[WFRP2e] The Saga of Jorunn - Part 1 - "That Which Remains"

[MrAbdiel]

The fisherman shrugs a little, offering what he can. "They are... insular. They do not much like nosy visitors, but they are not vicious. Not like the wild skin-changers that tear up towns until they are put down. They are... monks, almost. Fijrgard and the villages give them offerings and they protect us. Some times they take in people with the changing curse... sometimes they die, I think. They howl at the white moon, and bark at the green one. A mystery... but one we've come to rely on."

[bramblefoot]

"thank you for the help" jorunn says. jorunn and his warband will depart to fijrgard, with a small stop at llansbruuk for supplies, mainly food. jorunn will buy a weeks worth of supplies for the party, and move on to fijrgard

on the first night to fijrgard, the green moon appears in the sky, and a torrent of barking is heard in the distance. jorunn will listen to the barking with a slight smile on his face "that sound is somewhat comforting" he confides in byjan. "i dont know how, but it reminds me of home"

[MrAbdiel]

The barking in the distance isn't exactly musical; it comes in fits and starts. One of them will start up, then a dozen, then what sounds like a hundred vicious, dark throated beasts roaring out their guttural rage at the green-hued night sky. Then a few minutes later it will taper off; they will rest their song. And after a little while they'll kick it up again.

It's a warm night - that is to say, the snowfall is light and the wind is mild, so you can in fact feel your toes. Marlene is making use of this by wandering the perimetre of your camp this evening, though she finds no predators. If beastmen are stirred up by the green moon, they are scared of the barking, and you see none of their kind. Ortel seems to find something reverence worthy about the barking; he sits by his tend on his knees, praying to his wolf god while your wolf sniffs about him. Your wolf, incidentally, has largely recovered from his mange. His coat isn't quite uniform yet but he looks healthy rather than ragged and patchy; and seems happier as a result. It's a rare evening where your small warband is content; not starving, or nursing awful wounds, or desperately poor. And the light snow, and the shimmery rivers of rippling green light that run through the sky make for a pretty evening scene, too.

Byjan sits with you, listening to the barking; looking up at the wyrdlights.

"Reminds you of home?" He asks, considering connection the barking may have to your now destroyed village and clan.

"Maybe the Hound-Nights. Do you remember? Sometimes when the green moon was full, the old vitki would round up all the bondsmen and mix up that mushroom wine and they would bark at the moon to keep the spirits at bay. But that was before the old vitki died; old Sarggi. We were both small, back then. When young Lorkus took up the staff, he was more inclined to Serpent and Crow; so they did not perform the Hound-Nights anymore."


This... rings true. You have foggy memories of old Sarggi; a scarred old veteran warrior who found an affinity for the spirits later in life. Most of your life crafty Lorkus was the vitki of your village, Urjarki. But sure enough, you thin you remember your father Aegir laying a strong hand on your shoulder and telling you he was going with the others to frighten off the spirits that the green moon swirled up. Perhaps that's what was comforting about it.

Byjan produces a stoppered clay jug he bought back in Llansbruuk, sips the mead within and then gulps it; then passes it to you. "What is your plan now, Jorunn..? Learn from these wolf men how to before focus your strength, then hunt down this warlord who burned Urjarki? And if you succeed.. what then?"

[bramblefoot]

jorunn takes a swig from the flask. "i dont know what then" he admits. "ive been chasing this dream of vengeance and i dont know what ill do when its over" he sighs. "i doubt ill settle down, i been a warrior all my life, and i doubt it will change" he'll pass the flask back to byjan "whats your plan, should you survive?"

[MrAbdiel]

Byjan really has to think about that. Even though he offered you the same question, he seems not to have much considered it himself.

"Maybe move to Skjold. Try to get work there making ships at the docks. I suppose, for all their frailty, there is something to learn from the southlanders, and how they make those massive ships. Or maybe I'll just stick with you, eh? I don't know. I just know I don't want to be any man's thrall; so I don't want to settle in a little village that will just... vanish when the tribe over the river has too much to drink."

