RP:Stirrings in Frostmaw
Part of the Stirrings in Frostmaw Arc
Stirrings in Frostmaw
The Jarl of Frostmaw, Ezezil, has betrayed his people by setting them against one another for no other reason than his own jealousy. Here will be recorded those events which directly relate to the political unrest.
SHALLOW CAVE The cave is small but secure as no wind or snow seems to drift into the sheltered area. You can see various bones and half eaten frozen limbs of different animals and creatures littering the cave floor. Clearly this cave does not only serve one creature but many in a time of need, when the winds become too strong, or simply when one is in need of a rest.
Zeneth told your clan, “*a shriek of terror echoes across the link* Monsieur Vornir, monsieur Gunnar! A-Are either of you there?!”
Vornir told your clan, "What is it?"
Zeneth told your clan, “Well, I am guessing they are not friends of yours, monsieur, as they simply laughed when I told them I was ein acquaintance of their Champion! I am presuming, perhaps--!” The sound of metal smashing against rock is heard in the background. “…Exiles?! There are so many…so many, and my magic es low..”
Vornir told your clan, "Gunnar! That would be the contingent we've been hunting. Rally the men, we march! Zeneth, where?"
Zeneth told your clan, “Ah, so they are Exiles? Und, eh…e cave just south of the Ancient Gates - there were two trolls here, but they killed zem as well. They’ve backed me into e damn corner!” The next words are a mere whisper, every tone filled with fear. “Please, help mir…”
Zeneth has been forced into the very back of the small cave, and so far has managed to avoid most of the blows sent her way by sheer agility - any attempt at escape is cut off while her magic is low, however, as the cave and the area outside of it is full of frost-covered Exiles. With Tiervo clutched tight against her chest, the woman dives to the side once more as yet another axe is sent her way. The blade sticks with a gruesome thunk into the body of an Ice Troll, which the Avian quickly hides behind. The Exiles close in, shoving their way into the cavern, and Zeneth emits a scream as her arm is grabbed in a tight hold by the one which appears to be leading the group. “Let me go, now! Let go!” Her voice echoes out across the bleak forest surrounding them, and wide, mismatched eyes fix upon the enormous sword slowly being raised in the giant’s other hand. No matter how hard she struggles, however, the grip does not loosen about her arm.
Vornir appears, frigid axe held high, shield kept tight against his body as he lumbers forward. Behind him, and to his sides follow his warband, all armed to the teeth. Giant horns shatter the air, sounding the charge, as Vornir spurs himself to greater speed. At the fore, as every leader should be, he is the first to crash into the mob of Exiles, a spray of fine red mist erupting into the air as his first swing takes half a head, the backswing claiming a leg, before the Exiles can begin to turn about and fight. The Champion's attention is now wholly on the fight, trusting his standard-bearer and the captains to execute the pincer movement they had so long rehearsed.
Gunnar does exactly that indeed, as he and the rest of Vornir's warband crash into the fray without hesitation, the warrior's massive warhammer crushing the skull of the nearest Exile and covering the blue-iron head with its brain matter. The execution is nearly flawless as the warband executes the rehearesed tatics with merciless efficency, Gunnar making quick work of the next Exile, and driving a rather savage dagger, made from the ivory of the mammoth, into the spine of the Exile holding Zeneth, the cavern's floor now nothing but a crimson pool of Exile blood and bodies.
Zeneth’s head whips about at the suddenness of Vornir and his warband’s arrival -- oddly coloured eyes light up with joy despite the fear coursing through her system -- and the Avian feels tears prick at the corners of her eyes. “For ein moment I wasn’t sure if you would come!” she calls, though the words are likely lost within the roar of battle. The Exile holding her, deciding not to waste any more time, brings his sword down at the small female, who does the oddest of things; immediately, she throws herself against his body, not causing him to do anything more than sway but effectively escaping the range of the massive sword, as she is now too close to hurt. The blade slices against the woman’s wing, however, and a whimper escapes Zeneth, before the Exile freezes in its movements, eyes wide. A moment later it topples forward, crashing down upon the bloody cave and half-crushing the Avian beneath it. “Ah…eh, ouch…” is all Zeneth appears able to say.
