Act 2: Along The Croal

The day breaks gloomy and grey, with a faint snowfall that brings with it promises of a greater blizzard.

Your room was spartan, without bedding or wash basin. It was hard to complain, given that it was free (taken), and Otto had not sent up a chamber maid to prep it for you. Still, it was adjacent to the room that the Armebrost had taken, and so the angry inkeeper was less inclined to slip a knife between your ribs while you slept.

Now, you sit downstairs at daybreak with the militia men. Captain Sammael has already begun smoking on a cigar, while his men dine on leftover lamb and scraps of bread from the night previous. There are no serving staff available on the floor, and the kitchen is dark and cold. No patrons have made their way down either.

It looks like Ottolenghi decided to call a saint's day.

Sammael sits at a chair between your two tables - one for the Armebrost, and the other for the mercenaries. After a long drag on his cigar, he looks over at you and speaks.

"We'll travel together a few hours, along the Croal Road. Then, we will separate. Crossing into Valkur will not be easy - there are many patrols from Kethuna that hike the mountains to the sea. Thauriss and his Armebrost are patrolling to the northwest, so that way may yet be safer. Then again..."

He laughs.

"With bad luck, Thauriss might have made the path even more dangerous. Not a subtle man that one... I'd not be surprised if he had prodded the wrath of a few Valkurian patrols already."

The other Armebrost laugh alongside him, gradually finishing their conversations and listening to Sammael. This meeting had evidently become a shared one.

"So then, the two best passages in my estimation, would be through the Croal Crags, or through the northwestern borderlands. The crags are rife with and caves and valleys...and it's unlikely that you'll encounter much resistance from the Valkur there. Plenty of merchants and immigrants skirt the crags in the foothills...but we shouldn't take any chances. Go straight through the heart of it. Only problem there is the trolls..."

He takes a deep swig of his breakfast - a heady pint of red ale.

"The northwestern borderlands are mostly frozen marsh and forest. And, you might find Thauriss and his men that way. Or, a nasty Valkurian patrol... and there are far fewer places to hide in that wood."

Sammael drains his cup, handing it to one of the Armebrost to go and fill it back up.

"So, you're headed to the Rime. Fine by me! Menjendis bless you, that you don't find an icy death in that hellscape. We'll take that hive of inbreds in Vahoog, and thank you kindly for it. Let us know which route you intend on taking to cross into Valkur, and we'll take the other. We shall leave within the hour."

The captain turns back to his men.

============================

Ok guys - decisions to make, for crossing into Valkur. Please also make any preparations required, including grabbing some supplies from the inn (within reason, no +1 longswords)... and letting me know how you intend on setting out.

Also, I sense a good bit of roleplayability going on in Act 1. Feel free to finish up your conversations from Act 1 over there.

Finally, everyone is entitled to +250 exp for the initial scene.

-The Master

Rholf had arrived first at the table and sat. He rested his weapon and pack beside his chair. A half-filled tankard of ale was in front of him. He sloshed the contents around and then drank it. It wasn't too long and the Armebrost and Sammael had arrived and sat down at the other tables. The barbarian nodded to them as he gnashed on the leftover hard bread.

He exhaled heavily through his nose while he chewed. He looked at the eastern wall with all the shelves. His eyes narrowed and he found a few things that would be helpful for their trek through the dangerous lands surrounding Valkur. "Just what I need. The cold here is not unlike Framn," he thought. Rholf dropped what he was eating and left for the shelving.

Rholf studied the shelves and picked out the things he recognized. Much of what was here was different than what was made and available to him back at his homestead.

"Torches, Dried Food, Winter Clothes and Mask and Tent," he muttered to himself. The barbarian had everything stacked haphazardly on his left arm. He walked back to his spot at the table and dropped everything by his chair. Rholf took a fistful of coin from inside his pack and took it over to the counter. He dropped it onto the counter and nodded once.

When Roulf's companions discuss which path to take, he suggests Croal Crags.
______
Items Purchased:
Torches x 4= 4 cp
Trail Rations x 4= 2 gp
Winter Outfit x 1= 8 gp
Plain Wool Mask x 1= 1 gp
Small Tent x 1= 10 gp
________________
Total: 21 gp, 4 cp

Syrillian yawned and stretched as he made his way across the mostly dead inn. He watched as the big one stocked up on supplies. looking over himself he knew that he would need a thicker shirt and pants, a scarf would also be nice along with other warmer essentials.

After Rholf finished Syrillian followed suit finding a few left over scarf he nabbed one along with a set of warmer clothes. Searching he found a pair of cleats "Score." He thought to himself grabbing them. He had missed his last pairs of cleats which he had lost on the road. He pooled how much coin he thought he needed and set it on the counter.

Slipping off his shirt and pants he pulled on the linen shirt and thick pants, already he felt snug. Grabbing his scale mail from his pack his strapped it on over his new clothes. folding up his older clothes he placed them in his pack neatly along with his cleats. Syrillian kept the scarf draped over his left shoulder so he could place it on later.

Being still quite full from the night before Syrillian was contempt with his stomach contents and sat at the table that Rholf had picked out. "Morn'." is all he said once Rholf sat back down
________________

Cold-weather Outfit 8gp
Scarf 1gp
Cleats 5gp

total 14gp
________________

Amon rose early and ate the leftovers for breakfast before anyone else had risen so that he remove his mask without fear. His belly full, he had just finished sliding his hood into place when the first risers woke to greet the morning. While everyone filled their bellies, or made claims on gear, Amon searched for a heavier cloak. He was already freezing, he was a child of the Summer Isles after all, and it was only going to get worse. It was quite the challenge to find one that suited his needs: He needed a cloak that was heavy enough to keep him warm, but easy to shed in the event that battle required full range of motion.

Finally settling on a cloak, Amon found a seat with his back to the wall, and waited on the rest of his allies to make their way down to breakfast.

-----------------------------
Cold weather outfit - 8gp

Coyote was the last one down, but may very well have been the first one awake. He had spent the morning tinkering with his gun and ammunition, making sure there wouldn't be any issues from firing in intensely cold temperatures. Once he was certain he was prepared, he'd come down the stairs just in time to hear the most of what Sammael had to say. He'd nab some supplies to help survive in the winter landscape- Thick clothes of wool, a long scarf, some furs, rations, and a pair of Heatstones that he spotted, perhaps picked over by the others without the knowledge of alchemy he had.

He'd come and sit with the others, listening to what was posed. "Trolls in the Croal Crags may pose an issue." He muses. "I've no first-hand experience fighting them, but I've heard the tales of them ripping folk limb from limb. I suppose the real question is if we want to go against an organized military force, or dumb, brute strength."

He ponders for a moment. "I'm for the Crags. The Trolls will probably flee at the heat and flash of my muzzle, anyhow."

The Warm tavern air remained tense. Taughten-ed by incursion, violence and death. All carried out in pursuit information that could have been easily finessed if not outright requested.

It seemed Captain Sammael would remove an offending eyelash by bashing free with a rock.

The short lived Armebrosi occupation had taken its toll.

Supplies were dwindling, having been poured over by hands heading for the frigid reaches of the Rime. Further picked clean by the greedy grasps of the Militia.

