RP:Schalk's Sacrifice

Note

This is part of the The Obsidian Pool - The First Wave story arc.

Schalk offers himself as sacrifice to gain information on Tene's whereabouts.

This is an rp from 2006 or so, and a lot of rules have changed since then, including those on gods and souls in Hollow, so please bear this mind.

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Schalk grumbles, rather disgruntled at what he just heard Now... his face is hidden under it's hood again as he stands up and steps up to the vampiress what happened there?

Larewen said to Schalk, "We met outside first, to discuss a plan. Castellian had Miradin forge a chain. When we went in, and this was my first time within the headquarters, there were these statues..."

Schalk 's blue eyes flare up in the shadows of his hood If it was your first time, why were you there? Why did they know you could open the cleft?, he growls at the mage.

Larewen arches a brow, making sure to keep a good distance between the angry elf and herself. Her brow furrows. "I don't know the way their minds work, sir... They need a plan formed and one was given..."

Schalk sighs momentairly then speaks clearly How did you open the cleft? And how did you know how to open it? The question is posed still on an angry tone, yet his voice shows clearly that his anger is more with Leo and Castellian than anyone else.

Larewen gnaws upon the thick flesh of her lower lip. "I happened to study them before returning to these lands again... I opened it using my magick."

Schalk nods softly Then you also know what houses in the pool." The seidrman concluded without a moments thought. Or don't you?

Larewen said to Schalk, "Something evil and terrible."

Schalk rolls his eyes and at last throws back his hood, revealing his battlescarred, handsome face, which is now stained with bloody runes I had sort of gathered that, he retorts angrily, looking at the mage. If you knew how to open the cleft, you must have know what it was." An angry glare enters the elvergasts blue eyes as he gazes at the frightened woman, giving him a more cruel expression than before Is it a spirit, a demon, a person, a living thing, a dead thing? I need to know. Only by conquering it can we bring them out of there.

Larewen wraps her arms about her waist, brow arching. "I simply opened it into the pool, sir, just as Castellian told me to. So it opened to whatever the pool is."

Schalk sighs and drops back into the grass, leaning his back against the tree. How did you open it? What spell did you use?

Larewen blinks, unsure of how to answer. "...One that opens a rift?"

Schalk buries his head in his hands There are many spells that open rifts......, he remarks, nearly casual now, as he brushes the long blonde ringlets from his bloodstained face Which spell, or even which kind of spell did you use? Was is a galdra? A charm? A spell? Did you use runes? Did you use wands? Did you just pray the rift would open?

Larewen said to Schalk, "A spell. The kind you chant."

Schalk nods as he looks calmly up at the mage, his face still utterly expressionless Good, now we are getting somewhere......what did you chant? The question is posed calmly, yet sternly, nearly commanding. If we know what is in that pool we can get it out, and we can get those people who are in there out.....

Larewen furrows her brow and chews on her lip before producing a quill, ink, and a piece of parchment. Her gaze scans the area before her form moves to the wall of the merchant's shop. The parchment is held against the wall with the back of three digits and the ink well is held between the thumb and index finger of her left hand while the quill is dipped with the right. She scribbles down the words she had used and gives it a moment to try before putting away the ink and quill. Studying it a moment, she moves, reluctantly, towards Schalk and holds it out to him.

Schalk takes the parchment from the mage and calmly reads through the letters. A moments silence falls, but then the elvergast smiles and suddenly crosses the distance between him and the vampire to give her a one-armed hug It seems you knew what you were doing, even if you did not The elvergast looks at the parchement A traditional spell to open a rift to the world of the spirits, yet one that can go horribly wrong if done on the wrong kind of place or creature. This at least shows that it is a spirit that is in there.

Larewen chews on her lower lip but remains silent, the fright has left her, for the most part.

Schalk claps the mage lightly on the shoulder, gazing at the parchment There is however not a single clue as to what spirit is in there and the only way to find out... The elvergast shudders. Is to die and join the souls of those it has taken.....

