Chapter 2: The Trek to Myrefall

Yenna steps back from the table, her composed demeanor returning, though the concern in her eyes remains. "The path ahead is perilous," she says, her voice resonating with quiet authority. "But you carry the light of Ormskirk with you. Go swiftly, go safely, and return to us."

Thorgrim nods gruffly, clapping a heavy hand on the nearest adventurer's shoulder. "Aye. Don't keep the hearthfires waiting too long. There'll be warm stew and cold ale upon your return." He offers a final, determined look to the group. "Make us proud."

As the doors of the longhouse swing open, the party is met not just by the biting wind, but by the faces of their community. Despite the early evening hour and the storm, a crowd of villagers has gathered – fishers, trappers, artisans, families – their expressions a mixture of fear, hope, and grim determination. Lanterns sway in the wind, casting flickering light on anxious faces. Children clutched their parents' legs, peering out at the heroes. There are no cheers, only a heavy, supportive silence, perhaps punctuated by quiet murmurs of "Be safe," or "Gods speed." It is a potent reminder of what they fight for – not just the abstract idea of saving the region, but these specific people, their neighbors, their families.

Leaving the relative warmth and light of Ormskirk behind, the adventurers step into the teeth of the blizzard. The wind howls, driving snow horizontally, stinging exposed skin and reducing visibility to mere feet. Each step is a struggle against the deepening drifts and the icy grip of the cold. The path is treacherous, hidden beneath a blanket of white.



Some ambiance, if you'd like.Two grueling days pass in a relentless trek through the unforgiving landscape, the storm showing no signs of abatement. What should be a single day's journey stretches agonizingly onward. Just as exhaustion threatens to overwhelm them completely on the evening of the second day, with the faint outline of Myrefall's valley perhaps only an hour's travel ahead, they find a small depression sheltered by a cluster of ancient pines, offering minimal respite from the wind's fury. Working together, shivering but determined, they clear the snow and set up a rudimentary camp. The Winterlight Lantern is lit, held persistently in Nelie's small hands, casting its eerie blue glow and pushing back the oppressive cold in a small, welcome circle of warmth. Huddled together, they eat meager rations, the silence broken only by the roar of the storm outside their small sanctuary and the sounds of people preparing to bed down.

Chilled Leta feels the cold but ignores it as needed. she mentions, "It is a wonder even for the enemy to move though this weather."

Warming herself, "This Winterlight Lantern is real blessing." She seems staff off the worst of the weather. But her and Johan are more used to it.

"Rest well tonight. Tomorrow we will be in Myrefall."

The meager warmth of the Winterlight Lantern offers little comfort against the biting chill of the morning. Though the storm still rages, the wind seems to have momentarily lessened its fury, allowing slivers of grey dawn light to pierce the oppressive gloom. The scent of pine and wet earth hangs heavy in the air. The relative quiet feels unnerving after two days of constant howling wind. Ahead, through the swirling snow, the dark line of the Myrefall valley ridge is faintly visible, a reminder that their destination is near, yet still separated by the dangerous wilderness.

For Odin, however, the morning breaks differently. A familiar, urgent mental nudge from his spirit raven, Huginn, cuts through the lingering tendrils of sleep. Danger. Close. Watching! Huginn, perched unseen in the high branches, has detected movement – stealthy shapes slinking through the pines, converging on their camp.

Odin has but a moment to process Huginn's silent alarm before sharp snarls shatter the morning stillness. Bursting from the snow-laden pines surrounding the camp, three shapes launch themselves towards the party. Low, guttural growls echo as grey forms blur against the white landscape – wolves.

These appear to be natural wolves of the Wilds, large and lean from the harsh winter, but something is immediately unsettling. Their grey fur is ragged, and patches of dark, frozen blood stain their muzzles and chests. Their eyes, when they meet the party's gaze, hold no typical animal caution, only a raw, frenzied bloodlust. They move with a coordinated, predatory focus, clearly targeting the adventurers within the small camp, ignoring the usual fear a wolf might show towards a group of armed humanoids.

Combat Turn 1

Two of the snarling wolves charge ahead and smash head-long into the party, red-tinted slobber flying out of their gaping maws.

Seemingly heedless of the crushing defeat that had been dished out to its pack, the remaining wolf snarls and dives forward, but Johan parries at the last moment sparing him from the creature's bloody jaw.

The last of the blood-crazed wolves falls silent in the snow, its unnatural fury extinguished. A tense quiet descends upon the camp, broken only by the party's ragged breaths and the ever-present howl of the wind. The immediate threat is gone, but the encounter leaves a lingering unease. The wolves' aggression, their bloodstained muzzles... it's another dark omen on this already grim journey. Wasting no time, the party packs their meager camp, the image of Myrefall's valley ridge urging them onward.

As they prepare to leave, they notice a significant change: the relentless blizzard that has plagued them for two days has finally begun to break. The wind, though still bitingly cold, has lost much of its violent fury, and the snowfall has dwindled to a light, swirling flurry. Patches of grey sky are visible overhead, and visibility has improved considerably. Wasting no time, the party packs their meager camp, the now clearer image of Myrefall's valley ridge urging them onward.