Xander scrounged what little he could; some raw wool he used to line his boots and pad out the linen shirt that lay beneath his chain armour.

He spotted some old climbing gear, claws and boot clasps. They would have to be pried free, relieved from their pinned position on the wall, next to a rusty scythe and pewter tankard, the engraving TR nearly filled with dust.

All had sat long dormant.  Their previous owners were more likely buried in the earth than harvesting grain, drinking air or climbing treacherous rises.

The cloaked figure patted around his new trappings, palming around his new padded per portions and adjusting around his swaddled toes.
It felt lacking.

Worry swept in-- where the winter winds surely would follow suit.

Eyeing around the room Xander spotted the black bear rug that sat in front of the hearth, dwarfed by the huge masonry.

He scooped it up trying to ignore the knits that sprung from its warm pelt. He attempted to wear the rug, draping it over his shoulders, adjusting to a fro the long dead beast's head falling onto his own.

Clutching the furs around this nape, he searched for something to clasp it in place his eyes fell onto another wall ornament that hung with inexplicable intent. A massive hook, Large enough used to snare something monstrous from the ocean.

Xander plucked it from its place and set it into the animals fur and tested it would hold.

=============
rations
Climbing gear
Bear Fur
Fishing hook

Will price out this evening

[…]

Snow crunches beneath your boots - a good deal deeper than you’d have liked. A long ways behind you the warmth of Ottolenghi’s Wheelhouse faded, and now a cursory look over your shoulder reveals only the dim light of a few torches, betraying its location nestled in the clearing.

Light snowfall blusters into your eyes as you follow Sammael northeast. The wagon was left behind in the stable, as the rugged terrain would not permit its’ passage with ease. Certainly, one could trundle through the Croal with four wheels - but only if he was prepared to combat the Trolls that would inevitably sense its passing.

The captain stops at a juncture, where an old sign post with unreadable markings stands vigil over a crumbling stone footbridge. A small stream winds underneath, carrying with it chunks of snow and ice and fallen pine needles from the massive trees swaying in the wind.

“This is where we split, fellows.” says Sammael, pulling a bite of bread from his satchel and biting it in half, stuffing the rest in his pocket.

The Armebrost shoulder their crossbows comfortably. Clearly, they are more accustomed to the biting winds of the open road.

“We will not arrive in Vahoog for a week, I imagine. The Rime is a mess, I wouldn’t be surprised if you spent the better part of a fortnight trying to navigate it. Regardless, we shall meet in Vossupi at the end of the month… there is a smithy there, to which the Armebrost pays a handsome sum for harbouring our agents when we find ourselves in Valkur. His name is Rottus, of Rottus & Sons smithy… tell him you await captain Sammael, and he’ll provide you room and board without charge.”

The captain strikes a match, lighting a long cigar that hangs out of his mouth.

“If you have the prisoner in tow, gag his mouth and manacle him in the cellar. Or slit his throat, if it's too much the hassle. The Jarl doesn’t care.”

The Armebrost seem restless, as Sammael gives his instructions to you and the others.

“Right. Safe travels. If I don’t see you in Vossupi… greet me in the halls of Kess.”

[…]

The wagon shifted uncomfortably beneath Tiberius, a spartan seat in the fore offering him little comfort in the rugged terrain of the Croal Crags. Snow crunches under the wheels, and a gentle snow falls upon his hair in the white landscape, his breath clouding before his lips.

In the front the lone donkey brays, pulling the wagon over a craggy patch of rock. The movement is strained, jostling Freya in the wagon back as the frost nips at her wickedly. It is a cold, miserably day of travel. And, it’s been a cold, miserable journey.

Tiberius’ pendant of tantorus swings and sways, the lord of dominance hanging close to his heart. Whatever his faith, they were not dominating this harsh land. Not in the slightest.

Freya’s eyes catch the treeline to the north. Behind her, the massive Croal peaks soar overhead, blocking out the cloudy sky and draping them in shadow. But to the north, something moves in the treeline…

Her eyes adjust, and suddenly, she realizes something is amiss…

In the snow dusted pines, the shadow of three lumbering humanoids appear. They emerge from the mists like a bad dream, warty and ugly and disfigured. Their heads are bald, their warty chests bare… and they stand at least ten feet tall.

She had seen Trolls a few times in the crags. A few times, and they had been lucky enough to evade them. But these…these ones are looking directly at you.

Large clubs drag behind them, as they advance toward you…not 100 feet away.

*CLINK*

The donkey starts braying again, the wagon coming to a sudden halt. The wheel has caught on another patch of rocks, and it stands unmoving…

[…]

Rholf crests a small hill ahead of the fellowship, light snow crowning his head. Suddenly, his eyes catch on something below…

A wagon, stuck upon a large patch of rocks. And a group of three lumbering trolls to the north, emerging from a dense thicket of pines….

======================

Welcome aboard, Tiberius and Freya! Please see the battle map… and lets get started!

Syrillian pulled himself up to stand to the right of Rholf he wasn't sure why he had stopped at the crest. Perhaps a beautiful view awaited them; however what he saw instead surprised him. He wasn't expecting to have run into trolls. Sure they were known to be in these parts but he hadn't accounted for them seeing ones.

Surveying the area he caught the sight of a stationery wagon. From this distance he couldn't tell exactly what was wrong. "Why aren't they moving?" he thought to himself as he watched the trolls move closer to their position.

"They might be in trouble, should we help them?" Syrillian asked pointing over to the stuck wagon. He didn't wait for a response as he winded a few ways down the mountain to get a better view.

Coyote spots the scene and feels a sense of worry creep up his spine, but Syrillian's push-forward attitude helped. He nodded, loading a round into his gun. "Aye, I agree. Let's see what we can do to help." He'd say, staying behind Syrillian.

Amon froze where he stood, alost as literally as figuratively, when he saw the wagon ahead.

"That's a stall tactic if ever I've seen one." Amon said aloud.

Amon drew an arrow and began looking for cover. If the others wanted to get closer, then they could collect their good Samaritan medal later, but Amon was going to be ready when the screams started.

Tiberius pulls the cowl of his thick cold-weather clothes up tighter around his neck.  The wind of these mountains had a bitter bite for exposed skin.  He shivered slightly, but took some comfort in knowing that his Freya were untouched by the cold air.  He had seen to it, channeling Tantorus's divine energy through his morning touch to warm her body and keep her feeling as satisfied in this weather as she would on a gentle spring day.  

[Cast Endure Elements on Freya; 24 hour duration.]

He snapped the lines to Gladys, the donkey, as it bayed and strained to pull the wagon over the rocks.  He were no skilled wagoner, and the journey in these harsh lands had proved difficult and slow.  It was distressing for him, knowing that his Freya may be disappointed in him.  Yet, he kept his face stoic as he focused on doing his best to keep moving forward.  

A lurching and sudden stop of the wagon broke him into a scowl.  He sighed and looked down over the edge of the wagon, inspecting where they were stuck on the rocks.  

"This may be no problem.  We may only be a moment,"  he said as he dismounted the wagon, lowering himself carefully to the rocks below.  The heavy scale mail he wore under his furs made him move slower, but her knew well the dangers of roads like these.

He looked to the wheels, seeing if he could free them with a push.  "Come on, Gladys, let's give it another pull."