Larewen said to Schalk, "What if they aren't dead?"

Schalk smiles They probably are not, but they are in the spirit world. The world of the spirits can be entered only by entering it alive, or dead...... if dead, you can walk among the spirits and talk to them. Alive, they will shun you

Larewen cants her head to the side. "But.. you'll be dead..." Confusion overtakes her sharp features.

(There are posts missing here)

Schalk said to Larewen, "I do hope you will aide me in this, for it will a be a rather complicated ritual"

Larewen said to Schalk, "I will.."

For long the elvergast pondered upon the words he had wormed out of a reluctant Larewen, his mind fixed only upon that single problem: What is in the pool? The answer would not come to him, his prayers to Wodan, god of Wisdom and of Magic yielded nothing, nor did his prayers to Freya, the goddess of Magic, or Heimdal, the one who knows all about Alfheim and Niflalverheim, the realms of the spirits.

At the rise of the sun, the elvergast wrapped his cloak firmer around himself and stood up. A thought sprang through his head as he touched the blue cloth of his seidrcloak..... the seidr..... The cloak had been given to him by his brother before he died from his wounds after the battle of Arendam. It had been his father's before that, and his father's, and his father's. The cloak of Gerbrand, son of Ernhout, son of Marroot, son of Marhald. Gerbrand, the only man who had ever crossed the bridge to Hel's domain and returned. The one who had sacrificed his life for knowledge.....

Schalk softly spoke the verse in his native tongue, the verse of Wodans sacrifice: Ik weet nog dat ik hing, aan de winderige boom, negen nachten lang. Gewond door de speer, aan Wodan gewijd, mezelf aan mezelf, aan de Wereldsboom, waarvan niemand weet uit welke wortels hij groeit. Ze boden mij brood, noch gaven my water. Ten slotte spiedde ik naar beneden, en nam de runen op. Ik nam ze schreeuwend op. Toen viel ik eraf

(translation: I remember that I hung, from the windy tree, nine long nights. Wounded by the spear, dedicated to Wodan, myself to myself, from the Worldtree, from whom none know, from which roots it grows. They offered me no bread, nor water. In the end I looked down en took the runes, took them screaming, and I fell down)

His mind suddenly was determined, he would make the ultimate sacrifice: he had to find out what was in the pool and only the Gods and those who were dead could help him....

Schalk's spirit floated in the air, not dead, nor alive, separated from his body he was, dead... The truth dawned on him when he looked at his body below. Dead, dead like the worms he has dug from the dike behind his father, grandfather's and great-grandfather's hall and used as bait while fishing with his brother. Dead like his brother, whose ashes had been scattered over the water; dead as his crucified father, dead as many of his friends who had given their lives for him. And now he had given his life in aid of his friends. A sacrifice of great risk and great importance yes, but one that would give him knowledge beyond knowledge...

Not long did he dawdle to gaze at his dead body, for his task was clear: he had to travel the nine realms of the world before his ressurection, the one that would come, as he trusted, by the hands of Keerawn. His soul soared higher up, towards the tops of the mountains, now free from bodily burdens, unlike when he had entered the spiritrealm. The mountaintops floated past and great wastelands appeared before him, followed by forest and beach and sand and sea, and sea and sand and beach and forest and wasteland and mountaintop. The realm of Midgaard, the world of men was beneath him and every movement of the sky was his, this was the realm of the Elves, fairies, nymphs and those creatures of Ziu and Heimdal, the guardian of the cloud and the god of the sky.

A rainbow of stunning beauty appeared and with a pang of sudden thought, Schalk knew where he needed to go. Bifrost was in front of him and he needed to cross. Himmenborg was ahead and it formed the gate to Aasgaard, the world of Gods, the world of knowledge and strength and feast. The realm where the Throne of Wodan stood where the All-Seeing could see everything, for Walhal was near too.

