing Decks through the assembled Moonblades, like a big floofy pinball?

Also 2: Is Knockback like this considered a fall? If Outlander just kicked Decks off the top of the hill for example, or at a 45 degree angle out and away, I'd say yes: clearly a fall. But HTH allows you to kick someone into something at close range, and uses 'equivalent' a lot. This seems case by casey, but I'd like to be clear that a horizontal kick into a wall or other obstacle say isn't considered a fall, just a source of damage equivalent to one. If you disagree, that'd affect where I aim Decks.

[Inspector Valin]

The Lunar goes flying outward, skimming the slope of the hill and rising up just a smidge above the crest until he was out of sight. He showed no signs of slowing down.

The Outlander breaths a sigh of relief, before turning back towards the advancing Moonblades. Her fight is far from done.

Spoiler: OOC

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Okay, I've decided.... the pinball thing would be fun, but is kinda off genre, a bit too silly... and this seems like it'll give some fun complications and remove the character most invested in keeping the fight going. So Outlander's gonna knock Decks as far into the storm as she can. Medium Range knockback, damage akin to a medium fall

I'm hoping skidding Decks across the ground is enough to downgrade the automatic damage from Lethal to Bashing. 4 levels of automatic damage dealt, 7 bashing rolled

(7d10)[5][1][2][3][4][10][1](26) Bashing Damage, not doubling 10s

[Ascension]

Spoiler: OOC

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I hate to draw this out by posting the Moonblades' and Walda's actions separately, but as long as there's a chance (slim, but non-zero) that the Moonblades might Crash The Outlander, I need to see what results from this attack first.

The Moonblades have fought in the shadow of the Exalted for a long time. Every one among them has been awed by Walda's flashing blades and overwhelming presence, but they have also seen other champions take to the field. Some have witnessed Pellervo the Fierce in the terrible glory of his war-form, rending men asunder with each blow of his swift paws. Many fought alongside, or against, the pride of House Tepet, warrior-heroes every one. Those same veterans have seen the Sun come down to earth, not just once but several times over, six of the mightiest to ever stride across Creation loosed upon a single battlefield, sundering armies with their power. They are well aware of their mortality, their frailty.

But they know a few things about the Exalted, too. They know that even mighty heroes, even the champions of the gods of the heavens, can fall. Their skill may be extraordinary, their deeds the stuff of legends, but they are still human at their core. They can still err. They can still bleed. They can still die.

All of that is to say that while fear does sing through their blood as they approach a woman who just effortlessly sent a Lunar sailing over the horizon, they press on. With axes, chopping swords, and legionnaires' blades, they press on like a tide, crashing against the expedition guards' defensive perimeter and surrounding the uncanny stranger with whistling steel.

Spoiler: OOC and Roll

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Battle Group withering attack against both the Outlander and the caravan guards.

Spoiler: Rolls

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Attack vs Outlander (stunt dice included):
(13d10)[4][7][3][9][10][4][3][8][10][6][7][2][6](79)
Damage vs Outlander (Base 16, modified by threshold successes and soak, minimum 2 dice):
(16d10)[7][9][7][3][3][7][2][2][4][5][5][8][10][5][8][3](88)

Attack vs Guards (stunt dice included):
(13d10)[4][9][7][10][2][5][9][5][8][7][4][3][3](76)
Damage vs Guards (Base 16, modified by threshold successes and soak, minimum 2 dice):
(20d10)[5][8][9][4][5][1][7][1][3][9][4][7][3][2][7][8][9][10][1][8](111)