Vornir and his men are now forced back a bit as the Exiles pull together, forming themselves into a haphazard shield wall, the shields all battered and mismatched. Vornir calls to his own men, and like a well-oiled machine they form together into interlocked wedges of shields, wedges that drive unceasingly into the enemy wall, killing a few and retreating to rest while the next wedge attacks. This, the favored fighting style of the frost giants, soon coats the snow with fresh blood, thick and slippery, as the better-trained forces of Frostmaw wear down the enemy troops. To make matters worse for the Exiles, two more bands of the Jarl's fighters appear, each lead by one of Ezezil's generals; Halfdan and Olav. They begin to arrange themselves as well, though not yet beginning the charge.
Gunnar strikes out at one of the Exiles as the try to retreat, his war hammer clipping the forsaken giant in the upper left shoulder and sending a jolt of lighting through him. The dazed exile stumbles, and falls, tripping some of his fellow exiles in the process for it. The superior forces of Frostmaw seem too much for the Exile Regime to take on this day, and as Gunnar spies reinforcments, a dark look falls upon him. How did the Jarl know of this ambush by the Exiles? Surley the warband's battle cries run rampant throughout the entire day, so why send support now? Gunnar shoots Vornir a look as he moves to position himself next to the champion.
Zeneth wriggles beneath the dead Exile, attempting to free her lower body when she notices the reinforcements forming their ranks nearby; a glance is cast to her two clan mates, the Avian noticing that Gunnar looks less than pleased about the sudden appearance of the other warriors. A renewed effort is made to shove the Exile off of her form, and even Tiervo tries to help out, pushing his head against the dead giant’s massive shoulder. “Mein Gott…so…heavy!” grunts the winged woman, eventually pulling her legs out from beneath the body. Tucking Tiervo back down her shirt, the kitten mewling softly -- Zeneth reaches round behind her to pull two slim, sharp Elven blades from their sheathes. As magic is too low to rely on, the Avian opts for these weapons instead. However, she makes no move for the time being, curious gaze fixed upon the Frost Giants, awaiting the next movements.
Vornir 's eyes narrow as he notices the generals' forces begin to move, Halfdan circling to the right, Olav to the left. On the Exile's part, they simply lock shields and shuffle backward, as if waiting for the attack. Suddenly, a horn sounds from Halfdan's troops, answered immediately by Olav. Without warning the two groups, each numbering about half of Vornir's own warband, turn aprubtly inward, roaring their war cries as they launch an attack into the Champion's men. Several fall before Vornir is able to shout, "Betrayal! Rally to me! To the standard! Gunnar!" Again relying on their hard training, the giants begin to form around their leader, shields turned outward to form a giant circle.
Gunnar grinds his teeth as the truth plays out before them. Betrayal, and by his own kin. The rage within Gunnar builds with each passing moment, though Vornir's command to assemble reaches him before he is lost to the lust of battle. Gunnar manages to hold off the first wave, quick thinking by the warrior to toss a throwing hammer towards the cavern's cieling providing a nice array of sharpened stalagmites to fall on several of Olav's men, this act providing enough time for Gunnar's troops to rally with Vornir's and align themselves properly. Gunnar now stands beside Vornir, the two leading the charge against the Jarl's assassins.
Zeneth, still stood within the cave, blinks at the sound of horns, and then a yell of, “Betrayal!”. It would seem that the small Avian has brought about…well, something not intended, to be honest. As Gunnar sends a delightful barrage of stalagmites down upon the rushing Giants, the female follows suit, bounding across the crimson snow to Vornir’s men. A calculated leap has the woman soaring into the air, and with a helpful beat of metal and natural wings, she lands gently upon the Champion’s shoulders. “Excuse the extra weight, monsieur, but I think I would rather be here fighting e battle than stood on the edge waiting to be picked off.” Flipping the twin Elven blades within each hand, the Avian prepares for the next wave of attack.