The elvergast rushed past Himmenborg and past Gjalls owner, like a piece of reed caught in the stream, a shred of cloud in the wind, or a shell of fish, drowning and surfacing ever again in the violent gallop of Aegers Horses.

Hilidskjelf was ahead. The great throne of Valaskjelf, the All-Seeing's seat. The shelf at the edge of the Aesir's garden, the high place of the world, where one can see the nine worlds in all their splendour.

Sygtrygr at war, Gangner spearing the dead. The seat was empty, available to the use of those in possesion of Ziu's greatness, braving the wrath of the Allfather and seating themselves in the throne.

His blue eyes looked over Midgaard and Asgaard and Utgard, scouting the movements of Gods, men, alves and those of the dead. Long after Skjoll passed, chased by the wolves to let her lover light the worlds, he sat there still. Ponderous thoughts about the next move, until to Niflheim he went. Assured in his friend's well-being, the one blessed by Donar and Frey and Wodan, who fathered most magic, rushed by. In search of the halls of sleep, where the dead lie untill the end. Ymirs life and Hel's delight, the frost biting, entering deep into the soul, the sleet of Niflheim. Moving forth through rain and sleet, though wind and drizzle. Wodans and Vili's and Ve's birthplace, full of ice and snow.

Up is Midgard, south is Muspelheim, the land of fire, the realm of ice lies under his feet, the realm of Loge's daughter north. Hevlgermeer's seething cauldron, the raging fury of Svol, Gunntra, Fjorm, Fimbulthul, and Slid, Hrid, Sylg, Ylg, Vid and Leipt.

Schalk soars over the raging waters, his spirit no more than thin air, the property of the Gods. Of Wodan Gangrader, of strong Donar and of Heimdal, the great God of the Heavens, and of Ziu, the great God of the Sky. North he ventures, over Hverlgermeer, crossing Svol and Guntra and Fjorm, Fimbulthul and Slid, Hrid, Sylg, Ylg, Vid and Leipt.

At long last, he crossed the river Gjoll, the river of the dead, boundary to Hel's icy halls of sleep and death. The bridges solid end, held by Modgud, the fair maiden warden of the Dead. Pale arms raised, the elvergast brought to a halt.

"Before you cross the river Gjoll, the line of dread Hel's realm. Tell me you name, and your fathers name, and your grandfathers name, and the names of your forebears as they have passed before the eyes of the Gods"

The elvergast opened his mouth, speaking with a hollow voice, his bodily way of speech possible no longer, merely quivering air from his shadow "I am Schalk, the son of Everhardt, who was fathered by Bernhelm the strong, the son of Enrhout and grandson of Gerbrand, whose father was Marroot, the horsemaster, descendant of Marhald, the Elverman of Horneburgh"

"What do you seek among those who have died?"

"I seek but those who have knowledge and took it to their graves. I wish to wake those who have died and knew things they never told any. I quest for the knowledge of those who are dead"

"Since your death, you belong among the fallen. I will allow you free passage into the realm of Hel, on the condition that you will leave as swiftly as you came, without the knowledge of Loge's daughter. The fallen and honourable belong to the Asen and not in the halls of dread

As swift as he came to the bridge, he flew through the hall, seeking the tombs of the dead. Past the deathbed, the table bearing Starvation and Hunger, the elvergast flew through endless halls of ice, tombs, mounds, stones and heaps of ashes, the resting place of the dead, the starved, the parched, the hung, the deceased and the plagued, those who had not fallen to the sword or spear or axe or arrow, nor those who had lived their lives bravely. The place of those who sleep, awaiting the youngest day.

"Lodfafnir", the runes on the tomb read. Lodfafnir, the brave soul who had reached the realm of Gods and had studied under the All Wise himself. The one person besides the All Father, who knew the secrets of the dead, though dead himself now, for men are ever only mortal, the well of information surely had not yet dried up.

