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.