Vornir, though he is yet fresh and eager for the fight, finds himself both encumbered by an avian as well as pressed by foes. Though he and Gunnar indeed slay many, they are forced back, their men as well, back into the defensive circle, where the Champion's wearied men repel the enemy's assaults, one after another. Vornir takes a moment to give his shoulders a mighty shrug, trying to dislodge Zeneth. "You do not want to be there, tiny one," he grunts, then raises his voice to include Gunnar in the conversation. "I think I have a plan. They have less men than we do, and I think we could surround them. If we break the circle, and swing the two ends around, each of us at the breaking point of each end, until we meet again, we can wrap our line around them, and push in. We'll need to run as fast as we can so they can't escape the circle."
Gunnar inclines his head to his closest friend, the frost giant seeming to be rather at odds end fighting his own. But he was a warrior, and this betrayal was not to go unanswered. The mighty warrior begins to make his rounds, his men following the standard bearer without hesitation. Each of the men fall into line, making haste to form a half circle around the invading warband of Olav and the other as Gunnar leads the begining charge against the Jarl's assassins. " Vornir! Let us end this cousin! For Aramoth! For Frostmaw!" With his war cry shouted out with pride, Gunnar and his men begin to push in the enemy frost giants, the warrior's massive warhammer leading the charge in the assault
Zeneth shifts her light form briefly from Vornir's shoulders to the top of his head as he attempts to knock her off before settling back down, much like some sort of exotic parrot. "I would rather be here than on the sidelines, monsieur." She repeats part of the words she spoke before, shaking snow white hair from her immediate vision. "Besides, 'tiny one' I may be, but I am not useless. Allow me to prove this fact, upon your shoulder?" The Avian's wings twitch as the Frost Giant begins speaking once more, and the woman falls silent to allow his words to reach the others. It is then that Gunnar sets off, the ground shaking beneath them as the man rush forward, and the spikes of chaotic boots hook into a curve in Vornir's armour, securing Zeneth in her spot. Now with an assured sense that she will not fall, the winged woman focuses on those around her, humming an energetic tune to herself.
Vornir grunts once more in resignation and begins his own charge, bearing the woman's weight effortlessly as the great line of the giants straightens out, then bends the other way, wrapping neatly around the combination of Exiles and Jarl's troops. Halfdan and his personal bodyguard make an attempt at breaking free, but Vornir's frigid axe takes the general in his side, dropping him at once, and the bodyguard are forced back into the circle. Vornir connects his shield with Gunnar's once more as the ring is completed. At a barked command from the Champion, the circle begins to constrict, pressing closer and closer in upon the enemy forces, now led only by Olav.
Gunnar closes the gap between himself and the last general, Olav, with a delightful glee. While killing his own kind left a bitter taste in his mouth, Gunnar was eager to make an example of the traitor. The massive head of Gunnar's warhammer is swung with his incredible strength towards the armoured head of the would be assassin, the resulting collision causing brain matter and blood to spray across that cavern in a horrid display of death and brutality. Olav falls, dead before he hits the ground, nothing more than a pawn in the twisted scheme of the corrupted Jarl. The rest of the men, now leaderless, and outnumbered look to each other for an answer. Gunnar turns to Vornir and says. " I will leave it up to you champion, to decide these traitors fates."
Zeneth blinks as Vornir begins to run, looking over her shoulder as the circle forms swiftly around the traitors - perhaps she had been turned the wrong way in an attempt to protect his back. Realising that it was now pointless as the enemy were before them the Avian turns about, clicking the spikes on the back of her boots into another secure hold. Noticing that the group were now leaderless thanks to the brute strength of her two clan mates, a thoughtful hum escapes Zeneth and she flips her blades once more, curious as to what may happen next. No words are spoken, for the female is quite unsure of what is acceptable to say in these sorts of situations. Instead, she simply awaits the next piece of the puzzle to play out before her, mismatched gaze ready to take it all in.