Schalk scratched the runes he needed into the ice of the simple stone tomb of the man, muttering a galdra, then closed his eyes, waiting for the sage to rise. And rise he did: a terrible shadowform of life, clad in rags, shimmering green glowing before him. The elvergast opened his eyes, gazing silently at the spirit of Lodfafnir "Lodfafnir, one favoured by the All Father, I have come to seek you for councel and wisdom"

Lodfafnir faced the elvergast, a grimace on his shadow-face "Though it has ever been the way of the All Wise to teach all who want to learn, I feel inclined to ask, why would I help you? what wisdom do you seek? and how do you plan to use it?"

A moments silence passed as the two shadows peered into each others eyes. Then, slowly, deliberately, Schalk spoke "I seek to find the galdra's of the All Wise" a short statement, followed by his explanation "I seek only wisdom and life, I seek only truth and bravery. I seek to help those around me, I seek to reach the halls of the Gods, wether Sesrumner or Walhal, I seek entry to those halls when finally I pass from the realm of men."

"Seek me again when Skjol has been chased from her high seat, and her lover races to meet her. I shall ponder upon your words and decide wether I share my wisdom with you or not", were the words spoken by the spirit of Lodfafnir, who was revolving on the spot, slowly falling back into his grave. Schalk had but one option, waiting in the halls of Hel where the dead dwell, waiting between ice and sleet, spirits and moaning, rambling, shambling corpses and shadows of deceased men and woman, all of them dead from various causes apart from the death of the brave by the spear, the sword or the axe.

Skjoll had chased down Sol, chased her from her high throne in the sky and Moanne had risen to his job of casting light on the worlds and Lodfafnir rose again from his grave in the icy realm of Hel, in the south of Niflheim. Upon noticing the elvergast he nodded, bowing his head in greeting. "I have thought long and hard", he spoke in a quivering, eerie voice "The secrets are yours, if only you can keep them. Only the dead know them, and the dead keep them. I do not feel dishonoured by giving you the knowledge, for you are dead. I will teach you all I know on this night, though a promise I must ask you...."

Schalk nodded, agreeing silently before the request was even stated. This was his goal, what he had come for, the gaining of wisdom....

"I must ask you never to share the secrets of the dead with any living, for the secrets are kept by the dead and are not intended to be known by the dead."

All through the night the two sat on the gravestone of Lodfafnir, as he taught and Schalk learned. The secrets of Wodan's eighteen verses, the galdras and the spells. The most powerfull of all, the ones the All Father did not share with any but Freya, his wife and his human student Lodfafnir. As Sol rose to her throne, Lodfafnir looked around and slowly faded, lying himself in his cold grave, as he disappeared with the rising sun, as he had promised.

Schalk 's soul floats past the long walls of ice, caught by cold and the scent of death. Hel has made this far-flung past of Niflheim her own, ruling over the dead with iron hands of striking beauty, treading on their back with her corpselike feet. In flight, the elvergast's eyes seek for any mention of the name of the person he seeks, the late Memnoch. From Hilledskjelf he saw, the tomb encasing his old friend, but now his search from close by has started.

Memnoch 's feels no touch of mind, and no seeking spirit. He dwells deep in the pits of hell, his soul a never-ending fire, a punishment for the failure of his body. The brothers’ dark, and malevolent vengeance, ever watchful, ever vigilant.

Schalk reaches a dark and ice covered tomb, inscribed in letters of a far-flung nation, mystical signs, only possible to read by those who have skilled themselves in the reading of the letters of the giants Memnoch it reads, a simple text nothing more. Written by Hel and her servants, carved in stone, covered in ice, this is his friend’s tomb. Here his fiery spirit lives, encapsulated in the chasms of ice, in the hall of the Dead, Schalk draws from his lined belt a dagger of silver, used to carve the runes. In the ice of Memnoch's tomb the elvergast carefully scratches, scraping ice away, creating Berkanaz in the lid. Rise, Memnoch, dead bearer of knowledge needing by the living and the wandering souls”, he mumbles.

