Act II, Chapter One: Between Stone and Snow

THE ISHENSA RIVER | HALVARDSEN'S VIGIL | EARLY NIGHTFALL
River‑spray turns to sleet, stone stands mute, every broken window feels like an eye waiting to blink.
Stubby watch‑towers stud the bends now, stone throats coughing smoke into the grey. At one narrow bend a rank of orcs swings a chain-boom across the channel and snarls for tribute. Wexley’s first offer, a cask of salted eel too ordinary to tempt, wins only rough laughter. The old gnome’s eyes crease: he beckons the leader close and produces a sealed clay jar marked with the red sigil of a Shadow quartermaster. Inside sloshes pitch‑black tar-spirit, a naval caulk coveted for winter repairs. Greed smothers suspicion; the guard waves them through still examining his tribute as the Netherthistle drifts on.

By dusk the current grows sluggish and the air brittle. Cloudbanks swallow the western glow, swapping sunset for early winter. Snow starts as whispered flakes, then thickens, white noise on dark water. At last, a ruined watch‑tower looms through the flurry: cracked stone, half‑collapsed roof, a lonely silhouette against swirling grey.

The barge noses into a half‑frozen eddy below the slope. Wexley grips each wrist in turn, words rasped soft enough that snow must lean close to hear. Thaelin offers a crooked smile and a swifter farewell; within moments they push off, lantern shuttered, purpose unspoken as the Netherthistle melts upriver into white shadow.

Now the wind owns the silence. You stand on the bottom of a hill, snow drifts beginning to form, necks craned toward the dark mouth of the tower—no light, no welcome, just a wall against the gathering storm.

Between you and the stones lies only rising snow, the stories this night chooses to tell and the ever-begging question:

What do you do?

Seelah bids farewell to Thaelin and Wexley. Hopeful they’ll meet again, if the mission goes at all well!

Gauntleted hand pulls her cloak tightly against the snowy cold. And as Seelah steps broadly into the snow with hard black boots, she says to her companions, We should move quickly to the tower. Before the snow overtakes us.

Petra had greeted her friends with obvious relief and scrupulous checks that none of them had been injured after their 'hounds and hares' game with the ice elemental.

Then she had spent the last leg of their journey by river going over any parts of Serah's precious herbalism lore she had questions on with the elder, and seeking any poems or songs she had to teach whether related to herbs or not.


* * * * * * * * * *

It leaves the dwarrow wistful bidding their new friends farewell. "It was an honor sailing with you and your worthy barge. Sunrays warm you and shade protect you," she offers to Thaelin, Wexley, and Serah before disembarking.


She nods her agreement with Seelah but asks nervously, "Will the snow hide our tracks to our shelter, or more likely reveal them? Maybe we ought to drag something behind us to obscure them?"


She tries to find something suitable, a bit of cloth she can tie to the end of her walking stick and sweep behind them (while looping her 'bundle' over one arm), and attempts to cover her own walking tracks experimentally.

Varin gives both Wexley and Thaelin a firm pat on the back—no words at first, just a warrior’s gesture of respect. Then he grips each of them by the forearm in a rough handshake, eyes steady.

"Thanks," he mutters, voice low. "And good luck."

Without another word, he turns and leaps off the barge, landing with a soft thud on the cold, muddy bank. He adjusts the strap on his pack and starts walking toward the distant tower.

A sharp shiver runs through him as the wind cuts across the open field. He pulls his cloak tighter.
"Only shelter for miles," he mutters, at anyone within earshot. "If someone comes looking… this’ll be the first place they check."

His eyes scan the ground behind him, noting the scattered tracks from the group.
"No hiding our trail," he adds quietly, "but maybe we can hide how many of us there are."

As the old, crumbling tower comes into clearer view, Varin slows his pace and stops a good distance away. The structure looms silent and still—but too quiet for his liking.
"Might not be empty," he says, eyes narrowed. "Could be trouble inside."

He glances back toward Azote.
"Can you send out Tork? Let him scout it out. Make sure it’s safe before we commit to setting up camp."

"That isn’t necessarily true as we pick our way North. I can do my best to keep us out of sight of patrols... it's no guarantee, but I've done it many times before... it's good to be heading back onto the tundra. Does one of you have the map?"

Azote says to them as she leaves, "Yes. A fine vessel." confirming what she had first said upon boarding. She keeps Tork cuddle close as the cold is a bit much. She has wrapped her bedroll around her for extra protection.

Before leaving earlier she does her best to cover her casting of goodberry as they are going to be needed and one became dinner leaving 9 for more trying times. She keeps her one package of ration for another time. Reason why she is rather lean.