He lets himself be melancholy for a little while, before brightening up a shade.

"Come on; here, take this." He hands toy a wooden spool with a well made fishing line; and produces his own. He baits his with one of the tiny fish pulled up too small to bother cooking. "The holes the fishermen cut haven't frozen over, yet. Let's try our luck. Probably no daemonfish, this time; but who knows?"

Spoiler: OOC:

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Byjan gifts you a Best Quality fishing reel. It adds +5% to your Outdoor survival rolls to fish; which is good, because you aren't trained, and are rolling at 1/2 Int anyway!

With that in mind, give me an Outdoor Survival roll to try your luck at the fishing holes. Byjan, for his part, gets... Vs51 - (1d100)[14]

[bramblefoot]

jorunn will take the fishing reel, and fish. byjan easily outfishes him, but he laughs, and slaps byjan on the back in good camaraderie "no, no daemon fish today" he says, and will grin with byjan until the sun dips below the horizon and their forced to retire

(1d100)[30]

[MrAbdiel]

You fish contently with your old friend and tell stories about growing up before you went away and things got bad. He shares a little of his fishing expertise with you, leaving you a little better equipped. All this overland travel in your warband has forced you to do things in the Outdoors you never needed to bother with, before. Lighting fires with no flint, manufacturing shelter, choosing campsites where you will not wake up buried in snow - in a short time, you have come a long way from those first freezing nights back on shore slogging through blizzards, sharing heat with the other lone-wolf you encountered.

With a last cast together, just to get rid of the last bits of bait fish, you and Byjan are jerked suddenly as something bites both your hooks and nearly pulls you both off your backsides. It would have snapped one line alone for sure. It might have been able to snap both if it tried; but after a few quick jerks the shadow in the water turns about and launches up through the fishing hole! A fish the size of dog bursts out of the water, bumps off Byjan's chest and knocks him over, and then scrabbles around on the ice. Scrabble isn't a word you normall use for a fish; but this one has a pair of weird, skinny arms with wiry muscle and hands with three fingers each. No legs, though; and Byjan gets up to join you, looking down at the mean looking fish making little grabbing motions, shuffling around on what you are forced to consider fish elbows. You think you have, in fact, caught a daemonfish, or atleast a mutant. But Byjan identifies it.

"It's a polypus. They use those arms to grab other fish and gnaw them in the water. Sometimes they leap up and knock fishermen off their boats. They'll bite a chunk out of you the size of your fist before they let go, usually. It's... good luck, I think. Or bad luck. I can't remember; but it's good eating."

He is right about the eating. Time will tell, about the luck.

Spoiler: OOC:

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You can gain, for free, the Outdoor Survival skill, just because of all the outdoor surviving you have been doing.

The small town of Fjirgard is not deeply remarkable; it is like the small towns and villages of the Graelings you have seen before, except for the profusion of wolf iconography carved into sign posts, and icon pillars, and just about any wooden surface. They take well to you because of the presense of your remarkably tame wolf. When you ask about the wolves that walk like men a couple of townswomen point you on your way.

"Yes; yes, we have a marked trail to the mouth of their den. You can see the posts just here. I would not recommend speaking to them directly... unless you are afflicted, and seek to become one of them. But here - take these. You will save us a walk, and help your own case."

They give you two big baskets of fish, bread and vegetables to carry down as offering; from that point, you'll just have to try to convince them to aid you.

Byjan bids you fortune. "Marlene and I will wait in town. No need to agitate them by camping right outside their den. But I don't think wild horses could hold Ortel back." So two of your warband stake out in Fijrgard, and you and Ortel carry baskets down the marked pilgrim trail. It's just another couple of hours before the trail terminates at a grand cave mouth, its edges crusted with stalactites like a great earthy maw. The feral animal smell from deep within is unmistakable. Your wolf whines a little, and takes a backward step. Ortel gives you the second basket. "I'll remain out here. Perhaps they will care to talk to me too, later; but it's more important for you to try. But be careful. We don't know these people... or how much of their self control is myth, or story."

