GM

Water bubbled and simmered in its pot over the fire.

It was hung from a crude wooden tripod fashioned from pine branches, tied at the top.

The water was from your own stores. Even boiled, you couldn't trust the river water.

You were hungry and thirsty, and might regard the Baronessa's rations in a different light.

Biscuits, hard cheese, smoked mutton, and sweet brittle mixed with dried fruit and nuts, and fresh, green-tinged tangerines. It might have seemed excessive the night before.

You weren't starving, no.

But you'd hiked all day over rough terrain in sweltering heat, as you followed the River Scintilla to the Titan's Elbow.

You'd disturbed a Fey guardian and had to flee from its ire.

You'd climbed the steep, overgrown rocks alongside a waterfall.

You'd fought a band of orcs and goblins to the death.

You'd scoured the wreckage and remains of a dead dragon rider, searching for clues and piecing them together afterwards.

You had burned some energy.

Now you could relax a little, the cave was pleasantly cool and dry with a soft floor. Although it was approaching the New Moon, the night sky was lit by the outer cosmos and true night was slower to fall in the summer.

It was dim outside, with the wilderness blurring into murky, indistinct shapes.

Around the fire, your eyes and faces were illuminated.

Out in the dark, the sentries, sat under the bivouac shelter, shadows amongst the shadows.

<Weston>

It had been a long hard day. But he had seen long hard days before when he was working caravans. Granted it wasn't =exactly= the same, but close enough. You learned to eat when you could and it was all good. You learned how to sleep any time you got the chance.

He ate some food and lay down to sleep. "Wake me when it is my watch", he said and then drifted off.

Zoltan

He was used to staying up late, and was not an early riser. He also had become used to snatching sleep wherever he could while traveling so sleeping in two stints was not an issue.

"If no one else cares, I can take the midnight watch. Wake me when the evening watch ends." He glances at Weston as he lies down to sleep. "I'll wake Weston after my shift is done."

<Weston>

Without opening his eyes, he gives Zoltan the 'high' sign.

D

The dusky elf helped prepare the cave for habitation. It seemed as he didn't mind the work however menial it was.

He took his rations thankful that they were warm. One should never discount the comfort of a hit meal. One could survive on cold, but this was better.

He watched the others and said "I am willing to sit a middle watch. I can join Zoltan."

Tindarien

He takes a look at the Sergeant and considers.

"Perhaps the good Sergeant would stand the last watch with me?"

Whilst he would take any watch, he feels the Sergeant may well need his rest. He has probably done more this day than he has for a long time.

Zoltan

He nods at the Dark Elf, briefly considering the pairing to be somewhat appropriate.

Sergeant Almador

The cave was comforting. A warm fire, a soft mattress of pine needles. His quilt was unfurled with an enthusiasm that caught his own self by surprise.

He was slumped on his side, looking at a cameo portrait of his wife. A local craft, it was carved into mother-of-pearl that iridesced in the firelight.

Almador coughed and tucked it back into his tunic when Tindarien spoke his name.

"I would be glad to, sir." He said firmly, patting around to check where he'd laid his partisan. He didn't need it yet, but wanted to know where it was.

Sergeant Almador was the kind of late-fifties male, father and grandfather, who didn't think he was prejudiced but whose views were largely constructed out of them. Yet, being so neighbourly, Almador was mortified whenever he discovered one of these building blocks.

He'd have preferred to take stag duty with Weston, but the high elf seemed a genuine and helpful sort, contrary to the reputation high elves had.

The Sergeant felt dog-tired but alive, with all his senses firing. Fire. He sat by the fireside at home on countless evenings and it was just a fire... but tonight, this campfire seemed to dance and crackle in a way that seemed utterly new to him. Yet Almador instinctively knew it was just a fire; it was that he'd merely not paid attention to one since he was a babe.

Seyja


She had sat by the fire and ate while the others did, also, and half-listened to the rather desultory (other than for Jex's part) conversation. When the subject of pairing up for watches came up, she glanced at Nestaron, one eyebrow quirked upward in a questioning expression. The cleric nodded and she returned the gesture.

"I will stand watch with Nestaron," she said and set about cleaning and oiling her weapons and armor.

When it was decided that she and the cleric would take first watch, she stood, stretched and made her way to the impromptu lookout post.

Jex

He was tired and was ready for a few hours of sleep once the shelter had been established and dinner was had. It was good that he was physically exhausted because otherwise he might be up all night as lyrics and notes swam in his mind. There already were many stories that deserved to be recorded and retold somehow. This night those tunes would be his dreams because he was snoring in moments.

Tindarien

"Good."

He smiles over at the armsman.

"And Tindarien is fine."

He is a high elf, born of two other high elves but that is the sum total of elven influence in his formative years. As he was orphaned at an early age and brought up by humans who were intent on protecting him, he only learned more of his elven heritage later on in life.

He joins in the supper they all share and then settles down to rest, the events of the day still playing over in his mind.

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Nestaron

The half-elf was gazing, unfocused, into the firelight when Seyja spoke. He nodded in reply, with a short but agreeable smile.

There was something on Nestaron's mind.

Since they were all gathered around to eat, before splitting up, the cleric decided to share.

"Tomorrow we'll likely confront whatever lurks on this peak.

"I've been trying to order what we know of it, but all we really know are its victims, and even that's uncertain."

He sighed and sat back, looking to the others.

"Gorulon Gorehound, champion gladiator from Axis and later mercenary. Sir Edward the Red, famous knight errant and agent of the Order of Averness. Renn and Caeric, swordmage, dragon rider, notorious treasure hunter, loyal to the Crusader.

"They've got one thing in common, they died when they came here...."

Nestaron frowned and paused for a moment before continuing.

"Putting party morale aside, why will we triumph where they fell? Did they have something else in common? Is it a weakness we share? Could it be what the Beast exploits?"

Zoltan

"They were all hunting treasure. Some were famous for it in fact. Perhaps whatever is here played on their greed?"

Seyja


Standing there in the gloom at the far reach of the fire's glow, Seyja spoke.

"They fought alone, did they not? We fight together."

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Nestaron

He nodded at Zoltan and Seyja's remarks. They were right, both very true, and he felt they were onto something.... He couldn't say how important it was, just that it was self-evident; they had to ready for this Beast in a way the others had not.

"What about hubris?"

Tindarien

"Fighting alone suggests an arrogance or at the least significant confidence in their own ability."

He looks around at the others.

"We don't seem to be exhibiting much of that. However, we should not underestimate our foe, always a dangerous thing to do. So some thoughts from when I searched. It takes a lot to bring down a dragon. Possibilities include petrification magic, a missile of size such as a boulder; the dragon did have fractures or significant reach which I think is less likely. Most likely: big and strong - giant sized maybe?"

<Weston>

He opened an eye and looked at Tindarien.

"Everyone has a weakness", he began. "Traveling with stalwart companions as we are, there will be someone to help cover for my weakness and be covered by me in turn for their own and so on. And it is not always about power, doesn't =have= to be boulder chucking. There are subtle magics that could down a dragon. ... perhaps it was put to sleep, perhaps an illusion made it think it was safe to dive to avoid some fearsome foe."

Finished, he closed his eye again. His shift would come sooner than he would have wished and he wanted to get what rest he could before.

Sergeant Almador

He struggled to think of a way he could contribute, but one thing did occur to him.

"My grandfather--- Gorulon, he took other townsmen with him, those mercenaries who'd also settled in Rosencliff. None returned, mind you." He said.

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Nestaron

"Hmm." He pondered, remembering the apparition in the castle, "Yes. But they were all seeking fortune and glory."

The half-elf stroked his beard, glancing to Tindarien. He trusted his friend's opinion, the sorcerer tended to pay attention to the finer details.

In the end Nestaron huffed and shrugged.

"Well no-one can accuse us of avarice, can they. Here we are, lugging riches across untamed wilderness, with the sole purpose of dumping it."

He looked around the campfire.

"We are all agreed that we're dumping it, yes?"

Seyja


She had returned from the gloom at the edge of the firelight to join in on the conversation until time for her watch.

"I don't care about riches." She shook her head and restarted.

"I do care about riches, but I have things I care about more."

A grim, humorless smile flirted with her expression.

"I suppose it is a matter of priorities."

Tindarien

"We are trying to achieve two things I believe. To prevent harm to the locals from the curse and to clean the cause of the poisoned water. Replacing the treasure should achieve the first of these."

He shrugs eloquently, his careful statement agreeing with Nestaron's last question but leaving a little room in case things ae not as clearcut as they seem on the surface.

Zoltan

He shrugs. "I've got no need for money and jewels. When the Herald brings Heaven here money will have no meaning."

D

"While I personally like and use riches, it has been my experience that they come with a price. In this instance I would prefer that the townspeople didn't suffer for what we carry. So if returning it will help alleviate peoblems, then I am here to do just that. I do, however, reserve the right to learn more regardless." He shrugged.

GM

And so you talked, and so the night wore on.

With two lookouts under a shelter made of layered branches and the rest behind, camped in the cave by a small, brightly burning, smokeless fire.

The stars came out in their multitudes and the colours of the night sky swam together like spilt ink.

The Moon was a silver sickle, a white welt, veined with dark blue, cold and distant. But the hillside below was warm and breathless, the heat of the sun living on in the earth even after it had set.

Those on sentry duty didn't talk. The patchy gloom under the trees both revealed and concealed the depth of the forest, a forest that was silent. They could hear each other's breathing well enough, hear their companions shuffling around in the cave, and somewhere, far downhill, the faintest sound of the river. But no overlapping cadence of insects, no twit-twoo of swarthy owls. There were no howls of wolves in these hills, or rustling of birds in the undergrowth.

It was still, and yet when you took your turn on sentry duty, you felt something watching you. Something crafty, something curious, something that was at home in the woods as a fox. You sensed a voyeuristic intent, not malice, but it was irritating, distracting. Your partner sat only a whisper away, but you felt sure that every word you said would be overheard.

***

D and Zoltan were sat, poised and searching the darkness with straining eyes, fingertips lightly touching the hilts of their weapons. Whatever watched them, it was a skilled -- nay -- a gifted woodsman.

They heard the crackle of dry twigs, a patter of feet, and the dark elf and tiefling's instincts told them it was gone. Had it fled?

Suddenly there was loud rustling from high up on the peak, that seemed to grow and roll down the hillside towards them. A strong draught came whistling through the trees, low to the ground, throwing up leaf litter, and scattering debris. It washed over the length and breadth of the slope, shaking the roof of the bivouac.

And just as suddenly, nothing, the forest was still once more.

Maybe D and Zoltan stole a glance at each other and noticed the breath misting in front of their faces?

In the cave, you had been dozing with your drawstrings undone or bare-chested. You awoke, shivering, with the campfire guttering in the cold.

Outside, a white downy feather drifted lazily down from above, landing one of the sentries' hands.

It melted and was followed by others. A light snow fell.

Momentarily, it swirled around the sentries as they were cast into deep but fleeting shadow. Somewhere nearby was an awful crash in the trees, the ground shook, and in the cave the water in the pot rippled and the fuel in the fire toppled over.

Now everyone felt a malevolent eye upon them.

D

He wondered at first between what they felt and what they heard. The dropping of snow flakes after such a hot day made him think even more. His mind went over the order of events from the thing that had been watching them departing, it knew something was coming. Whatever it was that came, flying, large, and drawing cold in its wake. Could it have been another dragon? One that killed the other skeleton down the hillside?

But the unmistakable feeling of power, the dark intent behind what watched them now. That he felt had all to do with their goals and the problems of the town. He had walked confident into this place. For not the first time he wondered as to that devil cat's offering and whatever it was the master wanted. Did she want it loose doing damage? Did she want it back asleep, no longer a threat to her power? Only time would tell. He wasn't as confident as he had been. He certainly wasn't complacent on watch. He was silent, still and more vigilant than ever. If only he knew the source of the malevolent intent.

Zoltan

He sits cross-legged in the shelter, bow at hand, sword across his knees. Silent, alert, focused. He has spent many nights on watch in the wild, frequently alone, and he knows the price to be paid for inattentiveness.

The sounds of the wild, especially those near at hand draw his attention. The first seem non-threatening and so do not engender an active response. However the sudden change, drop in temperature, and following feeling of a malevolent entity's interest cause him to reach for the hilt of his sword.

His eyes peer into the darkness, searching for the source.

<Weston>

He was suddenly awake, but did not move to indicate he =was= awake.

Slowly, silently, he moved his head. He looked about for the source of what ever had pulled him from his sleep ... and saw nothing but his own breath. But he did =feel= something.

It had been nagging at the edges of his senses for some time ... like a itch that wasn't quite an itch, but the hint of an itch to come. Now it was an itch. But could he scratch it? It was certainly making itself known now. Was it the 'presence' that had destroyed the local wild life and the dragon with it's rider?

He sat, he pulled his sword. It was too quiet. He looked about again. D and Zoltan were not here, so it was still their watch. It was hard to imagine that something had surprised them and taken them out so quickly and so silently. Chances were that they were doing the same thing he was doing ... trying to get a sense for where the threat was.

He got to his feet. He moved slowly, silently towards the cave's entrance, straining to hear something, anything that would give him a clue at to what and/or where.

Seyja


She hadn't been asleep long but something bothered her, interfering with her rest and she opened her eyes just in time to see Weston moving toward the cave entrance.