[Upon being alerted to or hearing the trolls, Tiberius will grab his shield from the wagon, and spin to face them in Total Defense.  AC 21.]

---

Cast Endure Elements on Freya (prior to combat).
Move off wagon.
Take total defense with shield when aware of trolls.  
Temporary AC 21

Syrillian wrote:

"They might be in trouble, should we help them?"

Rholf nodded at Syrillian's suggestion. "This was the reason we took this path. A man knows the tendencies of foul creatures," he rumbled. The barbarian unwrapped the head of his weapon and dashed forward! He ran past Amon and skidded through the snow and came to a halt ten feet away. With his weapon ready, Rholf spoke.

"Trolls. Fire is our ally," he bellowed.
____
Actions:
Rholf used Full Round Action for movement.

Freya moans slightly as she’s pulled from a fitful half-sleep by the howling of the wind. She’d fallen into yet another dream of unfulfilled revenge; of ice so cold it froze the blood in her veins and rendered her one with the tundra of a foreign land. Yet again, as the wagon creaks and complains, she fears it was more of a prophecy than a nightmare.

Her eyes flutter open to find Tiberius staring at her. His are wide, unblinking and tinged with red from the bitterness of the air. His expression softens as he watches her shift, pulling the furs around her shoulders tighter to hide the eerie changes in the tattoos that ran across her chest. She thought of her father then, the pernicious sorcerer Lord of Aulbard, whose blood born her a direct descendent of the God Tantorus. He’d forbidden her to leave Aulbard with Tiberius, spitting threats of curses. Freya is not easily tamed, not even by the almighty Lord Balder Moonwhisper. She would sooner die than let her father satisfy his attempt to send her step-brother on a suicide mission. Call him Tiberius, she reminds herself, having promised him long ago to never think or speak of him again as such.

Tiberius had used Tantorous’ divine energy spell to warm her, as he had each day that Gladys drew them further from her father’s castle and into the cold. She knows that Tiberius eagerly awaits the comfort of her warm body to soothe his chill. She is strong in her resolve to not revisit the one night she’d allowed it, banning the vivid images of their time together from her mind completely. It couldn’t happen again, yet the weight of guilt as she watched him suffer the weather settled strongly on her slender shoulders. The Gods know he’d never dare make such a bold request again. Instead, he seems to patiently await an invitation she had no intention of extending.

They don’t speak as she turns to look out from atop the wagon, snowflakes instantly melting from her warmth as they fall on her eyelashes and gently parted lips. She doesn’t see them at first, the three hideous beasts emerging from the tree line. Trolls. They are headed straight towards them, a deep panic rising in her gut. She reaches out to grab Tiberius’ arm but they are both thrown backwards as their cart comes to a creaking halt. At once Tiberius leaps out into the cold as she calls out after him, her words lost in the wind. Freya hears him uttering sweetly at Gladys as she emerges from the cart and calls out to him once more.

“Tiberius! Look.” She reaches down to tug furiously at his furs until he stands. She points at the tree line where the creatures were advancing.

……

Freya’s eyes are poised on the trolls, gauging her next move as she begins to pray, chanting the sacred summoning mantas for the presence of Tantorous’ guidance. She’s interrupted by the crunching sound of snow beneath a pair of boots. She grows silent, crouching within the cart. One set of boots is joined by several. She immediately gauges them as a threat. She is worth a fortune to anyone who recognizes her as the Lady of Aulbard, although her overt highborn appearance had faded from the wear of travel. As such, they had grown less concerned about recognition in recent weeks, perhaps now to her detriment. Her breathing picks up, heart hammering in her chest as she tries to clear her mind and let in the guidance she desperately needed. Nothing comes.

The trolls are very close now, heading for her and Tiberius, who she fears is in the more immediate line of attack. The men who approached were stealth, having grown silent behind the cart. She attempts to look back at them, but the sudden rush of heavy snow momentarily blinds her vision. She grits her teeth, takes in one slow, deep breath and hurls herself out of the cart, running towards danger as even more is likely closing in at her back. The wild waves of her long raven hair stream behind her as she runs toward the trolls. She thinks she hears footsteps falling behind her as she tears towards the more pressing risk, but it may just be the wind playing tricks on her.

Her boots carry her well as she picks up speed, a low growl escapes her, rumbling from deep in her core. She feels the power rising in waves as she summons her natural-born alchemical spell of Heavenly Fire. Her hands are outstretched as the flames begin to flicker in her palms, seeping out of her skin. The fire is raging in her hands as the snow above her turns to rain from the heat and then instantly evaporates. She stops in her tracks as she feels the power crest, the flames curling and twisting as they scream, alive with their own fantasy of destruction. She cocks her head sideways with an empty smile. The summoning of the spell made her, as always, feel drunk with power. It can be dangerously misleading, she knows, this sort of wicked confidence. She takes in a deep breath and steps back before hurling the flames at the trolls.

[Moving off wagon to engage Trolls when they are in range.]
[Casting Heavenly Fire at T1]

His gaze narrows as he spots the oncoming attack, the trolls picking up speed as they gain ground towards them. He quickly throws Freya over his shoulder, gently placing her on the furs inside the wagon before grabbing his shield.

“Don’t. Move.” He whispers, turning to face the attackers.

Freya, however, instead leaps out of the wagon, moving over the rocks quickly to throw her divine fire.  Panic floods his mind as he steps forward to keep pace with her.  He reaches out to grab her, but the Trolls are closing too fast.  He brings up his shield to defend her flank as best he can.

Coyote heard the Barbarian's words- Fire was their ally against these beasts. He had few means of using flames on the beasts, instead opting for the white-hot bullet of his musket to do the talking for him. He hurried forward, skidding to a knee behind a boulder as he slung his gun out, holding it in both hands. Shooting from this distance would be inaccurate- He'd have to get closer... Or wait for the Trolls to get closer to him.

As he repositioned, he pulled out one of his many powder horns to finish loading his gun... Before getting struck with an idea. Fire as their ally? That would work just fine. He'd rip out a bit of cloth from his pack and stuff it into one of his powder horns, dipping a bit of the cloth in hardy, flammable booze he got from the Wheelhouse, fashioning it into a makeshift grenade. "Rholf, don't get -too- close just yet!" He calls. "I may be able to scare the beasts off!"

Sorry Quick post for framework. will complete this evening.

Cloaked figure runs to bushes, Fires at T1 Hit.

15 damage (need to confirm)

Syrillian matches coyotes speed as they move further down the hill, moving past as coyote stops behind a boulder Syrillian continues forward. He's not sure what to make of the scene as he watches the lady and man run around the wagon. He watches as the lady jumps from the wagon and stands her ground in front of the trolls. "Quite brave." Syrillian thought as he stopped a few feet on the left of Rholf. Unsheathing two daggers he readied himself.

A strong gust blows snow from the treetops, blustering it down upon you in this gloomy midday. The pines shudder as the enormous, lumbering trolls break into a run from the treeline! They drag clubs behind them, muscles bristling and teeth gnashing upon warted, hideous faces.

The largest of them opens its' mouth in mid-charge, gurgling a guttural taunt that booms over the shoal foothills....

If you speak Giant:


Heavenly fire fills the air with the cleansing scent of raw, holy power. Above, the clouds glow briefly with the image of Tantorus - crackling with divine light.