Spoiler: OOC:

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Time to take the plunge. You're entering the wolf's den. How does Jorunn decide to do so? Loudly announce himself? Sneak in to try to get eyes on the dwellers within? However you choose, give me a roll that reflects your approach.

[bramblefoot]

jorunn will heft the baskets, and walk with a purpose. "dont worry about me, im the soul of caution" he calls back. eventually he'll reach an open space, and set down the baskets, and conceal himself behind a large stalagmite. he waits silently for an indeterminate length of time, and then watches as men stalk out of the shadows and eat the food. jorunn watches, musters his gumption, and steps out, arms wide and away from his weapons. "i seek training in the ways of the beast" he flips back his hood, revealing his shock of white hair.

he'll wait for any people to respond

[MrAbdiel]

They are a scruffy lot, for sure; clad in loincloths, loose furs, barbaric braids with bone and beads in their hair. When you announce yourself, the three you can see who have come for the baskets tense up and step back a little. Their lips curl into snarls, but it seems more an instinctive hostility than an informed malice.

"The ways of the beast..." comes a deeper voice from behind them in the cave; a sound that the echo of the cave seems designed to make more menacing. "You have come a long way in foolishness, Ursfjording. Or...?"

The speaker moves to within the range of your keen eyes, and there you see him - a Wolf, who walks like a Man. Grey fur in thick tufts with a ruff abour the neck long enough to braid like a mane and beard; taller than seven feet if he stood up rather than hunkering, with great claws and lupine features. The fur of his upper body is daubed with Graeling sigils in some kind of white war paint; the mane and 'beard' braided and beaded with tokens and charms. An Ulfwerenar - a werewolf. You fought one before on the road to Zagdhelm, and only your own transformation into the bear form gave you the strength to overcome that lunatic creature. But that one was lost to frenzy, like you yourself happened to be. And it fought with a pack of mutants in petty roadside banditry.

By contrast, this creature seems to be holding this wolf-man form without any outward madness at all. He seems to have even.. comfort, in the form; enough to decorate it with those talismans, and to hold this conversation with you. In your own shifted form, if you were to pause and speak like this, the ursine fury would melt away and render you merely an exhausted and vulnerable man.

The wolf-man draws in a breath through his nose. "No - not Ursfjording. But you have the bear in you, all the same; even if you do not march with the Bearstruck. Fortunate you - it would make you not welcome at all. As it is, you are not wolf-kin; and you come bearing a dark blade. What is there between you and us, Bear-Man? What will you do with such mastery?"

[bramblefoot]

"i seek discipline for future encounters" jorunn says. "the red rage is a weapon, but untempered in the fire. it may shatter, or hurt someone you do not wish to hurt" he sucks in a deep breath, and stays where he is. "all i ask is for tempering my untempered rage into a true blade, one that can let me take it where i wish with no issues"

"what makes us similar is isolation. havent we all lost someone or something to the rage that fiils us?" he asks, spreading his arms wide like a demagogue. "control is needed to temper the beast, and i have a feeling i can learn that control here"

[MrAbdiel]

The other three in the room listen, and watch you sidelong as you make your plea; they pace and roll their shoulders idly, with restless but contained aggression. One by one as your exchange takes place, they ripple and change to sprout fur and claws of their own, until they are all towering lupine warriors - not as perfectly restrained as their leader, but none of them compelled to violence by rage or forced out of their form. They seem to have learned the control at least - but their mistrust of you is obvious, both as an outsider and as one with a different form of the changing curse than theirs.

"It will do more than cost you such tragedies, bear-man. The changing curse is a touch of the dark gods - and when they sink one claw in, the other claws are shortly behind."

The pack leader stalks closer to you, stooping to your eye level. He is not striving to intimidate; but he is intimidating all the same. He reaches with one clawed fingertip, touches a length of your snow white hair, then draws back the digit to gesture at you - you gather his focus is your eyes, and hair.