Seyja sat up, grasped her greataxe and got to her feet, pulling her armor more tightly around her and fastening its stays as she moved to follow him.

Jex

He was wading with his trousers rolled up to his knees in a shallow pond. Giant lily pads floated among the reeds. Golden carp swam around his feet as he took each step. His gentle steps created ripples that rocked the lily pads and made the reeds sway. Tiny lights glistened in the hazy mist that hung over the moonlit waters. Up ahead he saw her, a silhouette at first but as she approached, her form could be seen through the translucent frock and her crimson hair glistened with morning dew. She approached, hands outstretched. He reached for the hand and at about the time he did so, her face was revealed for the first time. Her skin was pearly white, her eyes violet. Her form was ideal. Then the mood on her face suddenly turned from seductive to one of sheer terror. The pool bubbled and boiled and she started to dissolve.

He awoke, startled and somewhat angry. It took great effort but he quickly focused on the campgrounds. He had been shaken awake, like the bubbling water in his dreams. The feeling of wrongness bore into him. He felt like prey.

Sergeant Almador

Unexpectedly, after a hard day's hiking Sergeant Almador hadn't dropped off to sleep quickly. His legs felt restless and throbbed, as if they still wanted to put one foot in front of the next, even though he was lying down.

This was the first night he'd spent with this party, these strangers who had only arrived in town yesterday. But it wasn't their strangeness that made him most uncomfortable, it was their apparent discomfort.

They did not relax, they were edgy, and that reminded him that they were camped at the foot of a cursed peak. A peak that he'd heard tales about his whole life. The more he thought about it, the more it felt like he was breaking some taboo....

Almador was sleeping fitfully when the warmth seemed to leak from the cave and a chill wind swept over him. He awoke with a start, crying out as he saw his breath mist.

The man-at-arms grabbed his armour and started to buckle it on. He gasped when the earth shook and sat, shivering and looking around wide eyed. Having collapsed, the campfire would die and they'd be plunged into darkness. He was afraid.

What was out there?

Tindarien

He is not sure what woke him but from sounds in the cave, others had woken too. And it is cold. Colder than it should be. Something unnatural is around them.

Quickly he rouses and takes what he needs from around him. Instincts tell him trouble is nearby. He heads for the cave entrance, Weston just ahead of him. As he moves he nudges anyone who seems to still be sleeping. He wants to check outside and also on the sentries.

GM

The party emerged from the cave, with goosepimpled skin and their breath misting around them. Snowflakes fell wispily in the darkness, and it was as if winter stalked the summer night like a hungry beast.

There was no stomp-stomp of giant feet, nor growling or rumbling. The treetops shook as something massive twisted between them, sinuous as a snake.

"What comes hither?" Said an intrigued voice, so powerful it rolled up the slope and back down, and echoed through the river valley. Your eyes rattled in their sockets from the basso profundo. It was a noble voice, yet had a subtle, gutteral drawl, a monstrous malice lurking barely beneath the surface.

"By the light of the Last Moon, they come, small in stature and small in mind.

"Or... perhaps not, my dear, perhaps they are interesting?"

The cold seemed to intensify.

"What do you say? Are you interesting?"

<Weston>

"I believe out adversary makes his presence known", he said in a whisper to those around him. He had his sword ready, but wondered what it might be able to do against such a thing.

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Nestaron

He was last out, hurriedly trying to buckle up his armour whilst carrying his quarterstaff tucked under his arm. The avalanche-like voice, reverberating abreadth the hillside drew him up short.

Nestaron hardly noticed the snow landing in his hair or his juddering body. He saw breath mist from Weston's mouth, but didn't hear the words.

This was no mindless savage of a beast, but the cleric suspected it was indeed the Beast.

D

The pale elf remained still. He knew of it was a dragon as he suspected, even more so now that he had heard it's voice signifying intelligence, that it knew they were there. He stayed silent though for one of the more eloquent should speak up. There was only one answer that was reasonable. If they were not interesting they were in for ...

Seyja


She shivered slightly, not solely from the drop in temperature as she pondered the meaning of the... whatever it was's words. She finally determined it was better - at least slightly - to be interesting than not.

"Nestaron, or you, Jex," she whispered, "can you make us sound interesting?"

Tindarien

Someone needs to say something even if only to buy time. The association with cold, the power, the intelligence, the size implications.. this must be a dragon with the might of Winter in its breath. All of that earns it respect but does not necessarily make it a foe, though he is saddened to think that is likely.

"I am Tindarien."

He keeps a respectful but easy tone. Not so easy considering that death may only be a step away.

"How might we be of service?"

Zoltan

He hears the movement and hushed whispers coming from the cave as the other stir, so feels no need to announce his presence to wake them.

So he patiently waits, to see what is out there.

It announces itself with a tremendous swirling movement and a thunderous voice. So menacing and large a presence that his immediate thought is fighting it would be futile.

So he sheathes his sword, rises easily to his feet, and exits the blind to see what it is that has arrived.

He ponders the question for a second, turning his head when Tindarien replies, only adding, "I find myself interesting. I do not presume to speak for others and how they view me."

<Weston>

He watched Tindarien put his weapon away and wondered. While he would certainly prefer =not= fighting, he wasn't sure that he was ready to invite 'it' to dinner either. For now he was willing to wait and see, but he wasn't ready to put his sword away ... yet.

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Nestaron

The half-elf was polite but straight-talking, and he felt he was definitely not the man to be trading words with this monster.

Seyja was right, someone had to speak, they wouldn't make a very interesting first impression by standing their like zombies.

But then why should they care whether the Beast found them interesting. Was it buying time, or just exercising its cruel streak?

Tindarien was first to speak up for the party. Nestaron's hands wrung his staff and he glanced to his companions.

"Be wary, don't trust it." Cautioned the cleric in a low voice.

D

"I am not one to really know what is interesting to someone like yourself. But I find my own tale odd to say the least." He offers from his hiding place. He doesn't come out, no need in his mind, but...

It also occurs to him that his companion said the same thing. Which doesn't make D's comment all that original. In point of fact it makes it kind of silly. But he didn't want to offer up the gold they were carrying, that would be a last ditch offer later, if given no other choice. He clearly isn't used to the whole impress them with his words, more of a deeds kind of person.

[Ghosted for Neptune]

Jex

Gathering his wits could take Jex a long time. Because he had so much of it.

He was still reeling from the vivid poetry of his dream, drawn back into a cold and creeping reality that was not as he left it when he dozed off.

Tindarien's nudge was unwelcome but undoubtedly helpful.

With his teeth chattering and wearing his just cotton shirt, the bard grabbed Fusillade and caught up with his companions.

Seyja had a point; he should say something and he would. But Jex wasn't going to waste his best efforts on talking to the darkness, however impressive its voice.

Why did it hide? Maybe, just maybe, it had a sense of the dramatic.

GM

There was a laugh, like the growing roar of an avalanche and then suddenly it stopped. Everything was still again. D and Zoltan, in the shelter, could see hoarfrost forming on the pine needles around them, and feel a piercing, icy chill in the air.

"Self-interested. Aren't we all." Came the terrible voice with droll amusement.

You heard the trunk of tree snap and creak, opposite the glade to where you thought you saw the treetops sway. Was there two of these things? Or was it so big it could encircle the glade?

"So, High Elven, how may you be of service to me, you ask? So polite, so con-siderate. Perhaps it is I who can be of service to you? You all look so... lost."

Zoltan

The sudden thought, *How does something as big as this seems to be manage to find enough to eat in this barren place?*, invades his mind. He shakes his head to focus, annoyed at the distraction.

Since the entity, whatever it is, seems focused on Tindarien he holds his tongue for the moment.

(OOC - Neil - seemed an appropriate moment for his new armour to do it's thing <g>)

D

"I will take the bait. How can you be of service to us?" He had a lon history of getting into trouble by asking the questions that others didn't want to ask, and stepping into the big black holes that were left for him. This was nothing new.

Jex
He was unhappy about being startled awake but also wary of the voice that called out to them. He unsheathed Fusillade the Angry and called out
"Who disturbs our rest this night?"
"Who wants to know if we interesting?"
"Who are you to give us such fright?"
"Who bothers our restful slumbering?"

No spells just yet, just rapping

<Weston>

The others seemed to be taking care of the talking part. But =he= couldn't help but wonder why such a ... supposedly ... fearsome beast felt the need to hide in the darkness and intimidate with words. From his experience, it was people that were weak and insecure that took approach.

He decided to try to get an idea where the creature ... or was it creatures? ... were hiding.

Seyja


The barbarian woman shifted her grip on her greataxe, moving it across her shoulders and holding its shaft in both hands as she twisted slightly right and left to loosen her muscles.

She said nothing but she did spit to one side after grunting in response to Jex's... whatever it was.

Tindarien

The creature seems to know him.. unless it has good sight, magic or a fine ear for accent. Mentally he shrugs. Not much he can do either way. At least whilst it is talking it is not attacking.

"I'm not aware of being lost.. at least geographically."

He attempts a touch of humour.. maybe a little intrigue.. but still maintains a respectful tone.

GM

There was a grunt of disgust that blew a thin dusting of snow from the pine branches around you.

"What a revolting thing!" It exclaimed in reply to Jex, "And it speaks? What foul temper, what fouler smell!"

A pause. Weston inched away from the cave-mouth, looking for a better vantage over the surroundings.

"If you are not lost, High Elven, you must be here seeking your fortune? Fortune-nately you have found me, and I am the Fortune-Giver...."

Debris tumbled down the slope and the ground shook under your feet. Ahead, beyond the rock outcrop at one end of the glade and massive head rose from below.

An ancient, reptilian face, criss-crossed with deep scars, its jaw, once broken had set askew with its spear-like teeth jutting from all angles. It was coloured pure white that seemed almost ghostly and transluscent in the darkness, except its eye that glowed with inner fire.

The other socket was a black pit, but the one eye was fierce enough. The slitted pupil looked like a portal, large enough to step through into the Beast's sinuous mind. Flakes of ice rained from its mouth as it spoke.

"I am the Dimming of the Day, I am the Cold Touch of Winter. I was there before the Dawn of the Empire, when the White fell and the Wizard King stole Death's Doorway."

It was a dragon, white, immense, and rather too close. It sighed.

"But I am old and jaded, sat upon a hoard of 'treasure'. Gold, gems, pah... gaudy and crude like your friend.

"These days I prefer handicrafts. Plainer, simpler things. Perhaps you would like to trade?"

Zoltan

"No." he says simply to the now revealed gigantic beast. "We seek no fortune. Rather we seek to divest ourselves of one."

[[ ooc: do any of these names/descriptions sound familiar to the master of stories? ]]

[Good question, Nep, I'll answer that in the ooc thread.]

<Weston>

When the gigantic dragon head ... it couldn't have been =anything= else ... made itself know, he almost fell from the rock he had been standing on for a view. So clearly =not= a poser. But it also begged the question. "Why doesn't the curse bother him", he asked no one in particular ... then clamped his hand over his mouth.

Jex

The bard heard Weston but replied to the great wyrm instead.

"I know of thee, Master of the Winter. You are at the heart of many a great tale. Your wisdom and cunning are world renown! How you punished the Wizard King for his folly is legendary!"

He turns to the others to tell them the climax of story.

"In ancient times, the Wizard King wanted the ultimate power over life and death, held then by the White. So the Wizard King raised an army and marched on the White's lair. While they attacked the White, the Master of Winter was not as complacent as his brethren."

"But the Master of Winter was more cunning than his kin and less arrogant. He flew high and far, over the Wizard King's army and back to the island capital on Stormmaker. He destroyed the city, killing all of its people to punish the Wizard King for his wrongdoing."

He turns back to the dragon.

"Lore has it that on that awful night you were wounded and many thought you dead. But it seems your cunning outwitted them all. For here you are and you are not dead - a testament to your cunning and guile."

"I am known as Jex, because I do not deserve a longer name. I am but a weak and meek mortal man that cherishes little other than knowledge. And now that we have made your acquaintance, please elaborate for us puny humans and explain what sort of handicrafts interest you. And what, aside from our lives, are we trading for?"

Tindarien

"As my colleague explained we are here primarily to return a treasure that we believe to have been stolen from here. However I have another interest in that the river has been poisoned. I would like to see it restored to its natural state. Is that something you could help with?"

No harm in asking..

Seyja


He face grew grim and cold as she listened to the bard's tale and, once he had finished and Tindarien had spoken, she swung her greataxe around in front of her, stepped a pace or two toward the dragon and spoke.

"Is that true? You were attacked and you did not retaliate against your attacker? Instead you destroyed the innocent people of the attacker's city?"

Seyja shook her head and again spat off to one side.

"That is what I think of such an action."

<Weston>

"Ideals are fine", he said to Seyja. "But in a war you do what =ever= you have to do to win. Otherwise 'they' win and all you stand for is lost. Do you truly believe that the world would be a better place if our friend here had died an 'honorable' death and the Wizard King had prevailed?"

Seyja


She turned her head slowly and glared at Weston for a long moment, then shook her head again and grunted disdainfully.

He did not understand and she did not feel like explaining to him what troubled her so much.

GM

The dragon grunted, the sound of a glacier sliding, and it reared up, spraying frost from its nostrils. Somewhere on the other side of the glade, its spiked tail twitched, splintering trees.