Nothing happens for a long moment and silence descends over the frozen realm of the dead. Then, with aching slowness, Memnoch's form, semi translucent, and surrounded by iridescent mist, rises through the ice-covered slab of marble that covers his tomb. A waft of frigid air pushes his slumbering form and he glides to the foot of the tomb. The spirit of the tall vampire straightens to his full height, and his ebony hair, thick and lustrous cascades over his broad shoulders and down his back. His lean handsome visage, at first glance, seems to be unchanged, undamaged by his ordeal and lines of laughter still tug at the corners of firm lips. Yet, as he opens his eyes and awareness creeps over him, bitterness and pain replace the calm visage and the crimson gaze that once blazed with humour and love for his woman now seems hard and unforgiving. He lifts a hand and stares for a long moment at the long fingers, and he frowns as he gazes around. Then, seeing Schalk, his eyes flickers and flare with recognition, and for a long moment he simply stares at his old friend. His voice, when he speaks is still deep and resonant, yet, distant, as though spoken from a long way off. "Schalk! Why hast thou summoned me from hell, dost thou not realise the dangers?"

Schalk's pale, shadowlike form quivers in the cold air before the tomb as the elvergast's spirit floats in midair, silently noticing his old friends gaze. It is a moment before he speaks I have summoned you because of the knowledge you posses of certain things old chap, knowledge that the living and the wandering spirits need. Knowledge that will save lives, for a dark presence is felt within the Halls of the Eldritch Cabal. An obsidian pool, inhabited by a malicious foe has opened onto a spirit world and taken many. Danger to their lives and those of others, is the reason I have chosen to face the nine day suffering of death and why I have come to Hel's cold realm.

Memnoch's eyes grow as frigid as the tomb in which he emerged so recently, and his lips tighten with anger. "The Eldritch Cabal?" Pain floods the vampire’s eyes, and he snarls bitterly. "She betrayed me, Schalk, why should I aid her now?"

The elvergast looks at his summoned friend with a ponderous look, his usual light smile appearing in his face, that smile that has gained the confidence of so many people and somehow softens the battle-scarred face of the warrior, making it into one of a gentleman of a kindly spirit. The betrayal is one that at present cannot be undone, though if it pleases you to know my friend, she was most aggrieved by your death when it came so suddenly. Schalk sits his shadow-body on a tomb a few feet away from the vampires, ice and marble encasing, resting his chin on his hands and his elbows on his knees, looking at Memnoch, pondering his words I have sought you to prevent more dread coming, to prevent lives from being wasted or ruined, wether that is the life of Tenebrae or that of any other person. Many besides her have fallen to the Pool and the spirit inside, some have returned, as I watched them appear again to my view, as I sat on the High One's throne of Hillidskjelf. I ask you not to help Tenebrae, but to help all those members of the clan you build, and the friends you hold and held dear

Memnoch's lips pull back to expose his glittering fangs and a growl issues from deep in his broad chest "Grieve?" He laughs bitterly "She put me here Schalk! She plotted to get me out of the way, to make room for another." The tall form of the vampire glides closer to Schalk "Every second of my existence, the demons torment me with her betrayal." He stops suddenly, and closes his eyes for a long moment. When he opens them again, his gaze is steady once more, and deep in their luminous depths, beneath the rage and pain of betrayal, exists a flame of passion. Tenuous, and seemingly fragile, yet resilient to all the taunts of the demons, and all the broken promises. "Very well my friend, I shall give you what you need. Two things I shall offer you" He thinks for a moment before continuing:

"One delves in the Heart of the Mountain, One coils round the Root of the Tree, One dwells in the Depths of the Forest, One sleeps in the Sun by the Sea, And when they are gathered together Then marry the essence of Four And a Key will appear in the Darkness To open up Mystery's door.”