Rholf digs in as the first troll crashes into him -

(T1 vs. Rholf, miss!)

The barbarian nimbly sidesteps the blow, the crashing club burying itself in the snow beside him as he prepares a counter attack.

Rholf had seen many trolls in the mountains of his youth. These were fierce - of that, there was no doubt. But they were not as large, nor as nimble as the mighty mountain trolls of the north. The fact that they bore clubs instead of fighting with their claws was evidence enough... these were a lesser breed.

Which wasn't saying much, when considering the lethality of the situation.

(...)

Freya steels herself as the Troll barrels into her, the wounds she had rent upon it moments ago already stitching together!

(T2 HP regen 5)

The fierce brute swings at her, the club narrowly missing her head!

(T2 vs. Freya, miss!)

(...)

Tiberius stands his ground beside Freya as the last Troll swings wickedly overhead. He moves to block it, but the blow lands squarely on his right shoulder.

He can feel the bones and ligaments pop. Pain shoots through his arm viciously, nearly blackening his vision as it staggers him.

(T3 vs. Tiberius, CRITICAL Hit! 16 damage!)

The brute smiles, bringing the club round again for another battering...

==========================|

Please update your AC and HP in the battle map!

Coyote mutters to himself as he fuses the grenade properly. He looks up, seeing his allies in the fray as well. "Fuck." He whispers to himself as he eyes a spot he could throw the grenade without harming his allies. It'd be a hell of a shot, and throwing a powder horn was no easy task... But he knew that he could do it with a little bit of luck.

After a moment's hesitation, Coyote steeled himself and lit the fuse using one of his Tindertwigs. "Plug yer ears!" He calls out, hurling the makeshift grenade behind the Trolls, the horn of black powder landing exactly where he wanted! He drops down behind the rock and covers his ears as the resulting explosion rocks the nearby area- and two of the Trolls! The explosion of fire and rubble hitting the two from behind. Was it worth spending an entire Powder Horn on it? After a moment, Coyote peeked over the cover to see what had happened.

(DC 5 to hit a square, rolled a total of 11, which also takes care of the -2 range increment from thrown weapons and the -4 from improvised (just barely! phew) Total damage: 16 (4, 6, 5, +1 PBS) Fire & Bludgeoning (So they have to resist both to resist any of the damage) - They may make a DC 16 reflex save for half damage. The Red square is the affected area, with the X being the grenade's landing spot.)

Rholf felt the breeze from the troll's club as it moved past him and slammed into the snow. The thunderous sound from behind the two other trolls started Rholf and he shouted, "RRaaaaaRGGHHH!" It was part from shock, but also at the memory of the weapon that was used once, long ago in his homestead. The barbarian seemed to grow another two inches and his body flowed with adrenaline.

Rholf spun with his weapon in hands and brought it down on the troll's knee!
_____
Actions:
Rholf has Raged.
Rholf retaliates against the troll with his own attack.
Used Stamina Pool to add to attack (2).
Attack Roll with Stamina Points
1d20+10+2= 18
Damage Roll
2d6+9= 16

Syrillian watched as one of the trolls lumbered over toward him and Rholf. "Yes go for the big guy." He thought twirling his daggers in hand he heard a crack of thunder explode off to his right side. Moans of pain also radiated out, near him Rholf seemed to become a monster screaming a baritone roar as he smashed his weapon against the trolls knee.

Syrillian saw his chance as the loaf writhed in pain. He brought his right hand up aiming for the meaty part of the trolls neck. Staggering the troll moved slightly making Syrillian jab his weapon into the beasts shoulder. He felt meat rip and bone move as it stuck in.

With the Troll now aggravated Syrillian tried to maneuver his other dagger into the beasts hide but to no avail. Syrillian let the dagger in his main hand leaving it in the trolls shoulder swiftly pulling another from the bandolier across his chest as he stepped back.

"Come on then yah beast." Syrillian said readying himself

----------------------
Actions
Double attack
1st attack hit with a 17 for 6 damage
Second missed
Withdrew another dagger with quick draw

The blustering wind sent wisps of white powder through the air, obscuring a clear view to the trolls, the waylaid wagon and the the maneuvers of his compatriots.

There was no mistaking the pillar of fantastic light that erupted from the sky, scenting the air with burning ozone. Nor the thunderous blast of black powder that followed it.

Xander moved forward into the thicket, crouched low and slid a second smooth ashen bolt into the crossbows flight groove.

the cloaked figure squinted through the debris, smoke and holy incantations aiming only for the forms larger than a ox. Odds were he wouldn't hit Rholf.

Odds were-

**Thwap** the thick braided cord launched the black bird into flight

to hit 17 HIT
14 damage

The murderous raven whistled through the air striking the troll just beneath the collar bone.

Tiberius grunted out in pain as his shoulder dropped and his arm went limp.  He crumpled under the blow and brought his shield arm up to protect his body from the next swing.  Glancing to his left he cried out, "Behind me, Freya!  Run!"

He closed his eyes and his mind reached for the divine energy of the heavens.  The symbol of Tantorus hanging around his neck glowed as if red hot, but it did not burn him.  Rather, the channeled energy flowed through his body, the bones and ligaments in his shoulder starting to reconnect as they healed.

[Channel Positive Energy 1d6 heal, no attack of opportunity]
1 HP healed

Freya can almost hear her father’s callous laughter all the way from Aulbard as her spell fails miserably. Time slows, a million things seem to happen in tandem. She hears a familiar roar; Tiberius is screaming her name, his voice choked by the panic of a man standing before the gallows. Freya drops to the ground, crouching as a cloaked figure rushes past her, poised to attack. The men who had followed Freya from the wagon appear one by one, dodging and launching their own attacks against the beasts. The all too familiar sounds of war fill the air, the wind joining in with its own symphonic whistle and roar.  

She wipes her eyes, looking up at Tiberius who is doubled over in pain, griping his arm. Before she can take her next inhale, Freya finds herself behind him. It was as if she’d called upon Tantorous himself to take over her body; so blinded was she by the thought of him in a shallow grave. An uncontrollable pulsing begins in her lungs as she’s enveloped by a spell she hadn’t known she’d summoned. She grips Tiberius’ back to steady herself from the enormity of the cresting magic. Her breath is violently torn from her lungs in a long unending wave, tendrils of shimmering blue light escape her lips, forming an impenetrable barrier. Her drunken confidence returns as she directs the divine shield spell to protect Tiberius; tinged with the subtle glow of his own magic.

There’s a loud boom that crackles painfully in her ears. Thick black smoke clouds the air, the snowflakes dancing through its darkness like ashes. She closes her eyes and prays to her God, resting her cheek against the furs of Tiberius’ back as she shudders from the last breaths of her spell.

[Freya casts Level 1 shield used defense action Tiberius AC 23]

"I've got better things to do tonight than die." Amon says to the emptiness. All of the beasts were tangled in melee combat, so no matter where Amon placed his shot, it would be a risky shot.

Amon drew back, took a breath, held it, and let the bow string slip from his fingers.

[Amon fires at T1]

Freya's ears ring as she turns to move behind Tiberius, her eyes catching a glimpse of the flaming red ball hurtling overhead.

It glistens in her eyes.