"The first claw..."

He backs up a step to his brethren, continuing his elaboration as he goes.

"The skin-changing is the second. What will the third claw be? Something debilitating, like bones make of glass? Something powerful... dragon's breath, or a talent for magic, or poison in your fangs? But three, four, five claws, and your body will belong to them, not you. No one endures their predations for long. They become their tool, one way or another."

This is a subversive teaching for a Norscan; cult dogma, certainly. Some tribes are more hardcore about it than the others, worshipping only the Four and celebrating mutation as a sign of their favor. But even the tribes furthest from the Wastes, like the Bjornling to whom you belonged, recognise all the gods as worthy of respect, and sacrifice. Their 'blessings' are mixed sometimes, but their power is undeniable. Your mind goes back to some of the mutants you have seen. The wolf-man you killed was powerful... but what of his coterie? Pathetic creatures; one made of glass, fighting out of desperation in his fragile state; another man inside out, a sack of guts inside a shivering skeleton. You had taken your skin-changing talent, like your white hair, as a sign that Bjarna had favored you. But could it be... something else?

Could it be the random caprice of another god, to whom it is pleasing to change the forms of men?

Are you blessed... or cursed?

"But you are here because you want to control the beast - to have control of yourself, and mastery of every extent of your strength. I can show you these things. I can show you the mysteries of our way. But such things cannot be learned in an afternoon, or a day, or a week. If you commit here, you commit to this pack no less than six moons of focus, and effort, and fraternity. Are you willing to do this? Or will you take your chances with the careless world, and the laughter of the thirsting gods?"

Spoiler: OOC: The Price

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The packmaster is telling you what it will take to master the skin-dance: six months of monastic training. It will cost you materially nothing; just time. Mostly what this costs is some assurance about your companions. They swore a year of service to you; they have given you about two months of that so far just in travel, combat and adventure. This would mean you would be releasing them from active service to you - perhaps with some general instruction like to go back to Krejj and try to find a gemcutter to maximize your profits from the gems you traded from the skaven, to search for clues about the idols of the Free Maiden, and so forth. But when you emerge from this training, you will only have four months left with them before they are no longer honor bound to serve you. You can count on Byjan to stick by your side (unless he is massively deceptive and you've missed all the signs.) But Ortel and Marlene are keen to return to the Empire alive. They may surprise you and stay with you longer of their own accord, but you will not have that assurance.

You have no time sensitive obligations, except that of your companions to you. That's the price - six months of training. Up to Jorunn to decide if he is willing or not!

[bramblefoot]

jorunn considers for a moment, but only a moment "i accept your terms" he says. "i must let my party know i will be here for six moons, and give them instructions on what to do in my absence" assuming he gets the pack leaders premission, he will tell his warband to head back to krejj and get the gems cut. he also wants them to seatch out clues for the idols of the free maiden and other things

[MrAbdiel]

The packmaster looks almost surprised. Perhaps he expected this would be too much for you.

"Very well, bear-man. Before you do this - lest you send away your companions expecting a return they will not see - take on this, the first task of many before you. The frozen stream at the foot of this hillside - its right fork tapers narrow, and leads to an old wolf's den. There dwells a creature who was once our brother - he embarked on the road you seek to walk now, but failed in his conviction. Witness what he has become, and destroy him. Bring back the ivory charms from his fur - I will see them cleansed, and prepared for you instead. You may take the human, and the wolf who wait for you outside - the wolf will not speak of what he sees, and the man carries the scent of the votive herbs of the wolf-god. These I trust with the shameful thing you will see - but no others. Return with the charms when it is done."

With that, he turns and stalks back into the cave. He never changes form; but his lupine brethren begin resuming their man-shapes as they carry the baskets away into the dark.

Spoiler: OOC:

Show

Step 1. Decide if you're going to abide by the stipulation, and take only your wolf and Ortel to the wolf den. Otherwise, you can go fetch Marlene and Byjan from town, if you intend to be sneaky about it.