You saw a deep cut in the scutes of its neck, an unhealed wound that spat and blubbed with thick, steaming dragon's blood. More than enough to kill most dragons, let alone more mundane creatures, and this white wyrm bore other recent injuries too, raw and sticky wet. They might some day mend and add to its masses of scars, but at that moment there could be no doubt it was hurt.

That didn't seem to curb its enthusiasm.

"Bed-time stories from a bygone age!!" It snarled, before Weston spoke and the corner of its mouth seemed to curl into a smile.

"Well said. Let us not raise the ghosts of the past.

"Not when we have so much to talk about here and now."

It sank back down, getting more at your eye level, to be... less intimidating?

"I have no need of more treasure, but if it helps you I can throw it on the old pile.

"And yes, yes I'm quite sure I can help you with the poisoned river too." The white wyrm said amiably, each of its words showering you with ice chips.

"In return, I would ask for oh, a small token. Something to remember you by. I do like scrimshaw, ivory carvings and such. Do you happen to have something of the sort? A bangle or ring per-haps?"

Sergeant Almador

His knees knocked and he literally quaked in his boots, and arm thrown up to shield his face from the dragon's icy breath and luminous, one-eyed gaze.

At least the Sergeant stood his ground though and kept hold of his polearm. His teeth were chattering too much for him to speak, but at the back of his mind he did recall what Weston told the party about his ivory ring.

D

He was genuinely surprised to meet a dragon, never mind a legend in the world. In addition it wanted something small not their lives, not massive amounts of treasure. He is so stunned he doesn't even speak, though his mind tried to come up with something that they might have found to fit the bill.

Tindarien

He looks around at the others enquiringly.

"Anyone have anything that fits the description?"

This seems too easy and he is not sure whether this will work out but the dragon is hurt and maybe there is a simple solution..?

<Weston>

"All I have is a ring, the only connection to my real mother. How much would we need to get in exchange for that", he asked.

Zoltan

He shrugs. "I have nothing like that. But perhaps there is something in the pile of treasure we are carrying?"

Tindarien

He has not really looked closely at the proportion of the treasure he is carrying. He opens his pack and does so now.

D

Seeing the action he joins the magic slinger by opening his own pack to check. That was a good idea and something he could do rather than stand around gawking.

GM

If the wyrm was the Master of Winter of legend, it was aptly named.

It was as Jex said. The legend told that before the Dawn of the Dragon Empire, the Wizard King of Yore, marched on the White with a whole army of dragon slayers, fitted out for the one purpose. His aim was to steal the secret of commanding the dead from the White.

It was a war on white dragons, and they stood alone against the onslaught, too arrogant to ask the Three for aid or call upon allies from younger races.

One by one the white dragons fell, killed by their own hubris as much as by the enchanted weaponary of the Wizard King's army.

Until they encountered the Master of Winter, who, as winter always did, found the weakness in these dragon slayers. Their homes and families.

He avoided the fight altogether and flew straight for the island capital in the Stormmaker Sea, and there he wrought such devastation it was thereafter known as the Necropolis. The souls of the dead, he cursed to hound their living relatives and so the army of dragon slayers was destroyed, not by dragon's breath, but by despair.

As for the Master of Winter, he was said to have been mortally wounded by the city's formidable defences. Yet his fate went unrecorded in the annuls of the time.

Could the Beast and the Master of Winter be one and the same? It was massive enough, ancient enough, but it's interest in handicrafts was very perculiar, verging on eccentric.

At the mention of the ivory ring, the dragon's one eyes gleamed as if it's inner fire had been stoked, and it loomed closer, its scaly lip curling back.

"Ah. Now I do quite like that." It said softly. "It would make a wonderful gift and I'm sure your mother would have approved."

There was nothing amongst the stolen treasure that could rightly be called handicrafts. It was mostly jewels and jewellery, set in gold and silver and even rarer metals, with a few hefty statuettes and smaller purses of coins. Sir Edward the Red had a discerning eye, balancing encumbrance versus value.

It was all completely ignored by the white wyrm.

<Weston>

Anyone watching would have noticed him 'slump' when it became clear that the dragon had decided on =his= one precious possession. Intellectually he knew that it was a good 'trade'. But in his heart he was still loath to part with the one link he had to his birth parents. The two clamored in his mind for dominance ... heart and mind.

In the end, pragmatism ... something he had learned from the generous couple that had taken in an orphaned child and accepted him as their own ... won out.

"If I had known my mother I =might= agree", he said with a sigh as he pulled the leather thong from around his neck. "Unfortunately I do not have those memories. I have only this", he said holding the thong out, the ring, still warm, hanging from it. "If it will help to end the suffering of the who commissioned us, I will be satisfied."

Sergeant Almador

Buffeted by the wintery breathing of the white wyrm, the Sergeant is largely distracted until Weston offers up his mother's ivory ring.

It didn't seem right or proper to Almador. He thought of his family and how they'd all shared a life together, with all its trials and tribulations. Weston had none of that, only the one heirloom.

What had this dragon done to deserve such a gesture? So far, it had done nothing at all except intimidate them.

Reaching into his tunic, Sergeant Almador pulled out the picture of his wife and held it up with a shaking hand. It was a cameo engraving in mother-of-pearl, a local speciality and surely the epitome of 'handicraft'.

"Will you not take this, dragon? A cameo in mother-of-pearl, made in my home town by the sea! T-tis my wife, but means not nearly so much to me as she does."

Tindarien

He gave a respectful nod to Weston understanding how much that ring probably meant to the man. To make a sacrifice to safeguard the lives of others is noble, and this is a sacrifice.

He turns in surprise as the Sergeant makes an offer, surprising truth in his words. He extends a nod to him also.

Jex

"I too have something which I think is priceless. Not everyone agrees, but it is a thin blade that has been at my side for many years, a rapier that has tasted much blood. I willingly offer you the blade known as 'frosty blood lust'! I named it so because of the chill it sends down the spine of my foes and the blood it likes to drink. It has seen many a battle and the fact that I stand here today is testament to the fact that it has never failed me. The souls of many an orc has been spilled by the tip of the blade. It is yours, as a sign of good faith!"

Zoltan

He watches as several others offer crafty trinkets to the dragon. He himself has no such articles, so he simply watches and observes.

D

Things were just that. Though he had tools, he had nothing special because of what he had gone through. It offered him an interesting perspective while he watched their actions.

GM

The dragon coughed and spears of ice flew over your head, exploding in shards against the rocky hillside.

A gout of orange blood spewed from the ghastly wound on its neck, steaming hot as it splashed on the ground. The white wyrm ground its teeth and spoke with a clenched jaw.

"I do not want a poxy pricker or a picture of a pug." It snarled before forcing a smile.

"Just... give me the ring."

Seyja


He thoughts had gone directly to the small token hanging from a thong around her neck as soon as the wyrm had mentioned scrimshaw. She did not want to lose it, could not imagine giving it away, but Weston's selflessness touched her somehow, made her feel less noble than him.

She leaned her greataxe against her hip and reached up with both hands and untied the thong and then extended its pendant, a carved and filigreed bear's molar toward the dragon.

"This handicraft was made by a gypsy grandmother, the woman who all but adopted me... became my second mother in deed if not in fact."Seyja blinked several times.

"She is dead now and it is all I have of hers."

<Weston>

He gave a nod of appreciation to Almador for his offer and the others. But clearly the dragon wanted =his= ring. But he had already reconciled parting with it. But how was he going to get it to the dragon. He wasn't sure which was worse ... giving up the ring or having to deliver it. He took a deep breath and walked out of the cave and toward the cold, grumpy looking mountain that was the dragon.

Tindarien

Seeing Weston walk out of the cave presumably to deliver the token, he gestures to Nestaron to come with him. He moves to a position where he has line of sight. Maybe his magic and Nestaron's healing can support Weston - if he needs it.

[Recruiting for this player character. Send PM for details]

Nestaron

He was standing around the cave mouth, so he ducked next to Tindarien when beckoned.

"Something is not right here." He said to his elven friend quickly and quietly, "Why has the Beast singled out Weston's ring? You don't seriously believe it admires handicrafts? The last time it visited a haberdashery, was probably to massacre the entire street, if what Jex says is true."

Hearing Seyja offer the pendant, Nestaron was struck with an idea. Pulling himself to his feet with his staff, he held it out to hopefully delay Weston. The cleric's beard was frosted but he kept the quaiver from his voice.

"You asked us if we wanted to trade, master dragon, so here we are. But you've yet to see our best ware! We have a healing potion of rare potency, brewed and bottled by gypsies of the North."

He glanced sideways at Jex, then back to the dragon. The wounded dragon.

"It - It would benefit you far more than a ring, I think."

Zoltan

He hears Nestaron's comment and nods slightly. He too had been bothered by the conversation with the dragon. He wondered if it had gone insane after it's long life, or if there was more to Weston's ring than he knew.

D

He smirked at the comments and sctions. He should have suspected something was amiss. After all thar was his stock in trade. Especially after the strange fae wind they experienced. He looked to where he would watch the proceedings if he were orchestrating this charade.

Jex
After his friends kept telling him that something was amiss, the bard closed his eyes and when he opened them, he disbelieved what his eyes were seeing and his ears were hearing. If they were illusions, he hoped that they would go away.

<Weston>

He paused as Nestaron used his staff to bar his way. He wasn't sure why they were suddenly so worried about =his= ring. But he had learned to trust his friends and knew they had a good reason. He was willing to go along with them ... for now. He would =not= let them all die to protect a silly bit of jewlery. No matter how important =he= thought it was, it was not worth any of their lives.

GM

There was a dreadful, spine-jangling scraping noise as the dragon's dragged its talons across the bedrock and into a fist.

"I will have no need of healing once I have the ring!!" It roared in frustration.

A freezing cloud billowed from its maw, its tail lashed, uprooting and flinging trees into the air. Debris fell from the roof of cave as one of its fists slammed down in front of the cave. Sergeant Almador cried out as a falling rock put a dent in his kettle hat.

Illusion or not, the man-at-arm's steel headgear believed it.

The embers of the camp-fire died and the cave plunged into darkness.

The white wyrm lunged forwards and you felt the deathly cold in your lungs as you breathed and its one eye fixed upon you.

"Trading has closed for the night. Give me the Aurenaur NOW!"

Seyja


It wasn't scrimshaw, it wasn't handicrafts in which the great wyrm was interested, Seyja finally understood, feeling foolish and perhaps a little slow in coming to this conclusion.

What was so special about Weston's ring?

She stepped forward to flank Weston and help defend him if necessary.

<Weston>

"I don't know anything about an Aurenaur, but leave my friends alone or you shall have nothing", he shouted as he took a step past Nestaron's blocking staff.

D

That was the answer, and with it, the pale dark elf moved silently to flank the huge beast. Whether or not he would survive didn't matter, but he might end a legend, that would be worth something.

Tindarien

As the dragon gets angry, Tindarien tenses ready to fight but then stiffens in surprise as the Dragon names Weston's ring. A second later he talks rapidly to Weston.

"He must have detected the magic in the ring. Aurenaur is Elven. The symbol I carry is the Aurenaur e Du, roughly translated as Sunfire in the Darkness. I don't know if these are connected but I think your ring may be powerful."

<Weston>

He stopped at Tindarien's assessment of his 'keepsake'. "What does that mean", he asked trying to make sense of all this. "Do we need to fight the dragon to keep this from him?"

Zoltan

"Have you ever tried putting it on?" He asks Weston casually. "Or have you always worn it around your neck on a thong?"

<Weston>

"Actually no, I haven't ever put it on", he said. "Do you think I should?"

[Recruiting for this player character. Send PM for details]

Nestaron

"Jex," he said to the bard, urgency in his voice, "can you buy us some time?"

The half-elf looked around at his companions. They looked frigid, but warm up they must, because the dragon was losing its cool.

"Be prepared." He muttered, hefting his staff.

Jex

"WAIT! You want the Aurenaur? What makes you think that's it? We don't want to disappoint you, oh great white wyrm! And what is a few moments of talk to one as ancient as you - especially if you are about to make a bad mistake. Do all dragons become impatient and sloppy with age?"

He hopes to engage the dragon for a moment. Maybe it'll buy enough time for the others to come up with something.

Tindarien

"Yes I think you should put it on. If you do not wish to I can do so, but this is your heirloom and you should know what it is. If things turn nasty, it may well help."

He keeps his voice down to a whisper.

<Weston>

He removed the thong and with a shrug, slipped the ring on his left ring finger.

GM

The white wyrm gnashed its teeth in reply to Jex, hot orange blood dripping from its neck wound as it watched Weston slide the ring onto his finger.

Weston was suddenly reminded of a time as boy when he'd worn the ring. It had made him feel cold and miserable, like a grey winter's day, dull and damp. At the time he'd attributed it to the echo of memories, and it he hadn't worn it since.

Again, the world seemed a sadder place when the ring was worn, but no further secrets were revealed to Weston until he looked up at the dragon. Its skin was crawling with what appeared to be lice, spectral, glowing sickly green, thousands, tens of thousands, and he saw that each one was a head, a face, twisted in torment and moaning, balefire for tears, with a skeletal fingers sprouted from the neck like insect legs.

Weston felt his own soul turn away from the spectacle, reviled and horrified.