*CRASH*
*WHOOM*

The sound of shattering glass is immediately replaced by an enormous fireball that flares and bursts behind the attacking Trolls. They screech miserably, flames licking at their backs as the beasts desperately betray their footing in search of cover.

(Reflex save, T1 & T2, FAILED)

The fire burns furiously into the beasts, and in anguish and confusion they charge backward through the horrible mess of flames!

Somewhere near the wagon, Coyote watches as the flames die down. On the other side, the Trolls scramble frantically, charging towards the treeline in retreat!

(T1 and T2, retreating...provokes an AoO from Tiberius)

Rholf stands his ground next to Syrillian, the fire licking at them from the east. The Troll that stands before them whips round at the sudden conflagration, digging its' heels into the snow and stumbling over itself in the burst.

It hisses, terror overcoming it. Clumsily, it turns to charge backward!

(T3, reatreating. Provokes AoO from Rholf and Syrillian!)

=================

OK guys, the Trolls are retreating. Your calls if you want to pursue...

Im ruling none of them get their regen this round.

'An enemy left alive is an enemy that come back to haunt you.' Amon thinks to himself as he draws another arrow. 'And I have no qualms about shooting an enemy in the back.'

Amon sights in on the same troll had he just fired upon, and lets another arrow fly.

[Amon shoots at T1]

Syrillian saw his chance as the troll began to flee. Twisting his body he aimed m and with a flick of his wrists he sent his daggers sailing toward the beast. It was as if time had slowed for Syrillian as he watched his beauties dance toward their target. The troll was quick but his blades were quicker.

With a sickening thud one dagger implanted itself in the back of the trolls skull and the other in his upper back. This sent it doubled over into the ground and came to a halt.

Syrillian jogged over to the now lifeless body withdrawing the blades from the trolls shoulder and back but leaving the one in his head. "Thought you'd run off with Mary did ya." He said wiping the dagger and sheathing it along with the other.

-------------
Actions
Two thrown attacks
A 21 and 18 both hit for 11 damage
Withdrew two daggers from trolls body

Coyote grins as the Trolls are rocked by the explosion. It was worth an entire powder horn just to blast them! He'd pop off a pair of shots at the fleeing Trolls, his gun also thundering through the once-quiet wayside. The flash from the muzzle and crack of thunder was enough to send any curious wildlife fleeing.

The first shot goes a bit wide, embedding itself in a nearby tree. The second shot blasts out perfectly, hitting the troll in the back of the head and splattering red all over the (assumedly) coniferous treeline and tundra. He grins, seeing this result, pulling out another bullet to load.

(19 to hit Troll 2, 15 Damage)

The blasts of the explosion and Coyote's gunfire echo off the peaks opposite the wagon.  Chunks of snow break away to tumble down their slope only to be caught up and blown away in the high winds.  

In their shadow, Gladys the donkey haws and bucks, straining at her harness, trying to escape the man in front of her and the clutches of the stuck wagon.  Tiberius is hunched over his arm, his chest heaving with every labored breath.  Smoke billowed and light debris falled around him, pelting his shield, 'tap, tap, tap.'

He peaks around it, seeing that the trolls had turned and fled burning, screaming, dying.  Tiberius reaches for his left arm and jerks the bone back into alignment.  He grunts out scream of pain through clenched teeth, and follows it with a cry to Tantorus.  "Help me!  Heal me, sovereign father!"  

His flesh glows with a gentle white light, thin beams of it escape between the gaps beat into his armor from the Troll's nearly fatal blow.  He feels his bones grow back together and some of the pain his relieved.   He is still far from fully restored, however.   He remains slightly hunched and tilted as he reaches the injured arm behind him to grasp at Freya's hip, gripping into her warm furs with his fingers.  

He turns to his left, swinging his shield around to defend them from the short, hooded and masked halfling that stood cradling a crossbow in his arms just few feet away.  Behind him stood a tall, strong, black bearded human wielding a intimidating maul.  To their right, several feet away through the settling debris stood a human matching Tiberius in height, cleaning and sheathing his dagger.  A tall, hooded Elf holding a bow stood behind the wagon to his left.  

Tiberius glances between them, looking over his shield, a symbol of Tantorus's burned into its wood.  The furs of his clothing bristles and waves in the wind as cold as the stare of his azure eyes that settles on Xander.  The red glow of the wooden holy symbol hanging around his neck fades as he fights to catch his breath and watches, waiting, trying to decide if they were friend or foe.



[Channel Healing Energy:  6 HP Healed]

Xander pushed his way through the thicket, bramble and branch clinging to the matted bear skin rug draped around his shoulders.

At first glance anyone could be forgiven for thinking an angry black bear had charged the wagon from where he rested in the snow nessled brush, disturbed from its nook, where it whiled away the day eating berries lazily.

The wild ursine form lumbered next to where Tiberius and Freya stood shoulder to shoulder, loosing another bolt after the fleeing trolls, thwarted from their 'easy meal'.

The bolt flew wide missing its mark disappearing into the wild, its metal head planting itself into the earth where it would wait hidden for the inevitable spring.

The two strangers crackled with divine, reckless magic.

The cloaked figure studied the two, A pair of emerald orbs floating around with a kind of unmistakable fierce softness lingering on one and returning to the other betraying youthful curiosity held back by a reluctance to speak.

Freya sags against Tiberius, his body rising and falling with each strained inhale of the wretched cold. He pulls her closer, tucking them together behind his shield. She flinches at the familiar enormity of their energies connecting; static shock lazily melting into honey. She looks into his wild blue eyes, clouded with the uncertainty of circumstance as he assesses the men around them. She presumes he is gauging her safety among this band of well-trained mercenary misfits.

“They haven’t come for me, Ti”, she reaches up to pat his shoulder reassuringly. He recoils in pain, gritting his teeth as she snatches her hand away. She sighs and meets his eyes once more. “I’d be bound and gagged in the back of that wagon and well on my way back to Aulbard and you know it.”

By the mighty will of their great Lord, Freya can sense these things in the empty chasm of her heart; the purity of a man’s intention, whether he will fall prey to her every desire as most do. While she wasn’t so sure about the purity of these men’s character, she was certain that they meant her no immediate harm. Despite his unyielding belief in the Godblood that animated Freya’s soul, Tiberius would never trust another man around her. It was an exhausting and deeply-rooted point of conflict between them that only seemed to worsen the further they traveled from home.

She escapes his grip and eventually negotiates herself out from behind the shield. She stands there for a moment, tendrils of her long black hair dancing around her face in the waning breeze as she adjusts the bone skull collar around her throat and licks snowflakes from her reddened lips.

“So…” she smiles, taking care that her piercing gaze lingers just a moment too long on each man. “Who the fuck are you?”

Syrillan's head pivoted toward the sound of a womans voice as it reached across the clearing and to his ears. "Who the fuck are you?" he thought to himself the question made his brows fidget. Unceremoniously  he wrought the dagger from the trolls skull. The winter wind raked his body as he pushed his way over to stand in front of the two figures.

"Well that is no way to thank ya saviors." He said gesturing to the other men around him. He wiped the brain matter from his blade and laid it to rest in its scabbard. "The name's Syrillian, not much else to know about me." He said waving his hand nonchalantly.