Memnoch pauses for a moment, before continuing, and his voice is soft and rapid, born by the rhythm itself:

"One will rise who is too evil, one will come who is too vain. Twixt the two, a witch shall falter, and thereby open wide the door. Pain and suffering as they stumble, blood and fear before they learn. Woe betide this spring time Eden, now the vale of those who mourn. Beware the watchers in that hour, bar the doctors from the house, Scholars will but nourish evil; priests would raise it high. Let the devil speak his story, let him rouse the angels might. Make the dead come back to witness, put the alchemist to flight. Slay the flesh that is not mortal, trust to weapons crude and cruel. For dying on the verge of wisdom, tortured souls may seek the light. Crush the babes who are not children, show no mercy to the pure, Else shall Eden have no springtime; else shall our kind reign no more.”

Schalk seats himself on the small mound of stones that is a tomb next to marble and ice encasing Memnoch's spirit. Silently the elverman mouths the words, trying to memorize them as they are spoken. After moments of ponderous thought he at least rises to stand tall before his late friend, looking at his calm, yet clearly tormented face.

"I trust you my friend, I trust the words you have spoken are true, though indeed they are as much cause for thought as the Pool itself and the creature that dwells within. I do however ask of you whether this is not your chance to revenge yourself on Tenebrae, or indeed why you feel you were done wrong by her. Remember, not only her life is at stake, but those of near all those who involve themselves with the Eldritch Cabal, even my own, who has been your trusted friend and advisor for a long time.

The elvergast’s light blue eyes peer from his spirit body into the vampiric eyes of the dead. The dead cannot always be trusted, as you well know, but the source of their information usually can. May I enquire to you, where does this wisdom come from?

Memnoch studies his friend for a moment, and inclines his head. "Indeed I am angry and bitter, but not with you and not with my friends. These are dark times ahead, Schalk, and you shall have to be ready. My information comes from the demons that torment me, and other damned souls who dwell in Hell with me. Though not all I hear can be trusted, for pain is the purpose of the brothers. But this I think can be trusted for it fits my own knowledge of the pool and the dark ones who inhabit it."

The vampire turns suddenly and his eyes widen with fear as he sees the amorphous shadows emerge and move with wraithlike silence and menace toward him. Turning back to Schalk, his voice is suddenly urgent. "Farewell Schalk, our time has ended." His eyes blaze with crimson fire for a moment, and a grin tugs at his firm lips. "They are displeased with me my friend." The humour leaves his face, and a hard edge enters his voice "No matter what they say or what she did, I still love her and expect you to take care of her Schalk." Before another word is spoken, the vampire is swamped by darkness and, refusing to scream, is dragged, already burning, back into the tomb.

Schalk looks ponderously at the tomb, his face blank, though a shadowy veil hides his thoughts from his face. Silence is what follows, only the wailing of the newly arrived deceased breaking his careful thought. Rest my friend. One day, you will be released from this shameful place. At the worlds ending you will show who you really are and fight with me once more," the elvergast whispers quietly, placing his lips momentarily on the tomb, a mark of the respect he has for the late warrior. A last look is cast at the tomb and the elvergast feels himself being slowly drawn back, away from the realm of the dreaded Hel, his spirit called by the skies of Midgaard and Alfheim, the place he belongs. Schalk 's dead eyes gaze absently at the soil where the mage Larewen stood when she used the spear to bleed him to death. His eyes have remained fixed upon that single spot for nine days now, and as his drauga, his wandering spirit, is seated on Hilliskjelf once more, having fled from the icy grasp of Hel now awaiting the verdict that will decide wether he will stay in Helheim, or will rejoin his friends, he gazes down from Wodan's throne, to look at his friends, who have gathered to bring him back to his body

Keerawn enters the area slowly, dressed in the blue robes and hood like nine days ago, the druid staff held firmly in her hand as she uses it like a walking stick. Frowning softly, she looks up to her friend hanging from the Xalious Tree, the spear embedded into his chest. An internal debate of confidence and worry battle; would she be able to bring his soul back- to bring Schalk back to life? Well, she would have to try and find out. With a deep sigh, she inclines her head to those gathered, jade sloe-eyes lingering upon Tenebrae as she says, “Will you catch his body when I cut him down from the tree?” As she speaks, her left hand is fishing around in the robes, fingers seeking the hilt of her dagger with which she shall cut the rope.