But seeing Weston's expression, the Master of Winter smiled his broadest and wickedest smile yet.

"Yes. Now you see! Forged by elven necromancers from the tip of the White's great horn over three thousand years ago. The Aurenaur!

"For aeons, lost, but now it is mine."

The dragon's eye bulged and spasmed and the monster's scales shuddered. The blood pumped from his neck, steaming and bubbling, and suddenly the fiery depths behind his one eye wavered no more, blossoming into a cold blue radiance.

He lunged, jaws wide and teeth gleaming in the night.

[Starting combat, so let me know your character's disposition.]

<Weston>

He had forgotten ... or maybe suppressed the memory of that first time he had made the mistake of putting the ring on came. Now it all came flooding back. He shuddered and when he made the mistake of looking in the dragon's direction he shuddered again.

He remembered a time when he had come across a dead fox. At first he didn't realize it was dead. It seemed to be moving. It was only when he got close that he realized it was maggots ... hundreds ... maybe thousands of them ... crawling, eating.

He shuddered again when he realized that he was seeing ... was it the 'souls' of his victims? ... all of the lives it had killed over the millennia. And it wasn't just his soul that turned away. It was all he could do to keep his stomach where it belonged.

He couldn't think. He could only react. His sword was out and he was running to meet it's charge head on, a groan that became a yell of rage, before he realized it. Some part of him =knew= it was what he had to do ... he had to set all those souls free and the only way to do that was to send this vile creature to hell.

Seyja


A rage building at the words of the great white wyrm, Seyja lunged to intercept the dragon's attack, her greataxe whirling and slashing, seeking any vulnerable spot.

D

He slipped unseen into the border between light and dark. He moved with sure grace. His blade would find the surprised flank of the huge dragon. This is what it meant to live.

[Shadow walk for hopefully a nice surprise attack.]

Zoltan

He smiles grimly once battle appears to be joined. It had been all he could do to not attack the thing once it revealed itself as a Master of Undeath.

Shouting a battle cry, "Katra n'ered'ruin mornu!" He draws his sword and slashes at the dragon. As it's head dips to attack Weston, he aims at the weakened area in it's neck where it already has a grievous wound and where the protection from it's scales should be weaker.

[OOC - Will use Smite Evil, and of course Curse of Chaos if it rolls poorly.]

Sergeant Almador

He felt like he couldn't breathe without his lungs burning from the cold. How could this be the same summer's eve he'd fallen asleep on earlier? Was this all a terrible nightmare?

The dragon sprang forward like some monstrous serpent, and seeing Weston stood there, framed by the massive, impending jaws of doom... a strange sensation overwhelmed Sergeant Almador. He didn't know what it was, but he found himself screaming and charging at the white wyrm, his polearm levelled at its scaly face.

[Recruiting for this player character. Send PM for details]

Nestaron

He wanted badly to ask Weston what it was he saw, but he had no time.

They had to survive this dragon, they had to solve the mystery of the river and now the mystery of the ring.

At least someone had already half severed the Beast's neck. From the looks of the wound, it could only be a foot knight's long sword like that carried by Zoltan and Weston, and perhaps Red Ed. Or maybe the talon of smaller dragon, if flying swift enough? Had any of them landed a fell blow on the Beast before it slew them?

It seemed likely, but it wouldn't help Nestaron or his companions unless they could some how ground the dragon.

They were stood on a hillside, and it would be all too easy for the dragon to take flight and then blast them with its legendary breath. Where would they hide? In the cave? No, it would be an icy tomb.

The half-elf's sweat tingled as it froze on his brow. He could sense something of the white wyrm's evil, in the way the spirits diverted away from it, repelled.

With an invokation on his lips, he summoned these spirits now to do his bidding.

"Timeless spirits, I call you now! Take a stand against this tyrant of the after-life!!"

[Invocation of Life and attack with Spirits of the Righteous]

Jex

When the dragon had focused in on Weston's ring, the bard knew that the ring was special. He hadn't realized how special. The look on Weston's face said it all - it's power must be awesome. So he drew his sword as the inevitable battle began and as he did so, he started to sing a Song of Heroes, to encourage his companions in what might be their final battle.

"From the darkness a form started to squirm
The heroes would now face the great white wyrm
The dragon yearns for the ring of power
The one which had been named Aurenaur.

From its maw came a cloud of frozen breath
In its eyes they foresaw an icy death
Yet the heroes stood their ground on this night
The dragon now faced a group with great might."

Seyja


Her rage building, Seyja aimed her first attack at the wound in the white dragon's scaly neck.

Tindarien

A quick consideration moves him behind a tree where he gathers his power in an attempt to launch his lightening fork at its most powerful.

[OOC I believe Tindarien also has a plus 1 in the creature in undead. ]

GM

It was an avalanche carried on a hurricane, a blizzard. The dragon's jaws flew wide as it lunged and it vomited a killing cold. A cloud of freezing fog spewed from its throat, hidding the torrent of ice that it sent hurtling through the air.

The dragon was aiming for Weston and anyone stood close to him, like Seyja. They disappeared, swallowed by the blizzard, but just as it reached Jex, Zoltan leapt in front of the bard with his shield raised.

Cold struck them with such a jolt it was like a bad fall. Their cheeks seemed to yellow and blister, frost formed in their hair and their innards juddered. Zoltan watched as hard rime grew on his upraised shield, seemingly reaching out, craving for the dragon's breath--- Then the rime exploded as jagged chunks of ice smashed against the shield. Perhaps sharing a moment of comraderie as the blizzard swept away from them, Jex and Zoltan turned on the white wyrm and charged, with their swords poised.

The dragon heaved the rest of its body up the slope towards the party and it became clear how huge it was, and how gnarled and twisted too. It was like a creature that had survived the most appalling injuries and healed, but healed badly. Once upon a time, the Master of Winter had been maimed, maybe by the defences of Wizard King's capital city as Jex had said.

His joints were shaky, his limbs wizened, but his evil will had only distilled over time, growing more remote and self-absorbed.

Yet he was still sharp as a blade of ice. As the dark elf started to drift into memory, to vanish into the obscurity of the shadow walk, the dragon's blazing blue eye fixed on him.

"Where are you going, broken shadow!?" The dragon sneered, "You won't find your lost farthings under my wings!"

The rogue wasted no time, hurling his dagger at the dragon's face. The blade flew passed its teeth and straight into the back of its throat as it spoke. The Beast errupted into violent coughing, hot, steaming blood bursting from its gaping neck wound and dowsing the glade.

Nestaron saw his chance and gritted his teeth as he tried to compel the spirits to rise up against their draconic foe, but they would not. The ancient gravepacts, written in prehistory, would not be shaken by the cleric's spells. But the party felt other presences, the tenderest of ancestor spirits, the mothers, the nanas and little sisters, embracing them with care and love. You could all feel them, and in that moment might have seen familiar, if half-remembered faces in the mist, as warm as the mist was cold.

Jex and Zoltan charged, the icy mist dissipating around them to reveal Weston and Seyja, still alive. They were covered in frost and bleeding bright red from scores of thin cuts. Their clothes were in ribbons, but they were still armed and despite their ragged breathing, ready for battle. The copper-haired bard was inspired by their stand, a new verse to the Song of Heroes tripping from his lips. Together, the four attacked the Master of Winter. Their blades hacked and stabbed the scaled hide, and they were rewarded by the monster's roars of pain and indignation. Weston and Seyja striking its forelimbs to keep it off-balance, Jex's magic scimitar striking at its neck.

Leaping, Zoltan's longsword glanced off the dragon's eyeball and rang like it had struck solid stone, but the sound jangled the dragon's nerves too and its lips curled back as it turned on the paladin...

Seeing the party in peril, seeing his friend Weston endure the dragon's breath, Sergeant Almador was invigorated, rushing towards the Beast with the intent of piercing it with his polearm. There was the din of splintering wood, however, and suddenly the dragon's whip-like tail lashed from the trees, intercepting the Sergeant. With a winded grunt he was lobbed through the air into the surrounding gloom.

At the other, toothed end, the monster's jaws slammed shut only inches from Zoltan, showering him with ice chips as he dodged backwards. The dragon reared back, not realising its snout was inside the cave mouth. With a crunch, its skull hit the roof of the cave. More rocks fell crashing to the ground and the Master of Winter staggered, dazed and coughing, and his own orange blood dripping from between his teeth.

"I knew it! Assassins! Who sent you? The Gold? Lure me out with the Aurenaur and then finish me off? Was that your plan!" He spat.

Ducking under the dragon's tail, Tindarien scowled and focused, lightning arcing between his palms as he gathered power for his destructive magic. His hair stood on end, energies flashed around him, but his target was distracted by the rest of the party. Still, the high elf had the feeling something else might be creeping up on him from the shadows....

[[
D HP: 21/21; Rec: 4/8; AC 14, PD 15, MD 11; Init +9
T HP: 24/24; Rec: 3/8; AC 11, PD 12, MD 14; Init +3
N HP: 27/27; Rec: 8/8; AC 17, PD 13, MD 13; Init +2
W HP: 13/33; Rec: 7/9; AC 16, PD 14, MD 11; Init +3*2; Staggered (Engaging MW)
S HP: 13/33; Rec: 3/8; AC 15, PD 15, MD 11; Init +3*2; Staggered (Engaging MW)
Z HP: 30/40; Rec: 7/8; AC 21, PD 13, MD 14; Init +2 (Engaing MW)
J HP: 14/24; Rec: 3/8; AC 14, PD 12, MD 11; Init +4*2 (Engaging MW)
Al HP: 20/27; AC 17, PD 14, MD 12; Init +3 (Engaging MW)

MW HP: 54/120; AC 20, PD 18, MD 18, Init +8; Staggered, Dazed
]]

<Weston>

He hardly noticed the cuts. He hardly felt the cold ... even though a part of him knew he was paying a heavy toll. His instincts were good and he crouched behind his shield when the dragon's breath came his way. When the cold moved on, though, he renewed his charge, slashing at the more undead than alive thing! It was an abomination that had lived way too long! It had to die.

Seyja


She screamed as the frost attack seared her with bitter cold, but her rage allowed her to do nothing other than attack the giant wyrm again.

Zoltan

He bangs his shield against the dragon's hide to knock off the rime and seeing it dazed by it's encounter with the roof of the cave, he ducks underneath it's chin and attempts to use it's own momentum to help drive his sword up and thru the bottom roof of it's mouth and into it's brain.

(OOC - Neal - Stats for Zoltan in your post are wrong. Not sure if it made a difference in the last round, but should be AC21 and MD14.)

[Thanks Zeim. Updated for Renn's Armour. It made no diff in Round 1.

MikeD, just for clarity, you've never written that Weston uses a shield before and it's not on his char sheet, so I've always had him use his sword two-handed (1d10) like a Mediaeval longsword.

Finally, the white wyrm isn't undead per se. It's ancient and in a state of bad repair. White dragons in 13th Age are associated with death and necromancy, as well as the Moon, and of course the classic, cold.]

[[ I wondered about the shield ... I didn't remember him having one either. I just assumed =I= was missremembering ... again <sigh>

As to it's 'undeadhood' ... based on what the ring 'showed' him, it seemed pretty undead to Weston <wink> ]]

D

The elf gave a soft laugh as his blade hits a target deep in the dragon's throat. He moved and shifted avoiding the deadly beast. Turning he crept up on it closing the distance. His intention to strike while the beast was preoccupied with the cave mouth.

[OOC: Sounds like a good time for Deadly Thrust. If not another Flying Blade could work just as well, or maybe you have another idea. It all works.]

Tindarien

He is not sure if his thoughts of another presence are real or just his paranoia given their ancient & terrible opponent. He needs to retain his focus to successfully gather the power and direct a devastating, hopefully, attack on the dragon. He keeps his main focus on that but tries to keep an awareness around himself, just in case.

He sends a thought to Farvi to keep watch but keep himself safe from the cold.

Sergeant Almador

He didn't know what had happened. All he knew was that he was lying on his back in a bush. Sergeant Almador dragged himself to his feet, bent over and retched, his legs wobbling as he tried to catch his breath.

There was little moonlight but the stars were out, and he could see the massive scaled and mishappen bulk of the white dragon very clearly. It was surrounded by a light mist that seemed to pour from its mouth, and there were flakes of snow, crazing in the air.

And there were his companions too! The Seneschal had called them 'adventurers', as if the term were synonymous with mercenaries. That's not how Almador saw these folk, not now. They were daring, no doubt, and not like anyone he'd ever met, they weren't by any means normal. But they did what they did out of a need to help people like Almador and the townsfolk of Rosencliff.

So, grabbing his partisan he propelled himself back into the fight.

Jex

I'm going to need to work on my diplomacy

He ducked behind Zoltan's shield as they were sprayed with sharp shards of ice that came wrapped in a frosty cloud. His face burned in pain from as the cold bit into his skin. But that did not deter him and his new-found weapon cursed in anger as it bit the dragon back.

In pain but motivated to survive, the bard knew that the only way to do so was to somehow kill the foul beast before it killed him. To that end, the bard changed tactics to dive behind cover and once he was safer (because when an ancient white dragon is attacking you, you're never really safe), he pointed a finger at the great white wyrm and unleashed a chaos bolt as he continued to sing his song:

"As the white dragon beat it's frosty wing.
It tried to steal Weston's ivory ring.
Wanting to kill them with its frosty breath
The great wyrm then delivered icy death

But bravely a few heroes stood their ground
They would fight the dragon till it was downed.
To ensure that the end was not tragic
They fought the dragon with steel and magic.