"However, who the fuck are you."

Rholf watched Syrillian dispatch the troll with a flick of a dagger. The troll stumbled to the snow covered ground in a heap. The barbarian removed a torch from his pack and walked over to the troll. "These things do not die easily. Must burn the body," warned Rholf. He ignited the torch and set the monster ablaze. The stench and smoke were unbearable, but to Rholf it meant that there would be one less troll.

Freya wrote:

“So…” she smiled, “Who the fuck are you?”

Rholf's stature shrunk slightly, the adrenaline from the conflict wore off. He picked up his weapon and dragged the head through the snow, removing the bits of flesh. One twirl of the hammer and it was mostly clean. He eventually looked at her and rumbled, "Barbarian, sometimes troll killer."

Bitter winds blew down off the quite mountain continuing the silting of soft snow through the air. It bit at exposed skin as silence hung between the strangers.

Freya wrote:

“So…” she smiled, “Who the fuck are you?”

The cloaked figure reached a hand inside a pouch deep in his cloak grasping a signet ring that lay cozened ,nestled among some stray ball bearing, a morsel of aged cheese and a string that once held together a bolo the cloaked figure was unsure how to respond the harsh inquest.

The Assassin that claimed the lives of the Jarl’s rivals or any other malcontents that sought to undermine the tyrannical ruler’s selfish edicts or dared an attempt to stem his cruel whims.

To the Betrolgarian guard Xander was beyond questioning. They took to calling him ‘The Bleeder’- after returning a coven of usurpers pale, gaunt and grotesquely exsanguinated. To the Jarl's men he was known as Black Adder, the regions only poisonous serpent. The moniker gaining favour after a half dozen wild elves poaching the Jarl's game brought before the despotic leader, alive but in the grips of toxin that forced the sufferer down a pain stricken path that only ended when death claimed them.

At last a sweet release from the torment of searing veins.

A small woodland finch landed on Xanders shoulder, followed by another unbeknownst to the dark figure, his thick trappings muting the sensation of their tiny feet as they hopped around the matted fur, picking out burs and little bits of cones.

A fine snack for feather finches.

Today, standing among the melee’d cleared, smoldering clearing the halfing-sized cloaked form draped in bear trappings, those honorifics felt misappropriated. The form before them now seemed in some indefinable manner, softer, less lethal- perhaps kinder.

A voice emanated like a sweet wind rattling through thick dead branches husking the tones with otherworldly timbre.

“They call me Xander”

His lithe fingers traced out the lettering the embossed on the gold frontage in delicate inlaid rose filigree. Digits that slowly delineating the figures on the ring, SDB.

Amon rolled his eyes. 'Great.' He thought. 'More talkers.' He strolled across the snowy landscape to reclaim his arrows. After replacing the ammunition in his quiver, he pulled the cloak tighter around himself. He had let it fall open so he could aim his bow, but that caused him to lose most of the heat he had stored, and his body, so accustomed to the SUmmer Isles, was not doing well in the cold.

Walking back to where the others were gathered, he held back to hear what the others were saying.

Coyote, seeing the Trolls dispatched and the situation resolved, finishes loading his gun before slinging it along his back. He'd step out of the cover he had hidden himself in, approaching the group he came with. Standing beside Rholf, he'd smirk a bit at the woman's direct and surprisingly crassly direct question. He opened his mouth to answer, barely catching himself- He almost said his real name. Not that any of these lot would probably know, but it wasn't his intention to blab. He'd disguise this by clearing his throat.

"Name's Coyote." He said simply, but curtly. In a very I-know-that's-not-a-name-but-i'm-not-going-to-clarify fashion. "Gunsmith and Marksman. Pleasure to meet you." He said, nodding his head and offering a lopsided smile to the two. "No need for the shield, lad. If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't have taken you into account when I threw that grenade. Now, are you two alright? Saw you take one hell of a bash." He said, looking to Tiberius.

Freya wrote:

“I’d be bound and gagged in the back of that wagon and well on my way back to Aulbard and you know it.”

She pulls away from him, addressing the individuals who had suddenly surrounded them as they came under threat by the trolls.  Tiberius stares at her uneasily, comforted only by her confidence.  He studies her eyes and face as her hair dances around it in the cold wind.  He wanted nothing more than to pull her back into his grasp to hold her behind his shield, but he knew well the fury she would unleash should he try to dominate her so.

He nods, nervously turning to watch the others.  He is tense, clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth.  He nearly launches himself forward as Syrillan moves close with a bloody dagger in his hand.  The sigh that escapes his lips as the man sheathes his blade brings with it a sagging comfort as Tiberius hunches forward, cradling his wounded shoulder that still throbbed with pain.

He watches them all as they speak.  He studies Xander's ring (Knowledge History: 18).  He wearily eyes Rholf's hammer and Coyote's firearm.  He cocks his head sideways as birds bounce along Xander's shoulder.

Coyote wrote:

Now, are you two alright? Saw you take one hell of a bash.

Tiberius looks to his lady for her guidance.  Her pause and a shallow nod encourage him to speak.  He turns his head back to face Coyote, his eyes trailing behind as they linger on Freya's.  They settle on the noble Thaycian's, their piercing gaze genitally illuminated by Tiberius's divine energy (Sense Motive: 20).  He nods politely, "Yes, yet it would seem that Tantorus is not yet ready for my company.  I shall endure, sir."

He lowers his shield, wiggling his arm and letting it fall to the ground.  He brings the hand up to massage into his wounded shoulder that throbs beneath the tattered scales of his armor.  He introduces himself and Freya in common fashion, choosing to ignore noble tradition in hopes of vaguely veiling her identity as they had discussed (Bluff: 5).  They both knew that many would see her as a chance for a large ransom.  "This fair lady's name is Freya.  I am Tiberius.  We are among Tantorus's faithful followers, and we travel to Rime seeking one called Caylus."

He turns to look at the wagon, stuck in the rocks with Gladys still quietly straining hard against the harnesses.  She had exhausted herself hawing, but still wished to be free and far away from the strangers and the scene of the very noisy battle.  Tiberius shakes his head, "Could we beg of your assistance getting our wagon free of the rocks?  I fear that with my shoulder injured so, we are cursed to walk without it." (Diplomacy: 13).

Stepping closer to the donkey, Tiberius reaches up to caress his hand flat down her mane as he whispers to her, "Shhhh, Gladys.  Calm down, girl." (Handle Animal: 13).

.........

The rolls are for flavor and demonstration for Freya, excuse the excess.

Xander, does my history roll reveal anything about the ring? 18
Coyote, does my sense motive reveal anything about your reason to use an alias? 20

The sun hangs low in the sky, beaming upon the Croal through cracks in the branches of the naked trees; mother nature’s soldiers, frozen mid-battle and forced to endure the unending winter.

“Appreciation is certainly warranted, isn’t it?” one eyebrow peaks as she nods at the men, absorbing their varied responses.

She sighs in deep exhaustion as she turns to follow Tiberius back towards the wagon, hitching one hip up on the splintering wood to rest. She removes her furs and places them in the wagon, feeling eyes all over her as she adjusts the broad skull that rests upon her collarbone, and the two bone cuffs on her slender wrists. Her boots are caked with snow and she scowls at the small tear in her leather pants.  