Her cloak & bedroll offers very little comfort against the cold and marches among the party. "We must obtain shelter quickly. It is obviously, we are not prepared for this cold. She tends to march along and uses large Úlfr as partial wind break against her four feet, eight inches of stature.

She replies to Úlfr, "I'm afraid this cold wind would do Tork no good. This weather is fearful for flying. And our best cover as well." and to Tork, "Only fly if you feel safe." She gives her Raven the choice as she knows Tork heard Úlfr. She speaks in Erenlander to Tork (INT 6) as it is the only language it understands and can speak.

She is glad cover will be had soon. She really didn't want to set up her tent. Her emerald greens are doing their best to be watchful, but the wind is not helpful. She is not a snow elf, but the harsh winters of Caraheen have given her enough experience.

Note: Azote has +7 disable device but no thieves' tools & +8 stealth if needed.

@WanderOne No traps or locked doors located if you're trying to get into the tower.

Petra's eyes widen at Varin's suggestion to 'hide how many of them there are.' She undoes her makeshift 'mop' and re-ties her bundle as a 'hobo sack' at the end of her staff while she answers him.



"That's brilliant! Do you mean we walk in each other's tracks to create a single trail for the snow to fill? And Ulfr walks last, his big enough to obscure ours into one bootprint?"


The dwarrow frowns down at her short legs. "I have the smallest stride and I doubt the rest of you want to imitate it. Perhaps, Ulfr, you could carry me on your back or shoulders? I would find a way to make it up to you later, I'm not looking for free favors."

Jasir joins in the exchanging of goodbyes clasping wrists then offering a bow while his palm flattens against his own sternum. "Fair waters and good fortunes, friends.". He watches the gnomes depart for a long moment before turning to consider the area and the gathering chill of a northern nightfall.

Given Jasir's voracity for knowledge it's all but a certainty that every available detail of the route has been transcribed into one of his meticulously cared for lorebooks, so that doesn't seem to hold much concern. "I have the ability to shield myself or others from sight, should there be great need," he mentions absently before waving a hand towards the ruins. "But we will not be able to get far before nightfall when the agents of the enemy have every advantage. It seems fate forces our hand. Do you wish to risk my arts being used, or should we attempt to reconnoiter utilizing only more mundane means?"

Varin moves through the thin layer of snow, heading straight for the tower. His pace is steady, eyes sharp. He begins a slow circle around the structure, scanning for doors, windows—any way in or out. Quiet. Focused. Watching for anything out of place.

"I can get us to the Giant's Teeth, or at least, thereabouts. I remember the way. I know that was the next stop. Beyond that we may need to figure anew."

Azote suggests, "We can hold up the night here and march though the new fall snow in the morning."

Yes, I agree with Azote. Let’s take shelter in the tower, for tonight.

The dwarrow replies to Jasir, surprised that no one else addressed his direct question but assuming they either had not heard him or were reluctant to offer an opinion.

"I appreciate you asking if we think it is safe to do so before you use a particular Talent. For now I think we are trying not to call attention to our presence, given how recently Wexley had to bribe the way past a watchtower. So we will just have to use our eyes and ears like Varin is doing."


She watches Varin scout around the tower, without Varin first answering her question about what he meant when he suggested "perhaps we can hide how many of us there are." He didn't hear her, probably, her voice does not carry well or he was distracted by looking around for threats.



When Azote voices her preference to stay in the only available shelter overnight and Seelah agrees, and with Varin already inspecting the shelter and Jasir offering to do the same, Petra figures the majority is already decided. She adds her voice anyway. "We can stay the night here, attractive alternatives are few when it's this dark and this icy."

THE ISHENSA RIVER | HALVARDSEN'S VIGIL | EARLY NIGHTFALL
The door of the tower surrenders with a brittle groan, spilling an ice-cold draft across aged stone tiles. A ragged carpet of snow has drifted through arrow‑slits to one side, sculpting dunes of white against the inner wall. The chamber is wide enough for ten men abreast yet empty of furniture save for a waist‑high brazier toppled on its side, its iron bowl clogged with centuries of ash turned to slate‑grey ice.

In the darkness, you see slender slits ring the outer wall, their edges chipped where someone once tried to widen them. Beyond, the blizzard snarls, flakes swirling like sparks in the beam.

Stone steps wind upward along the curvature of the tower. Halfway to the next floor the stairwell collapses into a ragged cavity, its upper run lost beneath a tumble of cracked blocks and frozen beams. The break leaves a dark pocket of rubble large enough for a man to crawl beneath, if he doesn’t mind the cold grit of fallen mortar.

A water‑stained banner hangs limply from a corroded bracket near the stairs: charcoal cloth embroidered with a black wolf rampant; its threads dulled to ghost‑silver.