Tenebrae nodded silently, moving into position under the tree where the elvergast hung. Her peridot gaze is cast up to his body, grisly remnant of the brave man's sacrifice for the wisdom so desperately needed. The necromancer muttered her own prayers, though she owed fealty to no god; rather, she spoke a stream of invective warning Schalk that if he didn't return safely to his friends, she'd resurrect him and give him a peice of her mind. It was her way of dealing with her concern over his safe return, Tene always being fond of the man. She stood ready, looking to Keerawn for the moment to catch him.

Keerawn nods; as Tenebrae walks towards Schalk, already the pixie is dropping the staff to the ground and removing to cloak so as her wings have free movement. With a bit of a struggle, she lifts off the ground and flies above Schalk’s head. With dagger held in her hand, determinedly she hacks at the rope. It seems to take forever, but in reality are actually mere moments as the cut is made. Schalk’s body plummets down, Keerawn hoping the vampiress ready to catch him by herself, as the fae drops to the ground afterwards to try and help carry him over to the cauldron, naught but a few feet away.

Keerawn smiles at Tenebrae, thankful for the woman’s strength. As Schalk is placed gently into the cauldron with grass surrounding it, the fae runs over and readorns her cloak and picks the staff back up. Holding it loosely in her left hand, she then calls the horses to her with ninnies and weighings of their own tongue. They come, trodding over, knowing what their role in this is, and willing to do it. The stallion stands at the northern point, the mare to the southern. Next she calls the two goats over, once again speaking to them in their own animal language. They stand at the Eastern and Western points. Throwing her dagger a few feet away, from within the folds of her cloak a sword is drawn, a soft hiss sound as it escapes its leathery prison. First the stallion is sacrificed; a swift chop removing its head, the blood pooling around him for Wodan. Then the Eastern goat, for Donar. Next comes the death of the mare, for Heimdal. And finally, the last goat, for Donar, once again. Heads all appropriately placed at the compass points around the cauldron in which Schalk’s corpse sits in, quickly she chants the following words in a strange language; her tone clear and concise, shadow from the hood masking her worried countenance, “Weck op uyt den doot, hy die geefde syne leefe.Voor de wyshoid der doden. Geef hym terug syn siele, die Hel beheert. In heur ysig roick fan doot. Wederkeerent tot ‘et leefen, de siel fan de nobel gast. Veur vriend en wyshoid. Wodan, Draugadrottin, geef die drauga wieder syn loif. Allfadr, Fimbultyr, maakt die miens weder heel! Donar, fadr Thrud, Modi ende Magni, Hamerwilder. Geef nu het leefe terug aan den man. Heimdal, Bifrost waker! Aes der Alven, draugr ende himmen! Stuure terug syn geest, fan ‘t roick der slapenden.”

Sebias sits quietly out of the way watching the others in silence.