Never before has she so deeply craved the comfort of the gold, velvet lined carriage of their midnight escape from her father’s castle. She misses the fine furs and silks that draped across her sleeping chaise as their black steeds smoothly pulled the carriage far away from Aulbard. Ah, back when she still had her gold trunk of gowns and perfume. She can almost taste the fine bubbling wine as it danced on her tongue, accompanied by the meats and dried fruit Tiberius had tucked away for them.

They’d been chased for weeks by her father’s men; forced to abandon the carriage, their horses and their belongings to maintain cover. Tears burn her eyes at the thought of having lost her most prized possession. She’d been known for it back home; the extravagant diamond and ruby necklace that was a cherished gift from her mother. The gems were abundant and the necklace, a true piece of art, began at her neck, draping decadently like sparkling lace down her chest, ending just above the ample slope of her breasts. The gems were rumored to have been sanctified by the Tantorous himself and had made her feel the deepest truth of what she was; His highborn divine sorceresses and the most coveted bride in all of Aulbard.

In a fit of desperation Tiberius had ripped the necklace from her throat and tossed it aside as they’d torn through a dark forrest together on horseback guided only by the full moon. They were in a desperate effort to escape the men charged with assuring her return. ‘To protect you, my love,’ he’d whispered. ‘Sometimes keeping you safe might cause pain and for that I am not sorry.’ She imagined the necklace often; lying at the base of a thick tree, covered by snow like buried treasure.

Who was she now? a mere peasant, crafting warrior goddess jewelry from bones she’d found along their path. Brittle and grey; their lack of shimmer, she feared, was reflective of the path that lay ahead. A path that hopefully did not include this strange gathering of fellows.

The large barbarian reminds Freya of Tinitus, her favorite guard back home and she takes an immediate liking to him. The handsome man calling himself Coyote piqued her interest ever so. His stance, language and cadence betrayed him;  he is just of the type of noble blood her father would have coveted as Freya’s betrothed. She only hoped she wasn’t as transparent at hiding her own identity as he.

“Tiberius!” she snaps his name suddenly with the fervor of a whip on a horse’s back.

She leans down, taking his chin into her hand and roughly forcing his eyes to her. She knew it wouldn’t be but a moment before he was possessed; his eyes intent, head lolling as she infused her siren song though each syllable of her command.

“My holy warrior, I implore you to let the barbarians do the heavy lifting while you rest. You are still healing.” She gently strokes the soft stubble of his chin as he turns his lips towards the palm of her hand. 

“Mmm…” her hand falls from his face, satisfied of his compliance.

She steps aside, looking at the men expectantly before hoisting herself up and disappearing behind the curtains of the wagon. The wood shifts beneath her feet, she hears voices but pays them no mind. Freya slowly let’s her silk tunic fall to the ground, kicks of her boots and slides out of her leather. The heat of her naked skin gently warms the small space with the weakening effects of Tiberius’ spell. She quickly tends to her chest where the tattoo symbols were becoming more and more alive; dancing lines that burned her tender flesh as they slowly twisted into something unknown. She soothes her skin with the small amount of water left in the basin, hissing at the cool liquid before quickly sliding into her changing robe, taking care to keep it hidden.

The curtain gently blows open behind her just as her head turns towards the sliver of grey light…

Wind whips across this pass as the strangers stand in the company of one another, a singular name ringing out in the day as a strange unification of their meeting.

Caylus.

Beyond, at the treeline, the felled Troll lies still in the snow. It's enormous form bleeds out, staining the snow red and brown in an ugly pattern of gore.

Despite the triumph over those green-skinned marauders, the escaped trolls would undoubtedly be back. Rholf knew the inclinations of their kind... they lived for revenge.

It wouldn't be long before they returned in greater number. Likely, much greater number.

Time to move. Those of you that cast your eyes towards the north can see that the path forward isn't clear.

To the northwest the conifers thicken, sloping gently down into a thick, forested valley. Syrillian and Coyote can see plainly that the newcomer's wagon would be ill-suited for travel down that path...though it would certainly offer more cover than the open terrain of the hillside.

Due north, a rough cart path would offer them more expedient passage with the wagon... though exposure to prying eyes or preying trolls would be maximized.

Heading northeast, however, would place them in a climb up the foothills into the base of the Croal Peaks. Treacherous terrain, no doubt...and no place for a wagon. However, if it could be navigated you would pass into Valkur with cover, on a more direct route.

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

OK guys, first and foremost, give yourselves 300 XP each for that encounter and the last few days of RP posts. Really, really well done.

Tiberius threw a nice hook out for y'all. It seems you're after the same man... more opportunity for chatting, to be sure... but you better get moving!

Please come to a consensus on the path forward, and let's get this show on the road.

-The Master

Amon looks to the paths ahead. The high ground would provide cover and enable them to spot enemies easier, and he had no particular attachment to the wagon. Although if any of them were to be injured, incapacitated, or exhausted the wagon would make their lives a great deal easier than trying to carrying a limp body across the foot hills...

'Although there are those among us that would probably be up to the task.' Amon thought, glancing at the barbarian.

Amon knew that while he and Santiago would appreciate advanced warning and a chance to fire on the enemy before they got too close, the others didn't have to worry as much about close quarters fighting, not to mention they would likely want to keep the wagon on hand, and so would likely prefer the easier path.

"I have no preference for which route we take." Amon lied. "But I will scout ahead and look for enemies as soon as the way is decided."

A thought struck him. He could use this opportunity to steal a moment. Amon looked to Santiago.

"Regardless of which way we go, I could use a pair of eyes as keen as yours. That is, if you would be willing to assist me in scouting?" Amon asked the wayward prince.

Syrillian paused as a creeping filling crept up the top of his spine a ginger hand placed itself on the hilt of his blade. "Before we do anything else I must know. What business do you have with Caylus?" A simple answer is all he hoped for less more blood be spilled upon the snow powdered ground. surely they looked the type who would worship a non existent being; However he would not get into the talk at the moment.

"Are they Valkurian? Surely not. Could they have been contracted by Redjak as well? Or... Perhaps someone else entirely." A silent war rages in his mind as he tries to determine whether this two person band is surely people to trust or not. Purely he could be overthinking things but rather better safe than sorry. He wasnt sure what that woman was doing in the back of that wagon. judging at how this Tiberius's body twisted to support his limp shoulder they were in no position to fight.

"Call me paranoid, but its not everyday that you stumble upon people in need of your help that turn out to be looking for the same person you are." Syrillian finished

Rholf moved to the side of the cart where the wheel was stuck and put the haft of his weapon between the hub of the wheel and top of the rock that had trapped it. "Yes, let the barbarian handle it while you mend your lameness," commented Rholf while pointing at Tiberius's arm.

With a smooth step of Rholf's tree trunk-like leg, the cart was lifted free from the rocks. The barbarian shoved the wagon to side of the trapping rocks and let it crash harshly back unto the snow covered ground. Rholf returned his weapon to his back and brushed the snow from his legs, shoulders and head.

Tiberius wrote:

"We are among Tantorus's faithful followers..." said Tiberius.