[Recruiting for this player character. Send PM for details]

Nestaron

He remembered how cowed the spirits had been during the Battle of Heilbutt's Hallow, and it was even worse here. The cleric had no doubt now, this weird white wyrm was the cause.

The white dragons were said to have had a mastery of death magic once. It was one of their aspects, along with the Moon. Nowadays they were thought of as barely intelligent, ice-blasting monsters, but Nestaron knew something of the gravepacts and had heard of cenotaph and mausoleum dragons.

The Beast, the Master of Winter, whatever its name, it was clearly ancient and twisted. Not exactly undead, it had lived too long and somehow survived when it should have died of its injuries.

It was decided by the half-elf that he had to put an end to its existence, once and for all. And he wouldn't be surprised if that solved the problem of the poisoned river too.

Maybe Tindarien had been right all along? Had the creature's blood caused the contamination? It was certainly spilling plenty of it about.

"Your fate is long overdue, monster!" He yelled, "Planned or not!"

Weston and Zoltan had their armour to protect them, and Jex could fall back to use his magic. So he focused his healing spells on Seyja, the barbarian woman in the hope he could keep her axe wreaking havoc.

[Heal spell on Seyja, attack dragon with sling.]

GM

Still coughing on the dagger lodged in back of its throat, the dragon reared back with its one eye bent on the adventurers before it.

The snow in the air whirled as suddenly the Beast unfurled its wings, leathery and tattered but seeming to emcompass the horizon. Orange blood streamed from the wounds you'd dealt it, but the monster had a cold, iron grip on life that it wouldn't relinquish. Old and decrepit as it was, as maimed, as hurt as it was, there was still fight left in it.

Its gazed settled on Zoltan again and it surged forward, claws raking the earth. There was a spray of sparks as one of its claws grazed the paladin's Crusader armour, but the plates were bonded by hellfire and didn't burst.

Dirt and rock joined snow as it was flung into night air by the white wyrm's attack, and the already chaotic melee became a blind clamour. Buffeted by the Beast's wings, the cold itself seemed to deepen and cut like a knife. Weston and Jex were blue-lipped, their beards frosted, they weren't shuddering any more since a deathly chill had taken root in their core. They fought on, as did everyone else. Seyja felt raw light and warmth flood into her from her toes to the top of her nose, where the ice in the dragon's breath had cut her skin glowed with Nestaron's healing energy.

Sergeant Almador plunged into the cloud of freezing fog and debris, feeling the earth shaking under the monster's great weight. He thought he saw D nearby, the dark elf also rushing into the fray, but then the shock of the cold hit Almador and he lost sight of the man. Letting out a strangled cry as he saw white scaled hide appear in front of him, the Sergeant drove the polearm in up to the base of the blade.

With a roar from overhead, the partisan was jerked from his hands and the man-at-arms had to fumble for the mace at his belt. There was a bright flash and he looked up to see forked lightning crackling through the air, writhing over and burning the massive, monstrous dragon. Almador had no time to spy who'd cast the magic, he assumed it was the high elf's sorcery.

Standing by the cave mouth, Tindarien was perhaps dismayed when his empowered spell didn't slay the Beast outright. But this was no goblin shaman, it was an ancient white wyrm, a dragon from the age before ages. With smoke drifting from its empty eye socket, the dragon glared at the sorceror.

"Seek to slay me while I am weak and wounded, will you!" Coughed the dragon, "So... be it!"

Farvi the ferret stuck its head out of Tindarien's backpack, its nose twitching. It squeaked and ducked back inside, giving a distinct impression of 'Call me later!'

[[
D HP: 21/21; Rec: 4/8; AC 14, PD 15, MD 11; Init +9 (Engaging MW)
T HP: 24/24; Rec: 3/8; AC 11, PD 12, MD 14; Init +3
N HP: 27/27; Rec: 8/8; AC 17, PD 13, MD 13; Init +2
W HP: 3/33; Rec: 7/9; AC 16, PD 14, MD 11; Init +3*2; Staggered (Engaging MW)
S HP: 13/33; Rec: 2/8; AC 15, PD 15, MD 11; Init +3*2; Staggered (Engaging MW)
Z HP: 20/40; Rec: 7/8; AC 21, PD 13, MD 14; Init +2; Staggered (Engaging MW)
J HP: 4/24; Rec: 3/8; AC 14, PD 12, MD 11; Init +4*2; Staggered (Engaging MW)
Al HP: 15/27; AC 17, PD 14, MD 12; Init +3 (Engaging MW)

MW HP: 14/120; AC 20, PD 18, MD 18, Init +8; Staggered
]]

<Weston>

Parts of him were so cold he wasn't sure if they were even still attached. But the fire of his desire to end the evil of this thing still burned and spurred him on. He could only work based on the sounds it made, the breath and roars told him where the head of the thing was and that seemed like the place to start ... back a but from those jaws was the wounded neck. =That= was where he wanted to strike, that was where he could do the most damage.

Seyja


Her scream of pain morphed into a roar of vengeance as the healing warmth of the cleric's spell spread over her and, for a moment, her mind overcame the rage of her emotions and she remembered the healing warmth she'd once experienced from a special potion the elderly gypsy woman - her second mother, she'd always felt - had given her soon after she had stumbled upon the gypsy camp, grievously wounded, having barely escaped from the slaughter of her barbarian family.

Those orcs had been pure evil, she thought then and thought still, sent by the Orc Lord to take her at any expense. And this great white wyrm was another manifestation of evil and she rededicated herself to its destruction.

Seyja brandished her greataxe and her roar of rage increased in intensity as she waded back into battle, determined that this dragon would die.

[OOC: Seyja just used her chit.]

Zoltan

The claw scraping across his breastplate pushes him back, even though it doesn't pierce the armour. Taking a breath, he wades back in, slicing with his sword at the grievous wound on the dragon's neck.

(OOC - If he has any Smite Evil's left he'll use them)

Tindarien

This is going to be a tough opponent. He won't say too tough because they have to defeat it. He is disappointed that his spell didn't do more damage and vows to try harder, this time casting a scorching ray which hopefully will be effective against this time of dragon.

He reminds himself that he has a healing potion to hand. He might need it.

Jex

He had no choice. If he didn't take the healing potion, he would die. So he did between verses of his song.

Their bones were aching from the icy chill
Staying alive would take an iron will
There would not be any numbing of pain
Till the Master of Winter was finally slain

D

He rolled and slipped alongside the great beast. His dagger trying to find purchase again.

[OOC Deadly Thrust or step back and let a Flying Blade loose. Either is good. Assumed the first in the small post, but...]

GM

The party milled around the maimed white dragon, ignoring the unnatural cold that clouded around it, colder than the deepest Northern winter. It was cold that could blister and burn the flesh in seconds, there would be no slow, painless freezing to death from this cold.

And there was tooth and claw to contend with too, and beating its ragged wings, the wyrm was suddenly lighter on its feet.

As Weston poised to strike, the dragon's foot stamped on him with a crunch, while it clawed Jex with a kick of its hindquarters, flinging him cartwheeling across the glade. Seyja leapt through the air, locking eyes with the monster. It was as if time was frozen too, as the barbarian hung in the dragon's glare, axe raised for an overhead chop, then she was snapped out of the air by its massive maw.

It tried to juggle Seyja into the back of its mouth for a killing bite, but she was more than a mouthful and the dark elf and paladin were closing in.

The dragon spat Seyja into the nearby trees, and she crashed through the pine branches, thick freezing gas streaming from her body.

"I will not be bested by mountebanks, freaks and wastrels." Rumbled the Beast of the Titan's Elbow, launching itself into the air in a whirl of wind.

D didn't hesitate, hurling his dagger at the creature. With so much debris swirling around, the rogue couldn't see where it hit but he heard the dragon's pained gasp.

Tindarien could be forgiven for cursing, as his fire magic would soon be out of range. Until then, he launched a scorching ray, hissing and shrieking at the ancient evil, scrawling a black scar across its white, scaled breast.

But the Beast climbed into the night unabated, and orange blood rained down from it.

Driven by a raw emotion, choking desire for revenge, somehow Seyja staggered to her feet, still clutching her axe.

Seeing this, Nestaron turned to Weston, uttering a mantra under his breath, a spell of healing cast upon the young man's unmoving form from a distance. The cleric then ran across the glade, skidding to a kneel beside Jex.

The bard's song had been silenced by draconic claws. His armour was in disarray, blood streamed from the man's nose and his lower leg looked awkwardly orientated. At least the claw had hooked his armour and not his rib-cage. The bard was unconscious but had Lalleh's Enlivening Elixir clenched in his fist, so Nestaron took it, pouring the liquid into Jex's mouth.

Spluttering probably followed, but surely the bard could not complain bitterly. The potion might have been lemony, but it was sweet, and its potence was such that Jex felt like he could kip right up and dance the Gopak. If his leg had been broken, it was now mended.

"Someone help please!" Cried Sergeant Almador nearby.

He was straddling Weston, rolling the unconscious fighter over. "Stay with me, son!" He said, but knew nothing of potions or healing or healing potions. All he knew was that his friend wasn't moving and the dragon was gone.

But it was not gone; Tindarien was trying to keep track of its flight. It was starlit night, the fateful New Moon only a day away. With the white wyrm airborne, they were at the mercy of its blizzard breath, caught stranded on a hillside in unfamiliar terrain.

Farvi squeaked loudly from the high elf's backpack, so that even D and Zoltan's heard it. Tindarien himself span on the balls of his feet.

There was a halfling crouched on a boulder a few feet away. He wore buckskins and his hair in a mohawk with a tufty chin beard. There was a large knife with antler handle sheathed on his belt, but his hands didn't stray to it. His eyes were wide and kept darting to the sky.

"Come, before it returns! I know a safe place." The halfling said, eager to leave.

[[
D HP: 21/21; Rec: 4/8; AC 14, PD 15, MD 11; Init +9
T HP: 24/24; Rec: 3/8; AC 11, PD 12, MD 14; Init +3
N HP: 27/27; Rec: 8/8; AC 17, PD 13, MD 13; Init +2
W HP: 0/33; Rec: 6/9; AC 16, PD 14, MD 11; Init +3*2; Staggered
S HP: 15/33; Rec: 1/8; AC 15, PD 15, MD 11; Init +3*2; Staggered
Z HP: 15/40; Rec: 7/8; AC 21, PD 13, MD 14; Init +2; Staggered
J HP: 12/24; Rec: 2/8; AC 14, PD 12, MD 11; Init +4*2; Staggered
Al HP: 15/27; AC 17, PD 14, MD 12; Init +3

MW HP: 2/120; AC 20, PD 18, MD 18, Init +8; Staggered
]]

[Due to the dragon disengaging on its turn, I've delayed Zoltan and Jex's turn, so they'll effectively do more in the next resolution. I used an additional recovery for Seyja, to get her hit points back into double figures and protect against the ongoing damage from the dragon's blizzard breath. (Worth noting that ongoing damage stacks, btw.)

Weston is unconscious, has failed first death save with three remaining. Someone can feed him his own healing potion, or one of their own, or slower, they can make a Wisdom-based skill check. (You have to describe how one of your Backgrounds relates to healing.)]

Tindarien

Just what he didn't want. He mutters under his breath as the dragon takes off. Then Farvi calls a warning. Surely not the dragon! But he trusts his little friend and turns.. to see a halfling??

A quick look around shows that they are not in a good way.

"Gather the injured. This way!"

He calls out to his friends with an urgency in his voice.

"We will come." He speaks to the halfling but his eyes are already raking the sky. He doesn't move. Someone needs to cover their retreat and there are not many in the group that can do that. He has only one spell that can reach the dragon. Chaos bolt is on his lips ready as soon as he sights the creature.

Seyja


Furious and completely unwilling to let the evil wyrm escape, Seyja staggered to her feet. She almost threw her great battleaxe, but she knew she couldn't throw it that far so, as quickly as she could, she unwound her sling from her head and took a sling bullet from the pouch at her waist.

She whirled the sling around her head, took quick aim and let fly.

Then, somewhat coming to her senses, she turned to look at the others.

Zoltan

Stepping in to attack the dragon, he sees it lift off the ground. Quickly swapping weapons he pulls out his longbow and fires at it as many times as he can as it climbs, before it can get out of range. He hears the Halfling, but he stays to provide cover for the others.

(OOC - Neal - I presume since Zoltan didn't get to act last round he should get at least two rounds of attacks before it can move out of range.)

Jex
After a gurgle and a cough he sprung to his feet. He would thank Nestaron later but now he only saw the giant wings flapping away. That would not do. He was adamant that the dragon not get away to lick it's wounds so he stood his ground, pointed at it and unleashed a chaos bolt at the wyrm, hoping that others would attack it too.

D

The dark elf mouthed a vehement word. He quickly stifled it, there was more to be done and the dragon was much more dangerous in the air.

He looked about at the elf wizard's words with a bit of surprise evident on his visage. Recovering quickly he moved to assist the more injured of his compatriots in the indicated direction.