Vornir yells out at the defeated soldiers, "Lay down your arms!" They comply at once, and Vornir, tight-lipped, gestures for Gunnar and the rest of the warband to watch them as he strides over to Halvdan's prone form. The general yet has some life in him, for he stirs when Vornir stops next to him. "Why," is all Vornir asks, the cold edge to his voice more fearsome than any shout. "You're out, Brimirsson," Halfdan grunts, teeth clenched in pain, his voice so low that only Vornir and Zeneth can hear. "The Jarl wants you gone -" he breaks off in a cough, blood bubbling from his lips; Vornir's strike had cut into a lung. With the same, emotionless look on his face, Vornir severs the general's head in a single blow, then turns to address the company at large. "I, the Jarl's Champion, proclaim you all outlaws for the treasons you have comitted. Gunnar, execute the captains, and those that were already Exiles. AS for the rest, if they are seen in Frostmaw's borders again, their lives are forfeit. Collect what's left of Olav's head, add it to that of Halfdan and their captains. String them on a spear, and send my lowest serving-girl to deliver the traitors' heads to the Jarl." His voice lowers as he nears Gunnar, and he repeats Halfdan's words softly, adding, "The time had indeed come, eh?"
Gunnar does not hesitaite, his war hammer swinging with blinding speed to connect with each skull that is close to him, his men following in close pursuit, catching the captives off guard as they thought themselves prisoners. Gunnar executes his designated task with ruthless efficencey, the cavern floor now stained with the blood of his people. The head of Olav is severed with the same carved ivory knife that was used to free the avian from his clutches, the warrior raising it in triumph as he procliams. " This marks the beginning of a new age..." his icy-hued gaze turning to gaze upon Vornir, a serious look about his worn features. " Together cousin, we shall end this corruption, and you will lead our people into prosperity and glory once again!" As he speaks, the warrior takes up a spear, and plunges Olav's head upon the spike and thrusts it within the cavern floor. The general's head is forever frozen within the awe struck terror of death, his eyes forever held open in the eternal stare of the afterlife. The rest of his men execute the remaining captains, there heads placed upon spikes nest to the generals. With his task completed, Gunnar takes his place by Vornir's side, his gaze peering out to gaze upon Frostmaw's borders.
Zeneth , usually one to pity the dying, holds not even the slightest hint of remorse in her gaze as she gazes down upon the one named Halfdan. The words he chokes out cause the woman to blink, before she turns her face away as her Frost Giant perch removes the man's head. "I, the Jarl's Champion, proclaim…" She hears little more of his words, focusing instead upon the first things spoken. "The Champion of a Jarl who has betrayed you… how ironic," murmurs the Avian, more to herself than Vornir. Tired of simply standing, the woman stores her weapons in their sheathes and sits down upon the enormous male's shoulder, swinging gently back and forth upon the frosted armour. Tiervo seems to have fallen asleep somehow, despite all the movement and noise. Gunnar's speech elicits a somewhat mischievous smile upon the winged female's crimson lips and she turns a mismatched gaze to the sky -- perhaps only to take her attentions off of the bloody mess at their feet. "Prosperity and glory sounds nice."
Vornir slumps to a sitting position on an outcropping of ice, careful not to smash Zeneth between his armored back and the cave wall. He looks worn, tired, and saddened as he says, "Ezezil used to be a good man. But you are right, Zeneth, he has betrayed me, and you are right, Gunnar, we have much to regain. But we must not tell the men about this as yet. Instead, let us return to Frostmaw, to my hall. We will see if Ezezil at leasts remembers his duty" He explains to Zeneth, "it is customary for the Jarl to greet victorious warbands with a feast, at which the plunder is divided." He sighs heavily, and adds, "I do not think he will do so. We will likely need to throw our own feast, which Ezezil will take as an act of aggression. He has only one warband left, under the gneral Kveld, though, and despite our losses today we still outnumber him, should he attack."
Gunnar still keeps his gaze towards the kingdom, the warrior lost within his own thoughts as Vornir speaks the truth. The Jarl would either act as if nothing had happened, or do as Vornir says and try to make them out to be the betrayers. " I will do as you request of me cousin, you are still the champion of the people, they will still look to you to lead us through this darkness." The warrior places his right hand upon the paladin's broad shoulder as he speaks. " You must remain strong through these trying times."