Step 2. Navigation is the ideal skill to roll; but lacking that, give me a challenging Outdoor Survival test to find the den that you have been told about.

[bramblefoot]

jorunn nods, and will take his wolf and ortel to the path directed. the walk is not tiring, and before long the cave comes into sight. jorunn will let ortel know about the risks, and tell him that we're fighting a were. "i need you to play it safe" he says as they enter the cave, weapons drawn and ready

initiative roll if necessary

(1d10+4)[13]

[MrAbdiel]

"I'd be happy to play it safe, Jorunn. It's much easier to do so when we're not being overrun - nice to engage an enemy on our terms too." The priest produces his axe, wonders briefly if its previous owner lived near to here, and follows you into the cave with your wolf trotting at your heels.

The sight that greets you within is terrible. The entrance to the den swings right and then within is a low stone ceiling, and single interior chamber. Present are the things you must expect - the animal bone and bits of forest bric-a-brac the wolves have dragged in to play with; the heavy smell of animal musk, and territory making urea. But also old blood, and other things; sweat, vomit, and the curdling smell of human excess. The wolves are dead, and have been for days; though the cold has prevented them from rapidly decomposing. Immediately you can see the madness the packmaster sent you here to observe - this madman lost himself to the beast, and fled; sought companionship among beasts that instinctive rejected him. You can smell the fear of the departed lupines sprayed onto the walls in now dry splashes of urine as they were terrorized as the mutant interloper tried to befriend them; but then settled to dominate them; tried even, you are disgusted to detect, to mate with some of them, though this profoundly unnatural coupling has resulted only in the deaths of the victims and soon after the rest of the pack strewn about the den in frozen, partly decomposed hunks of fur and bone and meat.

And squatting repulsively in the middle of this ruination is the desolator himself; a lean, filthy lupine were creature whose body is covered in the blood crusted old bite wounds from his defiant slaves. He is lean to starving, though starvation has done no one the full favor of killing the reprobate; though it has led him to gorge on the dead wolves and throw some of that meal back up, the remnants of which is caked down the grey fur of his front; and has done so with an unnaturally powerful digestive acid that has blistered his lips and bleached the fur down the front permanently white.

Most daemonic in its appearance is the face, the skull of which pushes forward against the skin almost splitting it and giving its countenance a hideous pseudo-skeletal look; and behind the ears, a pair of black horns have pierced out of the skin and swung back along the elongated rear of the skull like a profane crown.

As you see it, it shudders and looks up from the fistfuls of frozen, rotting meat it is gnawing on with its terrible sharp teeth; and releases a scream of alarm, and loathing, and bone-shivering bloodlust like you've never heard from any throat human or animal.

Spoiler: OOC:

Show

First thing: Fear Test. First one is at -20; subsequent attempts to shake it off will be at +0.
Failure indicates taking a number of insanity points equal to the amount you failed by divided by 10, for a maximum of three. So if you fail by 12, it's 1.2, for 2IP. If you fail completely and get a 99, it's only 3 IP still.

Fear test for ya boys:

OrtelFear - (1d100)[80]
StillNamelessWolfFear - (1d100)[98]

After that, even if you succeed, you're also in Were-shock: you need to pass a WP test to collect yourself to activate your shapeshifting frenzy. If you fail, you may take a different action instead.

Finally, the Desolator's Initiative: (1d10+4)[12]. If it gets a 14, it'll charge you immediately - otherwise, you go first.

[bramblefoot]

jorunn steels himself and will frenzy, shifting into his were form and positioning himself in front of ortel to blunt the beasts charge. "stay behind me, let it blunt itself on me, and then attack!" he roars, hoping to blunt the fear of the lupine despoiler

[MrAbdiel]

The Desolator bounds across the den and lunges at you, claws outstretched!

Spoiler

Show

vs66 - (1d100)[23] for (1d10+6)[7]!

Wolf WP recovery: (1d100)[38]
Ortel WP recovery: (1d100)[71]

Seven damage to the right arm. You're up!