"It would seem that Tantorus has gifted you with speech different from other commoners I have encountered," noted Rholf, after listening to Tiberius properly introduce himself and Freya to the group. The barbarian shook the cart to check the integrity, it appeared to be of use yet. "Bring the cart as long as we can, then leave the mule and cart down the cart path. Follow the path to the peaks," he surmised.

Rholf cleared his throat and offered his suggestion after Syrillian spoke. "Correct, there are no coincidences, especially in the wilds," he rumbled. "We should discuss this while we travel. I say we send the mule and cart down the Northern path while we walk the path Northeast to the base of the peaks. It will keep the trolls from us and other foul things from springing a trap," he suggested.

Coyote couldn't help but smirk at Syrillian's last remark. Some things fate just seemed to decide for you. He watches Syrillian for a moment before looking out towards the two paths they can take. As he pondered, his momentary consideration would be broken by Amon's question.

"No matter which path we take, a pair of scouts would definitely be good." He said simply. "Aye, friend, I'll scout with you. Perhaps if we are as eagle-eyed as we have been, the Northwestern path will provide less of a challenge and more cover should we use it. Scouting out in open air along the Northern pass might prove... Less useful."

Amon nodded to Santiago. "Glad we can agree on that point. Our eyes have been keen and watchful thus far, no reason to hobble one of our greatest means of avoiding danger."

Amon was inwardly glad that they seemed to have chosen the foothills. He always felt like a roast pig on a platter whenever he was forced to move out in the open. And with Santiago scouting with him, Amon would finally be able to have a long overdue talk with the princeling, so they could get on the same page, and watch each other's backs.

Amon adjusted the cloak on his back and took a few steps towards the foothills. "So, shall I presume that we have reached a decision?"

Rholf wrote:

"It would seem that Tantorus has gifted you with speech different from other commoners I have encountered," noted Rholf, after listening to Tiberius properly introduce himself and Freya to the group.

Tiberius looked up at Rholf, nodding.  "He is gracious to all those that bend the knee.  I am a man of the cloth.  My vestments are not well suited for this weather."

Freya wrote:

“My holy warrior, I implore you to let the barbarians do the heavy lifting while you rest. You are still healing.” She gently strokes the soft stubble of his chin as he turns his lips towards the palm of her hand. “Mmm…” her hand falls from his face, satisfied of his compliance.

Tiberius closed his eyes as he felt her warm hand against his face.  He cannot help but brush his lips across it before opening them again to settle on hers.  "Yes, my lady," was his whispered response.  

He watched her as she pulled away and turned to the wagon, not looking away until she had disappeared inside.  He then very slowly turned his attention back to Syrillian.

Syrillian wrote:

Syrillian paused as a creeping filling crept up the top of his spine a ginger hand placed itself on the hilt of his blade. "Before we do anything else I must know. What business do you have with Caylus?" A simple answer is all he hoped for less more blood be spilled upon the snow powdered ground.  "Call me paranoid, but its not everyday that you stumble upon people in need of your help that turn out to be looking for the same person you are."

Tiberius glanced down to Syrillian's hand, and then down to his shield on the ground.  He knew as it fell that it were a mistake to let it go.  He looked back to Syrillian's eyes as he chose his words carefully.  "He may have some information on a murder in Aulbard that we are investigating."

Rholf wrote:

I say we send the mule and cart down the Northern path while we walk the path Northeast to the base of the peaks. It will keep the trolls from us and other foul things from springing a trap," he suggested.

Tiberius petted Glady's mane as she calmed and stomped her hooves.  He looked from her to the barbarian and the others behind.  "Part with us if you must.  We would be much in your debt should you rather choose to accompany us and our wagon to Rime.  We've little to offer by way of coin, but Tantorus has gifted me with the ability to prepare delicious meals.  I have a feast stowed away.  You would be welcome to it should you wish it."

Tiberius returned to his shield and scooped it up, then turned to the others to await their decision.  He rather hoped that they would not abandon them to the road to travel the rest of the way alone.

Syrillian dropped his guard letting himself cool under the winter breeze, in all fairness he didn't mean to seem harsh, sometimes it just came out that way. He saw the way Tiberius eyed him, like a stray dog you weren't sure wouldn't bite your hand if you fed it. "Suffice enough I suppose. now how about we look at that shoulder." stepping forward he made slow advances to show that he did not mean harm.

Syrillian guided his hands to his shoulder careful to not squeeze to hard he checked to see if any other adjustments were needed. "Now I need to know how much does it hurt? can you raise your arm at all?" [Heal Check 20] Syrillian gathered some snow as he did this. "In the mean time." he said pulling some cloth from his bag. he made a bowl and scrapped some snow inside of it, wrapping it tightly enough to contain the packed snow he wrapped a sling around it.

"Apply this to reduce swelling. Other than that just dont try to ruin it any further. as for where to go I agree with Tiberius, this cart could be of some use." He said turning to the other as he finished.

The two groups of travellers coalesce further into the rocky outcropping, standing and conversing as the adrenaline dies down in their veins.

Quietly, the mule brays a small distance off. Snowflakes dance through the air, landing upon your hair and whitening it. In the common room of an inn, with a roaring hearth, this may have felt like a chance encounter.

But with the wilds full of trolls, and daylight fast fading...the sum of pleasantries seemed to be deficient.

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

OK guys, Im still unclear your exact forward strategy. Lets talk about it in hangouts, and make haste in a direction to advance. In the meantime, its a good time to RP it out. You met some strangers in the wilds that are chasing the same man that you are... quite the coincidence.

-The Master

Xander stood back as the powerful Rholf levered the trapped wagon free from the entrapment.  With ease the covered wagon lifted free,  He listened closely to the subtle sounds that emanated from the vehicle trying to determine the contents as they shifted from the man handling.

The halfling eyed Tiberous.

Combat had a way of betraying a man, it shouted his intention, while whispering his secrets. The well armoured holy man seemed the honorable not giving any ground to the charging trolls. It seemed he was guarding something dear to him.  Perhaps it was the skinbare woman at his side Freya, or maybe that unblemished wagon carried something of great import... a religious artifact...

Xander's gaze floated over Freya,

Her lack of coverings rendered her ample and curvaceous form unmistakable,  Xander shifted his trappings in a bid to block out even the most seditious wind from entering while also thinking of his own form compared to hers.

Freya's tone seemed condescending- and Xander knew the challenge of being an assertive woman in a male dominated landscape, sometimes endeavouring women came up over the top.

Perhaps this was her version of charm.

She seemed bold, fiery and was obviously controlled wild magics, her temerity seemed tempered by her companion’s stalwartness.

"If we move ahead together, wagon in tow I can cover the other flank” The black and furry figure crackled.


*** Tiberius' Spot check on the ring: the ring is in Xander's pocket. but you do know that signet rings typically indicate either identity or membership.

Tiberius wrote:

"I have a feast stowed away. You would be welcome to it should you wish it."

Rholf grinned at Tiberius's offer. "Food is always welcome, worth more than gold to a man in the wilds. I do not agree with the cart and mule and taking the open path. However, the trolls we fought are not as stalwart as the ones in my homeland," he rumbled. "Perhaps eyes will see it as a merchant's cart."

For the moment, Rholf appeared to be thinking with his stomach and it led him to the path that allowed the cart and mule to travel unimpeded. "I pray the food be worth the trouble of trolls."