Zeneth shifts gently upon the Frost Giant's shoulder, rather unwilling to move, it would seem; noticing the sudden look of sadness upon Vornir's features, the Avian frowns. She hesitates for a moment, slender hand lingering in the air, before patting her clan mate on the side of his cheek. "…To Frostmaw, then, I suppose." Apparently, she is not quite sure of what to say other than that. "Et, Gunnar es correct." A rather random glance is sent down at the kitten sleeping against her breast. "Perhaps you are not the Jarl's Champion anymore, but e Champion you are to everyone else. Their minds don't appear to be as warped as monsieur Ezezil's seems to be…"
Vornir stands once more, the moment of weakness passing. He nods his thanks to both companions, then calls the warband to attention. "You did well today, men! We punished the Exiles and traitors alike, and now we go to feast! Gather the weapons, the gold, and the silver! Come to my hall first, to rest and see to your wounds. I will give orders from there." He claps Gunnar on the shoulder. "Let us go then."
Gunnar inclines his head, and orders his men to begin the long trek home. " To the mead hall men!"
Gunnar makes his way towards the designated location, nursing a wound he sustained upon his left shoulder. The warrior's warhammer now rests upon his left hip, the entourage of frostmaw warriors close in toe.
Vornir's hall is a massive affair of wood, carved ornately to demonstrate the Champion's wealth. Inside, benches and tables line the main room, all giant-sized. A fire already roars in the center, and the carcasses of two mammoths and a frostmare crackle merrily on spits, the grease flaring as it drips into the fire. Tubs of mead and ale await in one corner, and the servants and thralls stand by, ready to do their duty. It would appear as though they'd already gotten word from the master of the hall. Vornir turns to his band with a grin, saying loudly, "Welcome, my warriors! Go change from your war-gear, bind your wounds, and return here! The meat should be ready when you are all back! Give the loot to the thralls, they will ready it." Bewhildered at this breach of custom, the weary warriors stumble off to follow the orders, dropping their bags of riches by the door.
Zeneth stares wide-eyed at the enormous room she has entered -- still perched upon Vornir's shoulder, of course -- and emits a murmur of awe at the sheer size of everything. The carvings immediately draw her attentions and mismatched gaze of amethyst and carmine hues dances across the intricate designs, the woman wondering in the back of her mind what their meaning may be, or if they had a meaning at all. As the warriors are ordered to change, dress their wounds, and so on, the Avian turns her attentions to the smarting on her real wing, and hums. "Oh, the bastard cut some of mein feathers off, too.." she mutters, reaching into her hip-bag for a scrap of cloth and beginning to mop at the blood seeping from the injury.
Gunnar follws the intructions laid out by his leader, and takes his leave of the mead hall to change into more comfortable clothes. Several minutes flow by, with very little happening within the hall until Gunnar returns in the company of several of the victorious warrior, now garbed in the fur of the winter-wolf, and dark blue leathers of his people. " Hail mighty champions! Let the feast begin!"
Vornir seats himself at the head of the table. A large wooden block is placed on his left for Zeneth, and Gunnar is shown to the Champion's right side. The rest of the warband are seated according to rank and military prowess. The carcasses are carved up swiftly, the steaming hunks of meat served to each person in order, starting with the lowest rank on up to Vornir himself, while giant horns of drink are distributed to each giant as well, a metal thimble hastily brought out to Zeneth. Vornir raises his horn, standing. "Hail to you all, my warriors! Feast, and be merry, for the war is all but won!" With that, he sits down and falls too, munching on a giant horse rib, torn from the frostmare's side.
Zeneth eventually -- and quite reluctantly, to be honest -- slips down from her raised position atop frosted armour and onto the wooden block placed upon the bench, presumably so as to allow her to actually reach the dining table. She eyes the thimble with a measure of surprise, before laughing. "If I did not already feel like ein tiny one before, I certainly do now. E thimble! To drink from! Oh, this es hilarious, monsieur." Shifting her partially bandaged wing closer to her back, the female takes a sip of the strong drink within the thimble. It is not something she appears to have tasted before, but the woman rather likes the taste despite its intensity. The rather massive slab of meat set down before her by the servants causes the Avian to blink at it for a few seconds in amazement. "Wow… this could keep me going for ein month!" Still, she digs in regardless, slicing off small slivers of frostmare meat to feed to Tiervo, who has awoken due to the smell of food and is now prancing about on the table.
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