Your allies are all too happy to let you take the brunt, watching wide eyed.

[bramblefoot]

jorunn barely manages to parry that attack, and makes three attacks. the first is barely an annoyance, while the other two miss "get back in here and fight!" he yells to ortel

(3d100)[19][94][93](206)

(1d10+6)[7]
(1d10+6)[11]
(1d10+6)[15]

[MrAbdiel]

Spoiler: OOC:

Show

Dodge for the Desolator. vs70 - (1d100)[45].

Ortel Charges. vs76 - (1d100)[19]. For (1d10+3)[4] or (1d10+3)[5].

The Desolator attacks Jorunn three times.

vs56 - (1d100)[87] for (1d10+6)[12].
vs56 - (1d100)[30] for (1d10+6)[9].
vs56 - (1d100)[97] for (1d10+6)[14].

Narrative pending.

Ortel finds his steel and rushes in, even putting his axe across the monstrosity; but it moves so fast the iron barely seems to make much contact with it at all. It weaves away from Witherbrand and lunges at you again, a hurricane of claws and snapping fangs!

Spoiler: OOC:

Show

Another hit, this one for 9 damage!

[bramblefoot]

jorunn successfully parries, and will make three attacks. the first one misses, but the other two bite deep

(3d100)[86][32][22](140)

(1d10+6)[9]
(1d10+6)[15]
(1d10+6)[16]

[MrAbdiel]

Your blow rakes down the creature's arm, and blood does flow - but the backhanded killing strike you make hoping to end the combat early whips above its ducking head, as it comes on again.

Spoiler: OOC:

Show

Wolf courage: (1d100)[35].

Ortel: 56 - (1d100)[90] for (1d10+3)[6] or (1d10+3)[13].

Desolator strikes:

56 - (1d100)[60] for (1d10+6)[9]
56 - (1d100)[28] for (1d10+6)[15]
56 - (1d100)[56] for (1d10+6)[8]

A hit for 15, and another for 8!

[bramblefoot]

11/14 wounds

jorunn will take a minor wound, and make three attacks. two hit, but not with much vigor

(3d100)[13][85][30](128)

(1d10+6)[11]
(1d10+6)[12]
(1d10+6)[9]

[MrAbdiel]

Spoiler: OOC: Rolls!

Show

Narrative pending!

vs70 - (1d100)[16] to dodge the 11 - he'll just have to eat the 9.

Ortel: vs56 - (1d100)[69] for (1d10+3)[9] or (1d10+3)[11]
Wolf charge: vs67 - (1d100)[44] for (1d10+3)[10]

Desolator:

vs56 - (1d100)[29] for (1d10+6)[14]
vs56 - (1d100)[21] for (1d10+6)[15]
vs56 - (1d100)[72] for (1d10+6)[16]

Looks like two big boppers, worth defending!

You land a slashing blow on the monstrosity, and the small injuries are starting to add up. It weaves away from your worst strike, and Ortel's; but your wolf leaps up with vengeance in its jaws for its desecrated kin and bites on to the ruff of the werewolf's neck, hanging and growling as it fights on against you! You are wearing it down - but its blows are ferocious as they hammer down on your shield.

[bramblefoot]

Spoiler: ooc

Show

jorunn will parry the 15, and burn the lucky charm on the 14

jorunn parries the attack, and the lucky charm falls out of his pocket, soaking the other one. his return strikes are nothing short of miraculous, cutting deep and leaving the despoiler gasping for air

(3d100)[52][61][54](167)

(1d10+6)[16]
(1d10+6)[16]
(1d10+6)[8]

[MrAbdiel]

The beast slams into you bodily; its jaws snapping around your sword arm's wrist while its claws carve shallow, manifold gouges into your fur and flesh. You cannot bring Witherbrand to use in that condition; and upon you, the desolator is too close to shield bash. Instinctively, you let your shield drop, and mustering all your strength, ram the claws of your left hand into the monster's flesh; caving through ribs and skin, until your fist pulverizes its corrupted heart. You feel the doomed remants of the muscle spasming in your grip for a moment before the desolator heaves a final, froth laden sigh, and slackens against you.. finally dead. In your arms, the monstrous body does not shrink or shed its form. In death, it is only this corrupt shell; fit only to commit to flame, or to rot.