Though he moved with speed and purpose, his hands always hovered near his body ready to unleash a flying blade should the opportunity present itself. He wanted that thing dead, even if it wasn't permanent.

Seyja


Her eyes widened when she saw Weston in such a dire condition. Seeing Almador close by him, she called out.

"Almador, does Weston have a healing potion? He needs to take it... now!"

D

The barbarian woman's words brought him back to the reality of the moment. Reaching into his pouch and pulls the potion he was carrying.

He tried to force his healing potion done Weston's throat.

GM

Weston watched the silver-lined rain clouds shredding over the moutains. The mountains that surrounded Axis on all sides, a gigantic crater with a peak in its centre, the seat of the Dragon Emperor. And between both, the dwellings and workplaces, the momuments, the ampitheatres, the criss-crossing and encircling battlements of the greatest city in the Empire, with the Bronze River flowing through it, out into Azure Bay.

High up in the peaks outside the city, it was said metallic dragons lived, ever watchful for the Empire's enemies. But it was not a time of war. The slopes were coloured by greenery and wildflowers, Spring vibrance that was mirrored in the streets below. Colours were everywhere. Even though it speckled with rain, people were enjoying life again. Buying fashions, decorating their homes, rejoicing.

The fabled Dragon Knights flew regularly from their lofty castle, streamers flowing behind them. But it was pageantry, not warfare.

Only a few years had past since the Priestess had emerged in the South, curing the zombie plague that had ravaged at Dragon Empire for generations. The land and its peoples were rapidly recovering, and had wandered into a time of plenty. So many had died in the plague, died, risen and killed. Entire populations had been wiped out and the old maps were consigned to libraries and archives. The new maps had far less detail on them than before, far fewer settlements.

Beyond the immediate aftermath, however, inevitably the world flourished and with less mouths to feed, there was more to go around. More food, more wealth, more joy.

Weston was one of those joys; one of many babies born soon after the plague was cured. He was young, barely able to button his own jacket, but old enough to be know who he was and what he wanted in life. He was buried in a blue robe, adorned with golden stars, crescent moons and suns. A wizard's robe (if a wizard ever lacked all taste and self-respect), and the young Weston dreamed of being the Archmage and living on his own tower, adrift in the Overworld. There he'd spend his time thrashing giants, riding a flying carpet, making weather for the folk below, but other than that, mainly doing what his mum and dad told him to.

His mother had remarked that wanting to be a wizard when he grew up was an big improvement over wanting to be an owlbear. Children go through phases.

Weston heard his mother's laugh, a wonderful sound, and made his way from the balcony, down the staircase and across the tiled floor to the kitchen (it was wet and the servant shook her mop at him). He ran out into the kitchen garden and down the path to the gate.

His true mother stood there. She had a brilliant white smile on dusky, mink-coloured skin, with a mass of frizzy, black hair, tied up out of her eyes. She carried a wooden grocery box on her hip and stood chatting with a gentlemen that Weston did not yet know.

Mother wore a soft, lavender dress and was a picture, having just walked back from market. They had a servant but mother liked to shop for herself, sometimes travelling far across the city. It was she who informed her husband's buying decisions, his booming trade was in luxuries, spices, furs, fabrics and dyes. Father was not home, of course, which was quite normal as far as Weston was concerned.

The stranger was far taller than Weston's father, with a heavy brow and aquiline nose. His hair was dark brown and like his beard, fashionably trimmed. His clothing was dark, velvety, but with gaudy accents and ruff. He was no dandy, however, wearing a sword-belt and cuirass, and he had a keen eye for Weston's mother.

"I know of your husband, madam, and his trades." He said, his voice deep and masterful, but his demeanour amiable, "And I know that he is away."

Weston's mother smiled politely, "I'm sorry, good sir, but I cannot conduct business on his behalf. I am very flattered that you would trust it with a woman."

The crow's feet creased at the stranger's eyes as he chuckled.

"Madam, I have never judged a person's capability on what resides between their legs. What resides between their ears is a deal more important, and I'm afraid I cannot wait."

Mother took his candor seriously, looking up and down the street. It had been threatening to rain all morning, and the streets had emptied before they could become a quagmire.

"Sir, to ship a parcel at such short notice, such a distance and - and an arduous journey... surely you realise---" His mother tried to explain, but the stranger grabbed her hand and placed a bag of coins in it.

"How expensive it will be?" He finished for her, then continued, "I realise, madam. But this has to happen today, tonight, tomorrow morning at the latest."

She was silenced and peaked inside the purse. Her face betrayed nothing, but she drew a deep breath through her nose and nodded to the stranger.

"Very well sir, you clearly are in a hurry. My husband will see to it, but where is the item?" She asked.

"Also in the bag. I shall leave it in your capable hands, madam, and bid you good day." The stranger replied, hesitating as he turned away.

"Remember. Today, tonight, tomorrow morning at the latest. Lives depend on it." He repeated and mother nodded with gravely.

The stranger bowed to her, then saw Weston and bowed to him to. "Perhaps another time, young master." He said and left.

Weston's mother set her box down on the wall, and rumaged through the purse. Finally she pulled out a pale ivory ring, prettily carved, but not hugely interesting.

Weston was more interested in the stranger. The man had a sword! The golden pommel was graven with a crest, a laurel wreath around a mace and a sun.

***

Weston woke, shivering and numb with cold.

Almador was bent over him, holding an empty vial.

"It worked!!" He yelled to the others. Maybe too loudly for D, who was hunched right next to the man-at-arms, holding another potion, should it be needed.

There was more noise, the rumble of thunder as Jex's chaos bolt exploded out in the night, while Zoltan was nocking another arrow to his bow, having loosed the first one at the white dragon.

Hit or miss, the Beast had turned tail and fled. Coughing and wheezing it flew, banking steeply around the curve of the hillside and rustling the tree-tops as it went.

Would it be back?

The tribal halfling seemed to think so. He slid from the boulder and slunked into the deeper shadows around its base.

"Safe place. I take you." He grunted to Tindarien again.

Seyja had unwound her sling but her vengeance had flown into the night. At least she wouldn't have another companion to mourn though, as Almador and the dark elf helped Weston to his feet.

Weston himself might have been lost in thought or bewildered. Not only had he just recalled his mother's face, her voice, but he also recalled the stranger. A man who had aged gracefully, greying but maintaining his stature. The Grandmaster of the Order of Averness.

[[
D HP: 21/21; Rec: 4/8; AC 14, PD 15, MD 11; Init +9
T HP: 24/24; Rec: 3/8; AC 11, PD 12, MD 14; Init +3
N HP: 27/27; Rec: 8/8; AC 17, PD 13, MD 13; Init +2
W HP: 12/33; Rec: 5/9; AC 16, PD 14, MD 11; Init +3*2; Staggered
S HP: 15/33; Rec: 1/8; AC 15, PD 15, MD 11; Init +3*2; Staggered
Z HP: 15/40; Rec: 7/8; AC 21, PD 13, MD 14; Init +2; Staggered
J HP: 12/24; Rec: 2/8; AC 14, PD 12, MD 11; Init +4*2; Staggered
Al HP: 15/27; AC 17, PD 14, MD 12; Init +3
]]

<Weston>

He blinked ... there were too many things in his mind demanding attention ... he blinked again ... he was having trouble focusing on any one thing. Things were too many things trying to sort themselves out ... new pieces trying to fit themselves into the puzzle of his life.

He recognized Axis. He had been in and out of that city for as long as he could remember. It was where his mom and pop had raised him. It was what seemed like 'home' to him ... even though pop was away more than he was around ... it was the only home he knew. He knew the stories ... the Dragon Emperor, the dragons that protected the city, he had seen the dragon riders from afar soaring over the city.

He remembered those childish dreams of being an archmage ... there was a time he also dreamed of flying on a dragon above the city.

His real mother! He had no previous recollection of her, but somehow he =knew= that she was the woman that had bore him. And there she was, beautiful, competent and strong, taking care of business while father was away. It seemed unfair that he should be able to see and remember her without him.

He had been fighting ... a dragon ... with is friends ... a dragon that was crawling with ... they seemed like dead things. It had been COLD and it was BIG, but when he put on the ring he had seen it was ... 'infested'.

The ring! AND the Grandmaster! He had been there to give it to her. But he was not supposed to get it. It had been destined for someone else. But who?

Seyja


The barbarian woman looked around at the others and nodded her head. The great wyrm had fled - at least for the moment - and everyone had survived the encounter. She moved slightly from side to side, grunting as she felt out the extent of her injuries.

Not life threatening, but painful enough. Seyja pushed her hair back from her forehead and rewound the flexible leather sling around her head. She bent over and picked up her greataxe, grunting as she did so.

She turned and looked back in the direction the dragon had flown.

Tindarien

He stood his ground, waiting until the others had gathered themselves. Perhaps they had driven it off? Maybe this part of the job is done? But he doesn't accept it yet. He waits ready to cast should it return, ready to buy time for his companions.

"Hurry now!"

He calls out to them, nodding at the halfling.

Zoltan

Holding his bow, arrow knocked, he scans the sky. "Go", he calls. "I will catch up."

He waits for the group to get out of sight and then turns and follows behind. As he waits, he takes several deep calming breaths and utters a meditation in his mind.

(OOC - Using a Recovery)

Seyja


After taking a quick look around, Seyja slung her greataxe over her shoulder and gave one hard look at Zoltan.

"Watch out for yourself."

She then moved to Weston's side, offering a hand for support if needed.

"Can I offer you some support while we go with the others?"

D

Who knew what dragons did. But this thing knew of him. How long had he been living his tortured existence?

He stayed quiet and put away the potion. He moved towards the refuge that was being offered.

<Weston>

His eyes seemed a bit ... distant? ... unfocused?

When Seyja addressed him, he blinked twice, his eyes seemed to focus on her for a moment. He smiled and then shrugged. "I think I can manage, but thanks."

He looked over at Almador and the smile broadened. "Thanks", he said, then gave him a clap on the back. "Great job, by the way. You got in a great shot on that thing."

[[ can he see any strange things on/about his companions because of the ring? ]]

Jex

He had let loose one final assault at the dragon as it fled but he could not tell if that final chaos bolt had left it's mark on its scales. No matter, the night was won. Glancing towards Weston, who was coming too after magical healing had been administered he relaxed. They had all survived.

And now they were invited to safety by a small person.

"Tind, I say we do as our new friend suggests. He seems he has our interest in mind."

Sergeant Almador

"Thank the gods!!" He breathed a sigh of relief as Weston came to.

Hearing Seyja's offer, he said, "I don't know about him, ma'am, but I wouldn't mind."

He needed a hand up himself, his knees cracking as he stood. It was dark under the trees, but the sky was clear and the glade lit well enough for him to see. It seemed peaceful yet very eerie now, glistening with frost on a hot summer night.

He couldn't quite make out the halfling though. His sight wasn't as keen as his companions. At Weston's compliment, he grinned sheepishly.

"It was pretty good, wasn't it. I think it took off with my partisan though." He said, tying his mace back onto his belt. It was better than fisticuffs.

Sergeant Almador followed the rest of the party's lead.

[Recruiting for this player character. Send PM for details]

Nestaron

He wasn't as complacent as the Sergeant of the Guard. Like his companions, he had no doubt that the white wyrm would be back. A creature as ancient and evil as it was, as embowed with death magic, they would have to pry the life out of it.

Until then, it flew and breathed, and posed a dire threat to the party. Nestaron surveyed his companions by the starlight. They looked like they had just crawled out of an avalanche at the bottom of a mountain.

It had taxed their powers, but they had survived and driven off the Beast for a while. His half-elven eyes picked out the halfling speaking to Tindarien. He was used to agrarian halflings in hides, beads and long hair, but this one was more rangy.

Either way, anywhere was better than standing where they were, exposed on the hillside with only a shallow cave for shelter.

"Leave the camping gear, we can come back for it in the morning." He advised and fell in with Tindarien.

He gripped his friend's shoulder in comraderie.

"We'll follow!" He muttered.

Tindarien

It took him a moment to realise that Jex had spoken to him, not recognising the short name as his. So his nod is somewhat delayed.

He smiles though at Nestaron's clasp, nodding.

"Just want to be sure it doesn't return until we are clear. Zoltan has the same idea. And thanks to you my friend we all live to fight another day."

[Recruiting for this player character. Send PM for details]

Nestaron

He looked doubtful, nodding to the stars overhead.

"Alas, it's the early hours so there's still a long time before we can say that for sure." He replied to the high elf with a wink.

The cleric was glad that he could help, but could only congratulate himself once this quest was behind them.

This reminded him to double-check the party's treasure bags. They were something they had to keep close. If they lost the haunted helm and the rest of the treasure now, their journey would have been for naught.

GM

At first Weston didn't see anything unusual about his companions, but as they spoke amongst themselves, he saw that whenever D faced the moon and its light stole under his hood, a ghostly coronet appeared above his brow. Because he was a dark elf? Some other reason seemed more likely, given what D had told them about his past.

The halfing tribesman didn't tarry for the party and slipped into the undergrowth with almost Fey-like stealth. He kept stopping, turning around and hissing, goading anyone following him to keep pace. The high elf had told him to hurry and that seemed to have been interpreted as 'fast and low as a fox'. Farvi stayed quiet. He was used to being jounced around in Tindarien's backpack. (Fortunately he'd built a particularly robust nest in the bottom out of a dryad's loincloth. Quite what that was doing amongst the sorcerer's belongings was surely a tale only he could tell.)