An hour of cautious travel through the now thinning snows and over treacherous, icy patches brings them to the crest of the ridge overlooking Myrefall. The wind, while no longer a blizzard, still whips sharply across this exposed height, carrying flurries that sting their faces. But through the clearer air, the sight below steals the breath from their lungs – or perhaps it's the acrid smell of old fires and something else, something sickeningly sweet, that catches in their throats.

This isn't the small, bustling village you might remember or have heard tales of. The outskirts of Myrefall are a scene of utter devastation. Houses stand as blackened, skeletal frames, their timbers scorched and collapsed. Others are simply smashed, roofs caved in, walls rent asunder as if by a giant, furious hand. Debris – shattered wood, broken pottery, scraps of torn fabric – litters the snow-choked ground, tossed about like children's toys. A chilling silence hangs over the ruins, punctuated only by the mournful whistle of the wind through broken structures and the occasional creak of a dangerously leaning wall. There are no signs of life, no smoke from chimneys, no voices – only a profound, deathly stillness.

As the party stands at the edge of this nightmare, the wind carries a new sound - a distant, mournful howl that seems to echo off the valley walls. It's not the sound of wolves they heard earlier, but something deeper, more resonant, and somehow... wrong. The sound sends a chill down their spines that has nothing to do with the cold.

The clearing weather, while welcome, offers little comfort in the face of such devastation.

Is every single building leveled? No, but is effectively destroyed, as it will take considerable time and effort to rebuild now. There are several buildings that were pointed out specifically as completely leveled, but the majority of the town has suffered a large amount of damage with areas towards the outside spared the most, but the areas toward the center where the communal buildings are lays mostly in complete ruin.Skill Challenge Progress


Required: 3 Successes before 3 Failures | DC 13
Current Successes: Leta (Survival 19)

With three successes (Kish's Investigation 16, Johan's Perception 13, and Odin's Huginn's Perception 16), the party has completed their initial investigation of the village. Each character's findings contribute to the overall understanding of what transpired here.

If it is here, none of you have found it yet.

"Each footprint punches deep into the snow, roughly circular or perhaps irregularly oblong, easily two to three feet in diameter.

In the softer, undisturbed snow, they sink at least a foot to a foot and a half down, compressing the layers beneath.

Where the ground is firmer or the snow shallower near trampled areas, the impressions are still a good six to eight inches deep, with the 'talons' or 'roots' gouging even further into the frozen soil below.

I don't have any reference point in my own personal experience to suggest how big something would need to be to make footprints like these.

It's clear that whatever made these tracks has considerable weight and is pressing down with force."

I'm working on the big post for the day, I'll get it done in the next several hours.

Oh. LOL. Late. "If you're gonna be doing some sneak'n, please give me stealth rolls. If you're just drudgin' up there, let me know."

Leta as a 9 on Stealth Roll. So much for getting the dice roll right.

I'm gonna say a 9 didn't make the check. :P

lol

The party moves carefully through the snow-covered ruins, their footsteps muffled by the fresh powder. They've managed to get surprisingly close to the longhouse, using the cover of fallen timbers to mask their approach. Through the gaps in the broken walls, they can see two figures inside, their attention focused on a glowing stone, which you all immediately identify as a Sending Stone.

The creatures are unlike anything the party has seen before. They stand upright like men, but their bodies are covered in thick, shaggy fur the color of winter shadows. Their limbs are lean and muscular, ending in hands that are more paw than human, with sharp black claws that glint in the dim light. Their heads are distinctly wolf-like, with elongated muzzles and pointed ears that twitch at every sound. Their eyes, a piercing yellow that seems to glow in the darkness, hold an intelligence that speaks of more than mere animal cunning.

The larger of the two holds the stone aloft, its blue veins pulsing with magical light. His other hand rests on the hilt of an elegant longsword at his hip. The blade's pale glow casts strange shadows across his fur-covered face. The crossguard, shaped like crescent moons, catches what little light filters through the gaps in the ruined roof.

The second wolfman reaches up with clawed hands toward the stone. His yellow eyes fix on it with a mix of reverence and hunger. Three wolves, each about the size of a large dog, stand guard nearby. Their breath forms clouds in the frigid air as they pace between the fallen timbers and broken furniture. Suddenly, all three wolves freeze in place. Their ears perk up simultaneously, and their noses twitch as they catch the scent of the party. The still air carries the unmistakable smell of warm bodies and metal. The wolves' heads turn as one, their yellow eyes locking onto the party's position. A low growl rumbles from one wolf's throat, causing the other two to follow its gaze.

The wolfman leader's hand tightens around the stone as he spots the less stealthy members of your group. His lips pull back in a snarl, revealing rows of sharp teeth. He barks a command in their guttural tongue, the sound echoing off the broken walls.

The wolves crouch, their muscles tensing beneath their thick winter coats. The second wolfman draws a crude but deadly-looking axe from his belt. The leader's free hand moves to the hilt of his moon-touched blade. Its pale light grows brighter, as if sensing the coming violence. The ruined longhouse, once a place of community and warmth, is about to become a battlefield.



Pre-combat