Long dead soot still clings to the air, stirred by the gale that whistles through broken rafters.

No footprints mar the floor but your own. No fresh bedrolls, no trash from scavengers, no spoor of nesting beasts, only the unsettling stillness of a place that has waited far too long to be noticed again.

A second floor yawns overhead in wavering shadow, reachable with care if you brave the fractured stair. Down here, the stone keeps most of the wind at bay, promising a hard but survivable night should you choose to light a fire.

Relying on his survival skills Úlfr begins mixing the ancient ash with snow to daub the holes in the wall closed.

Úlfr's words cause the Sarcosan to think for a moment, not from doubting his giant companion but while considering the other members of their little band. After a moment of consideration, "Were it you and I alone I would agree without hesitation. But given our company I would counsel travel under the cover of day. Besides... I can admit that this northern wind blows right through me."

Jasir tilts his head to the side at Petra's reply before rolling one shoulder slightly. Dark eyebrows rise towards an unseen hairline that one can assume accompanies a smile. "My arts offer quick solutions to certain issues. But there is ever a danger to their use... and I'd prefer to not burden others with such except in dire need," he replies if only to affirm what the Dwarrow likely knows of him.

As the group slips into the ruins Jasir's eyes turn immediately towards the second floor and the various points of the unknown. "This place doesn't have the look of a den, but caution demands we ought to check that hole over there. Meanwhile, I think I shall see if it is within my ability to navigate the stairs to check the second floor."

The Sarcosan moves to start making his way up the collapsed staircase with that, his steps slow and methodical in testing as he makes his way up and begins analyzing the best approach towards traversing their break.

THE ISHENSA RIVER | HALVARDSEN'S VIGIL | EARLY NIGHTFALL
Snow sifts through the rafters like spilled sand in an hour‑glass; somewhere above, a beam creaks as though trying to remember a cadence of marching feet.
The climb is awkward, chunks of stone block the way, boots skidding on frost‑glazed mortar, but at last you haul yourself(or selves) onto what remains of the watch‑floor.

The outer half of the chamber has slid away over the years, leaving a jagged mouth in the wall. Snow pours through the breach, piling against shattered bunks and warped shield‑racks. Wind keens here in brief, mournful chords before turning back into the night.

A niche opposite the breach shelters a heavy oaken desk cracked down the center. A once‑fine cloak, now stiff with mildew, hangs from a peg; beneath it, ink‑stained parchment curls upon itself, the writing long bled into illegible tracks. A dented brass lantern still swings from its chain above.

Six narrow bed‑frames remain bolted to the curve of the inner wall. Straw ticking has rotted to black mulch; iron foot‑chests stand ajar, stripped of anything more valuable than moth‑eaten linen.

The spiral you climbed once continues. Blocks, beams, and a rust‑filmed suit of mail lie jumbled where the upper flight gave way. Most of a corpse wedged beneath a fallen beam, rusted mail still sheaths sun‑bleached bones. Close inspection uncovers:
- A splintered kite‑shield emblazoned with a black wolf rampant,
- A bastardsword thrust under rubble, blade dulled to ash‑grey,
- A bronze oath‑ring slipped from skeletal finger to floor, its interior etched "Guard until dawn, that others may live.

Every breath clouds in the lantern‑light; every heartbeat seems to echo twice, once in your chest and once in stone that should not pulse at all. Nothing moves… yet the air tastes of a promise waiting to be kept.

Down below the brazier still beckons with the chance of fire. Up here, only wind and memory keep the watch.

The rare sight of paper with ink on it beckons powerfully to Petra but she hopes there will be time to investigate soon.


She nods thanks to Jasir for investigating the upper floor and murmurs "Tread carefully," with gentle concern.


She also offers thanks to Varin and others who investigated and ensured the shelter was safe enough (run down and broken in places as it may be). And risk or not, she's ready to call her Gift to mend any injuries that befall Jasir for braving the upper floor.


The dwarrow starts helping Ulfr block the crevases with ash, snow, and ice, reaching the low and cramped spaces that might be tricky for the half-giant (as she's begun to think of him, fancifully).


"Better to pack the walls first, light the fire afterward. Less chance of smoke or light giving us away from afar."

Jasir contemplates the cloak for a moment, weighing his ability to mend it. He ends up using his unstrung bow to lift the aged garment after a few moments before moving over to investigate the desk. "There's a desk up here, which might be the best source of firewood we have," he calls down to those still on the ground floor. "But it will take some effort to push it down. I might need help."

He then goes through the standard procedure of searching the desk over for any useful remnants. Perhaps in discarding some refuse he glanced down at the ring and lifts it from the floor. A few moments of consideration later and he slips it away in order to give it more consideration at leisure at a later time.