As soon as the rest of the party were under cover, Zoltan could bring up the rear. Even in darkness, the tracks of seven people, armed and armoured and travelling at speed, would not be difficult to follow. But perhaps he intended a solitary vigil?

Ahead, the halfling had led the rest of you through the woods, around the slope. Sweating and sweltering from the activity, you remembered how it was a summer's night on the Sword Point, not deep winter in the Far North. It was only natural if your innards felt a little queasy, quite literally stepping from one climate to another.

The halfling turned and skidded downhill, and you were soon confronted by the same narrow defile where Renn had splattered against the rocks. The sides were steeper and higher, but it was bridged by a fallen tree. The mohawked halfling vouched for its solidity by dashing across without hesitation. He turned and gestured for the others to follow quickly.

"Not far!" He said, "Careful now!!"

It was a long drop if you slipped.

Back at the glade, Zoltan was probably thumbing his bowstring, arrow nocked and scowling. Maybe it was the halfing who had been watching them that afternoon? If it knew its way around the Titan's Elbow, it knew about the dragon and how to evade it. Or was the halfling in league with the dragon? Doubtful. The halfling could have attacked Tindarien and Nestaron while they were fighting the dragon. Without their magic, things would have gone much worse for the party.

But something wasn't right. If it wasn't the halfling, what was it? The dragon was gone, driven off... the tiefling turned a full circle, yet to be convinced it seemed(?).

[[
D HP: 21/21; Rec: 4/8; AC 14, PD 15, MD 11; Init +9
T HP: 24/24; Rec: 3/8; AC 11, PD 12, MD 14; Init +3
N HP: 27/27; Rec: 8/8; AC 17, PD 13, MD 13; Init +2
W HP: 12/33; Rec: 5/9; AC 16, PD 14, MD 11; Init +3*2; Staggered
S HP: 15/33; Rec: 1/8; AC 15, PD 15, MD 11; Init +3*2; Staggered
Z HP: 21/40; Rec: 6/8; AC 21, PD 13, MD 14; Init +2
J HP: 12/24; Rec: 2/8; AC 14, PD 12, MD 11; Init +4*2; Staggered
Al HP: 15/27; AC 17, PD 14, MD 12; Init +3
]]

[OOC - Neal - Note, stats for Zoltan are incorrect again ]

Zoltan

Once the others have moved off, he throws all of the firewood on the fire, building it up to a bonfire to attract the dragon's attention should it return and keeping it off his wounded companions. He purposefully keep his eyes closed, or averted as he works to not ruin his night vision, glancing up at the sky from time to time to keep watch.

Once done, he gathers up whatever equipment or treasure is left behind into a pile, then stops as he considers the recent circumstances. It is still too odd for his liking, so he takes advantage of the silence, broken only by the crackling wood in the fire, to meditate and offer a prayer to the Herald. Standing with his back to the blaze to maintain his sight, he offers thanks for the warmth.

**Herald of Glory my humble thanks for your ever-present watchfulness and your support in driving off another being of evil. With your continued help may I be able to completely destroy it should it return and do my small part in helping to bring about the ultimate heavenly goodness here, in this world. I beseech you, reveal to me that which has been spying upon us so I might judge it's intent, and if evil, might do my duty.**

D

He moved with the sure of foot that indicated his ability to see in the night. Though he wasn't always looking forward in fact much of his time he spent looking up and back as if sure the dragon would return to complete it's task.

He carried his portion of the treasure not wishing to leave it and not complete their task.

At the fallen tree he needed little encouragement to cross. Though he offered his balance to aid anyone else who might seem unsure, like say the Sergeant.

Seyja


She smiled and extended a hand to help the sergeant to his feet.

"Good man... your quick response might well have saved our friend here," she said, gesturing toward Weston.

"Let us go before that evilness returns."

<Weston>

He followed the others as best he could, but most of his attention was now focused on what the ring had shown him.

He wasn't sure what to make of the 'vision' when he looked at D. He was still new to all this and wasn't sure what to make of it. But he didn't sense the 'evil' and 'death' that he had seen looking at the dragon, so he was willing to be patient for now. Hopefully his understanding of what the ring showed him would become clear.

But his real concern was who had been meant to have this terrible thing. He might have to get in touch with the grandmaster once he was done with this to see what he knew about all this. He should at least know who the intended recipient was.

Tindarien

As most of the group are now following the halfling.. except for Zoltan who is staying to cover their back, he decides his best plan is to act as rear guard to the main group, should the dragon get past the paladin.

He salutes Zoltan as he leaves, indicating that Nestaron should precede him. He set Farvi on rear watch, keeping alert himself to cover their flanks.

At the log, he watches carefully as the group cross, intending to be the last to cross, unworried about falling as he has magic to deal with that. However he will take care as the fall will not hurt him but who knows what might await in the darkness below. Better avoided if possible.

[Fixed those stats, Zeim. Are you sure you aren't carrying any cursed items??]

Sergeant Almador

One moment he was feeling inwardly triumphant, elated, that they had fought off a dragon, and that being amongst these heroes, he had finally found the warrior within.

The next moment, he was being hustled through the woods in the dark, chasing after a halfling apparently. What did halflings know about adventuring? They were shaggy-haired farmers and pot smokers, always harping on about 'free love'.

Then again, Almador had to admit he was just Sergeant of the Guard in a provincial fishing town, and he truly hoped there was more to him than he gave himself credit for.

It was gloomy, but he roughly made out a log across a chasm. At the dark elf's urgings, he waved his hands.

"It's all right for you, mate! You can probably thread a needle in the dark. Very well. I will go... may the gods help me!"

[Recruiting for this player character. Send PM for details]

Nestaron

He couldn't help a smile as he watched the man-at-arms. D had done well to get the Sergeant moving. Crossing a chasm via a log bridge in the middle of the night wasn't a challenge any sane person would set themselves.

Nestaron saw Farvi's nose poking out of Tindarien's pack and gave him a stroke, before turning back to the bridge.

The half-elf couldn't see much better than Sergeant Almador, but he had faith and sometimes that was all that mattered. He stepped onto the tree trunk.

"You should be more specific Sergeant. You know in Newport, they actually have a god of crossing bridges. Says something about the quality of their bridges, I'd say."

Sergeant Almador

"I'm fair sure it was a nature god built this one!" He retorted over his shoulder, wobbled, cursed and near had a heart attack, but kept moving.

[Ghosted for Neptune]

Jex

The Jester of Drakenhall had taken a knee, waiting with Tindarien. It allowed him to catch his breath and stitch together a few rhymes. They all seemed a little vitriolic though. Perhaps it was battle-rage? Was Seyja rubbing off on him? Was that a sentence that nearly came out all wrong?

Could it be this sword?? Somewhat annoyed, he called out to the goodly cleric and sergeant.

"Maybe we should all pray to the god of hurry the hell up!?"

GM

Zoltan prayed, and overhead the constellation of stars that comprised the Herald shone, bright and bold, eyes of a distant god, watching the realm of mortals below. Did those eyes pierce into the Abyss, into the hellish worlds lorded over by demons? Did they look onto a red sea, where boneless corpses crashed in bloody waves? Or in its midst, an island citadel, with walls made of writhing black smoke and lit from below by a glow like hot iron. Could a god's eyes see the tortured faces in the smoke? Could a god's ears hear the cries of torment?

Rafts of people, bound together were driven to the island by demonic ships. They swam through the sea of carnage, screaming. Other poor souls were delivered in their thousands, tumbling through swirling portals, flogged and beaten. Demon overseers drove them like vermin through the gates to the citadel.

They were both cattle and fuel. To the demons they were life, they were growth. To the demon prince who sat upon the brass throne, they were the future. His skin was red as the surrounding sea and sprouted brass horns, and his eyes were pitiless black. He wore a robe of oily black, spun from despair. His name was Yzarra and for the demons of the Abyss, he was hope.

A choking, hellish vision. Once Zoltan had come to his senses, he was still stood in the glade by the fire. The dragon's deep cold had receded but as pleasant as the summer night was, the tiefling still felt a chill.

Stretching his toes, he realised the chill was real, a soft, cold breeze at ankle height that seemed to draw air over the precipice and downhill. Peering after it, the paladin saw only darkness, but by watching the wild grass he could see how the breeze shifted direction, as if what drew it was also moving. How could it be the white dragon? It was stealthy for such a massive creature, but Zoltan doubted it could have woven in and out of trees so fast even when it was hale. Remembering the lay of the land from the trek, Zoltan suddenly understood....

Cunning, old wyrm.

It was back. Having flown around the curve of the hillside, it had slithered into the steep defile that led down to the river gorge. The defile where Nestaron and Seyja had found the gory remains of Renn of Quagglen (whose armour Zoltan now wore). All of which meant that the Beast was snaking along the defile's course, downwards, a course that would surely intercept the rest of the party. From this distance, Zoltan's legs would never catch up with the others in time, but at this elevation, his voice just might.

Some way away, through the night, a fallen tree was serving as a bridge, the crossing slowed by Sergeant Almador, whose armoured bulk was not suited or practiced at such things. On the far side, the buckskin-adorned halfling hopped from foot to foot, agititated by the waiting. He could've been a quarter mile onwards, a quarter mile closer to safe haven.

<Weston>

The log bridge brought him more fully to the present. And he saw Almador looking a bit nervous. He would be much better with a bit more confidence. "You're doing fine Sergeant. Much easier than besting a dragon and you did just fine with =that=. Take your time, one foot in front of the other."

Zoltan

In reply to his prayer the vision was both familiar and disturbing. Familiar because he recognized the scene and knew the setting intimately. Disturbing because he had thought to have left Yzarra far behind. If this vision was truly a message, or warning, from the Herald, then Yzarra had not only finally found him, but was somehow watching him. And that put not only himself, but the others in terrible danger.

It was as these thoughts filtered through his brain that he noted the cold flowing across his ankles and realized what the Wyrm had done.

He realizes he can't catch up, but he is above both the dragon and the likely path the party is traveling. He can warn them.

Quickly ripping a piece of cloth he wraps it around an arrow and dips it into the fire. As soon as it catches, he runs to the edge of the defile and fires it into the air, screaming, "WYRM!" at the top of his lungs.

He immediately knocks another arrow and searches below for a target to fire at.

Seyja


She heard the scream and saw the fire arrow at almost the same moment and, pulling her greataxe from her back, Seyja whirled about, looking for the threat.

D

He kept his attention on the task of getting the man-at-arms across safely. Though the first place he looked was to the shadows, after all that is where he would attack from.

Tindarien

At the first alert, he seeks the nearest tree for cover, his eyes scanning the skies, his ears straining for the sound of wings.. but nothing. Magic at the ready, he sends his senses in other directions, seeking the threat.

<Weston>

Not again, he thinks to himself. He pulls his bow, grabs an arrow and searches for the target ...

Sergeant Almador

He didn't dare look up, not that looking down at his feet was much use. He could see the glint of his scuffed toecaps, but then only various levels of darkness between the tree, its branches, and the chasm below.

The Sergeant of the Guard was ultimately grateful for the dark elf leading him across the makeshift bridge. Despite Weston's encouragement, it was hearing the cry of WYRM! carried on the night air that really galvanised Almador.

"Faster!!" He said to D, swallowing his panic.

[Recruiting for this player character. Send PM for details]

Nestaron

He heard and looked look, craning his neck to see what those on the far side of the chasm could see. Fire arrow? It must be Zoltan, the hued warning too.

Nestaron had been using his staff for balance, but now he shifted his footing on the log and prepared to jab at the Beast. It was a moonless night and it had flown over their heads once without being seen. Then it would have launched itself from the top of Titan's Elbow though, and it hadn't concealed its deathly cold radiance.

Could the dragon have climbed the peak so soon, after the wounds the party had dealt it? Doubtful. Which meant it must be flying low over the tree tops. If it was above them, the first sign might be snowfall.

The cleric glanced ahead, he didn't want to pester or crowd the Sergeant of the Guard, but he didn't want to be caught on a log bridge either.

D

The dark elf nodded silently and then realized that the man might not see his movement. A soft "yes" of agreement to move faster as he did so. Being on the log wouldn't be the best place to defend from.

Jex

Getting across the log quickly was the imperative. For the court jester this was like his balancing act, and he moved with great confidence over it. Once on the other side, he readied a chaos bolt to fire at the great wyrm once it reappeared.

[ooc: Sorry about missing the last post. I thought I posted (a really long post) but I guess I forgot to press "submit". Oh well.

[[ Nep - that is why I usually compose longish posts in an editor and then past them in here <wink> Less chance to forget submitting, and I have the post in the editor in case something goes wonkky ... which, of course, would never happen here .. no really!! <weg> ]]

[Yikes, sorry to hear that, Neptune. I've done that so many times in the past... it's painful. Like MikeD, I always use a text editor these days.]

GM

Zoltan's fire arrow guttered as it arched high overhead.

Which fate scares a man more, being eaten alive by a legendary monster, or falling to one's death? Sergeant Almador's answer was to dash the rest of the way across the fallen tree, guided by the sure-footed dark elf, D.