Ortel waits for you to let it drop; and for your own form to revert now the battle is over.

"...I might.. cut off its head, to be sure. Mutants like this, you know... You never can be completely certain, unless you take off the head."

[bramblefoot]

jorunn nods, and will do the dirty work of removing the despoilers head "this one didnt shift back" he murmurs half to himself. "i wonder why?"

nevertheless, the votive bone charms are found, and on the way back, jorunn will be a little more withdrawn than normal. he wonders about what awaits him in the cave silently, not really voicing his thoughts

[MrAbdiel]

You return to the Packmaster, who receives the charms into his palm and looks over them with an expression on his lupine face that strikes you as somewhat mournful.

"Once, a very promising packbrother. But he enjoyed the power too much; he did not respect the mastery of the beast, and the beast became his master. Before long, there was no distance between man and beast and all."

He closes his clawed hand around the charms and finally looks to you. "Make your arrangements with your companions. Your training begins upon your return."

* * * * *

Back in Fijrgard, you sit by a fire in what passes for an alehall in the village, with your small group of companions processing your news to them.

"Well..." Marlene begins, "I guess we'll wait in Krejj, like you suggested. We've definitely got enough wealth here to wait comfortably, and get about those other tasks."
Ortel agrees with a minimal shrug. "I would be worried without a norscan among us; but as long as Byjan is with us there, I think we have nothing to fear."

Byjan looks the lease comfortable of all, with this. A few months ago, he thought you were dead; he was a thrall, and clan Osgaer had been wiped out completely by the Skaeling forces. With your return, he regained his friend and then his freedom; he is less than keen to just head back across the mountains without you.

"Well... I thought maybe I would stay in Fijrgard. Just to be nearby, in case something happens and you need a hand," the big man suggests. Ortel and Marlene look at each other awkwardly. As the huntress said, they are foreigners in this land; with no clan standing at all. Even with the clan destroyed, Byjan is still a bondsman of the Bjornling tribe. Without his legitimacy, they would be very vulnerable indeed, even in Krejj.

[bramblefoot]

jorunn considers. "byjan, please go to krejj" he asks, taking byjans hand in one of his. "ill be fine, i promise" he says

before he heads back to the cave, he'll buy a trio of lucky charms for the way back

[MrAbdiel]

He pats the back of your hand with his spare, and sighs. "Yeah. Yeah, alright. See if old Haggur's doing better, maybe; perhaps, he can help with our gem problem." He steels himself, shakes your hand some, and then turns to fiddle with the packs on the warband's goat.

Marlene assesses you warily as you make your goodbyes. Of all your former thralls, she was the one best equipped and most likely to take her chances breaking and running. She is more capable of surviving the harsh elements of the terrain and feeding herself in the wild than you are. But every time she has brought a consideration to you, you have heeded her concern and advice. When Liebwen was killed, she took a risk giving you an ultimatum about setting Ortel and herself free. And when you did, you did not treat her or her fellow southlander markedly different to Byjan, whom you have known your whole life. And after Leibwen died, in that fight against Kaelveg the Graeling in which Byjan almost bled out too, you have several times called for your subordinates to withdraw and protect themselves rather than feed them to danger. She has noted all of these things; and resentment for you as her owner has turned to respect, as a leader. Perhaps, given time, even as a friend.

"We'll see you in a half-year. I'll do what I can to learn about these idols of the Free Maiden. If we find something... and it seems like an easy enough get... do you want us to try to obtain it on your behalf, or just let it sit? I know you like to be at the forefront of danger; but it's possible there will be an opportunity you're just not there for."

[bramblefoot]

jorunn will consider "if you can get it without drawing undue attention due so" he says. "id like both of you to make it back in one piece"