Keerawn re-sheathes her sword, instead drawing out the pouch containing the necessary mixture of seawater and Xalious Mountain soil. She dips her finger into the mixture, drawing the first rune upon the man’s forhead: Ansuz. Then to his left cheek: Hagalaz, and one on his right: Teiwaz. Finally, the last ones are drawn; the runes that encircle his spear wound: Wunjo, Berkanaz, Inguz, and Algiz. All the while she draws these runes, soft lips part to allow these words to pass forth: “Ik weet nog dat ik hing, aan de winderige boom, negen nachten lang. Gewond door de speer, aan Wodan gewijd, mezelf aan mezelf, aan de Wereldsboom, waarvan niemand weet uit welke wortels hij groeit. Ze boden mij brood, noch gaven my water. Ten slotte spiedde ik naar beneden, en nam de runen op. Ik nam ze schreeuwend op. Toen viel ik eraf.” This done, the pixie drops the empty pouch on the ground and then walks over to where the bread and mead lay. Picking them up, she walks back over to Schalk’s corpse. Grimacing behind the shadow the hood creates, a hand gingerly opens his mouth and pours the mead in, then places the bread inside. Walking over to the staff she picks it up, and goes back to Schalk, standing between the mare and goat’s heads. Closing her eyes, carmine lips move in silent words to the Queen of the Underworld; Hel, begging her to release Schalk from her icy clutches, to let him return to this plane, to let him come back to his friends… After a long time of begging her, jade sloe-eyes open, and she nods to Sebias, saying, “Light the fire around the cauldron, please.” The fae moves backwards so as to allow the dragon some room and to not be too near the flames soon to be made.

Sebias noding to his que crawls forward to the couldrun. Shiney black onyx scales take the place of pale flesh around his face and neck enshuring he was not going to burn himself. The dragon took in a deep breath eyes focused on the dry vegitation surounding the bottom of the couldren. His chest began glowing a deep amberish yellow and illuminating the bones of his ribs. the pugnent stench of brimstone filled the air as Sebias exhaled blowing a searing jet of white, red, and yellow flame igniting the couldren with ease.

Keerawn nods softly; the fire would do perfectly. With a soft sigh, a slender-boned phalange not holding onto the staff rises, to lie gently upon her chest, over her heart. Eyes close as she says a silent prayer… Her hopes that she was successful in her friend’s resurrection- that she did right and all goes as planned. Glad of the shadow covering the worried and scared expressions upon her angelic visage, the fae waves Sebias to move away, softly saying, “Come, it is time we leave. He will awaken in the morn.” Hopefully… With that, no other words being said, the Chief of the Sky Tribe walks out of the area, not once looking back. Though, in her mind, a thought is sent to Schalk: see you soon, friend, be safe in your journey along Helveg and out though Helgrindr.

Sebias nods to Keerawn "Alright"

Suddenly a strangely familiar feeling came over the elvergast, the feeling of crusted blood all over his body. the feeling he had felt so many times after battle. He remembered he had fallen asleep at Hillidskjelf, his tired soul resting there, awaiting the help of his friends, to help him return to his body.

Carefully Schalk rubbed his hands over his face, feeling that still fresh blood was all around him. The crusts were rubbed from his eyelids and slowly he opened his eyes, looking around. Behind him was the Xalious tree, where he had hung for the past nine days, all around him were the mountains and grasslands of the land of Xalious, as he found himself to be lying in a large cauldron, filled with blood. Slowly his hands found the brim of the cauldron as he found himself, unknowingly, munching upon a large quantity of bread, drenched with some fine dwarvish meade, and pressing himself up.

Standing full length, his scarred body covered in rust coloured patches of dry blood he bathed in the sunlight, watching around for a sign of his friends, his guards or indeed any form of life besides the birds around him. A raven landed on his shoulder and the elvergast smiled: the raven must have been send by Wodan, Draugadrottin, to see to his safe return. A prayer of thanks to the God of the Dead flowed from his lips, echoing through the vales and mountains "Wodan Draugadrottin! Dank U veur Uw hulp! Moge uw hall eeuwig die fallen huize, oh Fimbultyr!"

His hand slip over his midrif as he spoke, finding only a great scar where Larewen had stabbed him. Schalk stepped out of the cauldron, nearly falling over as his long dead legs refused to support him properly. A sarcastic laugh escaped him, as slowly, but deliberately he made his way to the north, hopefully to his friends, for he desired much to speak to them about what he had come to know.........