As weapons were freed, there was a gust of wind, sucking debris and dirt into the chasm and suddenly a blizzard howled upwards out of the darkness. White scales, orange blood, jagged teeth and an eye that burned with magic, dark, evil, ancient.

It roared, rising faster than wave crashing against a cliff, its massive leathery wings crashing down over the trees and anyone stood either side of the chasm. There was a crunch as the Beast glanced off of the log bridge, splintering and chucking it into the chasm.

It didn't stop or slow or even hesitate, roaring into the night sky above from below. The companions did what they could with weapons against such a fleeting target. Huge or not it sped passed them, spattering them with its scalding blood.

As the dust settled, Zoltan appeared on the near side of the chasm, falling in with Jex and Tindarien. Although his bow was in hand, he hadn't had the range for a decent shot.

On the far side, Weston and Seyja searched for signs of Sergeant Almador and D. They were relieved to find them coughing and clambering to their feet only a few paces from the edge.

The mohawked halfling was already tying a rope around a nearby tree. They'd lost their bridge, but they still had to bring Zoltan, Jex and Tindarien over.

Wisps of snow drifted down out of the night, and the halfling worked the rope with complete commitment, preparing to throw a coil across to the others.

[[ weston had gotten his bow out ... did he have a chance at a shot? ]]

[Aye, this woud qualify as a hazard not a combat. Weston likely got a shot off, though couldn't tell the result as the dragon was moving too quickly. I've got a more in-depth hazard encounter lined up, that we'll go through step by step. It's another 13th Age thing.]

D

The dark elf cleared himself of debris and then offered a hand to the man next to him to stand.

Seeing the halfling busy at work the dark elf stayed out of the way. Instead dark blades appeared in his hands to be launched when the opportunity came, and he knew it would.

[[ no worries ... just checking <g> ]]

<Weston>

Zoltan's warning gave him just enough of a warning ... he got his shot off, but without being able to see much, he had no idea if he managed to hit or not. But it =was= a big target, so there was hope ... But there was =no= doubt that ... whether he hit or not ... it was still out there and was apparently unwilling to leave them ... to leave =him= alone.

He pulled another arrow and prepared for the next opportunity. Hopefully he could keep the thing at bey until the others could get across.

Seyja


The ancient white wyrm flew by so fast that Seyja really had no time to launch any kind of attack. She cursed at the now gone dragon and moved off in search of a better spot where she could stand watch until the others could assemble together.

Sergeant Almador

Breathing hard, he held out his hand to the dark elf who had just led him to safety.

"I am endebted to you, sir. I mean it! And I'm - I'm sorry if I was crotchety with you." His hand was trembling, but his gaze was steady.

Sergeant Almador didn't bother with his mace. He couldn't see himself swotting the dragon from the air with it, not even in broad daylight.

But once the rope bridge had been secured, he could at least help dampen its spring. So he worked with the halfling... if it let him.

Jex

The great wyrm had thwarted their efforts to cross the chasm. They would need the rope bridge to now get across. He saw the halfling on the other side working to get it over. He readied himself to do the needed work on this side to secure it, all the time keeping a look-out for the return of the frosty dragon.

Tindarien

He takes a moment just to breathe, turning as Zoltan arrives.

"That warning was most timely. How did you know it was here?"

He only glances at the paladin, his eyes are scanning the sky, but his curiosity needs to be satisfied.

"It seems like our new halfling friend is constructing an aid for us to cross."

He includes Jex in his conversation.

"I will cross last. I have feather fall and can bring the rope with me."

Zoltan

"I was in meditation and so was more attuned to my surroundings than I might have otherwise been", he looks as if he is concerned about something else as he speaks.

"I noted a sudden increase in the flow of cold air, but very low lying, as if something that could create such frigid air was about, but not from above. The only thing I knew could produce such was the Wyrm, and it made sense it was trying to sneak up from below."

He nods at Tindarien's final comment, dropping the sack of remaining equipment that had been left behind to the ground and knocking an arrow to his bow.

"I will keep watch while the rope is secured in case it returns again."

GM

Tindarien had his face upturned when he saw something dropping out of the night sky towards him. A glint of starlight of a narrow beam. For a split second he might have thought it was the log bridge, but no, it had been knocked into the chasm.

Dodging and warning the others would be easy enough, though as it landed the high elf realised the scale was wrong. It clattered against the hard ground at his feet, more like a branch than a tree.

Stepping closer, he saw a staff of pale ashwood, carved with flutes by elven hands and a sling tied to one end. He knew it well, it was Nestaron's staff.

Looking around, calling out, it didn't matter, no-one could see or hear the cleric on either side of the chasm.

The white wyrm's deep, resonant voice rolled down from the peak, echoing through the river valley.

"I think your healer was right after all. I do need healing." It said from afar, coughing wetly, "But so do you, and now I have your healer."

The halfling threw the coil to Jex, who caught it first time.

Jex, Tindarien and Zoltan on the near side. D, Sergeant Almador, Weston and Seyja, on the far side with their halfling guide.

Nestaron was gone.

D

He strained to see the evil wyrm, to find a spot to stick his thrown weapons. If he could offer assistance to those coming across he would do so.

Jex
He needed to work quickly. He found a well-rooted tree and wrapped the rope around it's trunk twice before drawing it very tight and tying it securely. Once done, he checks it and if he feels it's secure, he gets ready to start walking across the tight rope.

<Weston>

He saw the others across the chasm scrambling, heard =that= voice again, he searched for a target ... but did not see one. But it would have to present a target if it wanted to attack, so he continued his vigil, arrow knocked and ready!

Seyja


Her first instinct was to charge in the direction the evil wyrm's voice sounded from, but she knew her chance of rescuing Nestaron or defeating the dragon were negligible at best.

So, greataxe in hand she moved a few steps in the direction she wanted to charge and stood as front line guard until the rest of their group could cross the chasm and assemble their forces.

Tindarien

He feels the blow like he would a physical assault. Nestaron is more than a companion to him. They had travelled together for some time and had become friends of a sort. Heilbutt too. Heilbutt is gone but Tindarien is not about to abandon another friend whilst there is still hope.

But he feels the frustration as he looks around at their group. Many are not in good shape.

"We cannot abandon Nestaron. Many of us would not be here now were it not for him. I have two potions of healing. Can we gather enough of us together now and finish this? Anyone else have anything to offer?"

[[ not sure ... does Weston still have a potion or was it =his= that was used during the previous fight? ]]

[Weston drank his own healing potion (courtesy of Almador). The main problem will be scouting out the entrance to dragon's lair by night. Not an easy task in broad daylight, let alone in the middle of the night.

And of course, the dragon has your measure now. It knows to keep its distance and use its breath weapon.

At least it has good reason to keep Nestaron alive (to heal it). Tindarien might not accept it readily, but it might be best to find this halfling's safe haven, recoup as best you can, and tackle the challenge in the morning light.

It's very unlikely a blizzard dragon, wounded as it is, will venture out in the fierce summer sun. So by day, you should be able to hunt it in its cave.]

[[ thanks ... just wanted to be sure on the potion. Ummm which of us would know enough dragon lore to come up with your idea? I know Weston wouldn't be the one for =that=! <g> ]]

[Well, we've learned that Weston grew up in Axis -- metallic dragon central -- and wanted to be a dragon rider when he was older. Maybe he knows more dragon lore than you think? ]

[[ OK ... so what sort of 'dragon lore' would be common knowledge in Axis? Anything that would seem applicable to our situation? ]]

[I expect he'd know what we discussed in the above post. It's nothing esoteric. Other PCs might have knowledge. Jex would certainly have formidable knowledge of dragons, for example.

The PCs' backgrounds are there to be used. In 13th Age it's for the player to convince us through their role-playing, why so-and-so knows X about Y.]

[[ OK ... I =do= like that idea about 13th age. My problem is that =I= don't know enough about the world (yet) to 'extrapolate' answers. So I have to ask questions here that I might not have to ask in a different 'setting' <g>

So ... would there have been any knowledge 'floating around' Axis that would give Weston some sort of insight into how best to fight it ... or even a guess at what sort of tactics it might use against them? ]]

OOC - In many ways I get the impression it is somewhat: "Make it up. As long as you can justify it we'll just add it to the world lore."

So, IOW, if you want to create some sort of anti-dragon tactic that people with 'dragon lore' know, go ahead and make it up out of whole cloth.

[You got it Zeim.

On a pure mechanics level, it makes more sense for the party to corner the dragon in its lair so it can't fly. It does expose them to its Wreath of Snow and Cold effect, yes, but that's better than it circling overhead and breathing on you with relative impunity. So in-character, Weston could extrapolate on that.]

<Weston>

"If you can help Nestaron", he said looking at Tindarien, "I would appreciate it." He turned to include the others. "The more immediate problem is the dragon. We need to see if we can drive the creature back into it's lair if we can. We will be better able to control and confront it there than out in the open."

[[ While I agree with a lot of what you say Zeim, I have to say that it is too easy to take it too far. "I remember in my youth when I heard that if I blew ground pepper into the face of a dragon it would roll over and die" seems a bit of a stretch <g> There needs to be some basis <wink>

Neil, thanks. Just wanted to be sure we were both on the same page and I was able to offer something better than 'ground pepper' <weg> ]]

[[ I think where Zeim and Mike are coming from is rooted in DnD 4e monster knowledge. Based on a 1-time roll of the dice, a character has certain levels of knowledge which means that the DM divulges different levels of information (it's cumulative, of course).

If the modified roll is a 15, it's name, type and keywords
If the modified roll is a 20, it's powers (attack forms)
If the modified roll is a 25, it's resistances and vulnerabilities

With that information in hand, players could make decisions about how to respond to the threat.
]]

[OOC Well another note, if the idea goes too far, your pepper example. Just let it be folklore and have the monster laugh at them. I do that all the time in vampire games.]

[[ Nep, there is some basis there ... that is certainly what I was thinking about when I mentioned 'other settings' <g> But it was more like I was saying that what I was used to is different from this so I could use a bit of guidance here <g> pande, I like the idea of 'getting it wrong' <g> But since I don't know enough about the setting, I was looking for a bit of 'guidance' as to what Weston might know about dragons. I think the post above is about right for what I think he could 'know' about dragons (thanks Neil <g>). ]]

Sergeant Almador

He looked around for the holy man himself. Sergeant Almador liked Nestaron and felt safer when he was around. His wisdom could be relied on, and his knowledge of the spirit realm made the dark less foreboding.

But Almador couldn't see the half elf and another cold pang of grief crept into his soul when he heard Tindarien's tone of voice.

"I will do whatever it takes to slay the Beast and rescue Nestaron!" He called across the chasm.

He had nothing more to offer than that, however. Weston's counsel seemed wise, given it was the middle of the night.

GM

The diminutive tribesman worked quickly and silently until their makeshift rope bridge was secured.

"Come!" He hissed, gesturing to those on oposite side of the chasm. "Like you say, we hunt dragon in lair." The halfing nodded to Weston, "When sun rise. By day, it cannot fly under summer sun. No escape for it."

Despite circumstances, it was a balmy summer night now that the white wyrm had retreated. The stars were out, though there was very little moonlight and the slopes were doused in deep, indecipherable shadows, deeper under the trees.

Would you search the hills by night, for an entrance into the dragon's lair? Or would you follow the halfling, seek shelter and resume your quest by dawn's early light?

Which would best serve the quest? Which would best serve Nestaron? Which would best serve you?

(Either way, the party first had to cross the chasm and regroup.)

Zoltan

Once the bridge is secure, he will cross to the other side and then cover anyone remaining.

<Weston>

Despite their guide's declaration that the dragon had fled, he continued to scan the area, arrow at the ready to cover his companions while they crossed the rope bridge.

But the idea to wait till the morning for their hunt made a lot of sense.

Seyja


Seyja stood with her weapon poised, her head moving slowly right and left, doing her best to spot any movement with her peripheral vision. She wanted to move on ahead, to find and attack the great wyrm immediately, but she knew what the others said made more sense.

But she did not have to like it.

Tindarien

He is torn. It goes against the grain to abandon a friend in their time of need and he has to fight the urge to turn and head back in the direction of that booming voice. But wouldn't he also be deserting his companions if he left alone. And he doesn't fool himself into thinking that success would be likely either. Although it is difficult to swallow, he can only hope that Nestaron will survive until morning.. and he has survived much up to now. It may even aid them to have him as an 'insider'. He just hopes they are not too late tomorrow.

Nestaron is smart though. Hopefully he will play for time, the need to rest before curing, that sort of thing. He wishes his friend well as he stares out into the darkness up the wooded slopes. He also marks the direction of that booming voice as best he can. Might give them something to aim for in the morning, though the halfling may know more of course. Local knowledge is always useful.

With a drop in his shoulders indicating his acceptance that tonight they need to recuperate, he turns back to face the others.

Once the others are across he calls to the halfling.

"Friend, do I bring the rope or leave it here for the morrow?"

GM

The halfing hissed at Tindarien to leave the rope bridge. It was useful only to them, the dragon didn't need it, and neither did the halfling need the rope apparently.

And the high elf was right insomuch as they'd need the rope bridge tomorrow, to recover the rest of their gear from the cave. They'd taken only the essentials, hurrying to find shelter from a huge flying dragon.

It was that shelter that they now sought.

[End of session 3. Go to HHE10: Bearkiller]