[OOC] Plague of the North

[Partisan]

@Partisan Did you and Kyle collaborate your last post? Or did you take control of Chester and Buxton for the purpose of that scene?

@Denalz

Collabed. :P

[rivaan]

If you ask me even if he didnt colab he most likly striked precisely what buxton would do

[Partisan]

Nah, I did collab. I'm not that good at roleplaying that I can accurately represent what others want to write. :P

[rivaan]

:P If you say so. *Keeps a suspicious stare at@Partisan*

[Fat Boy Kyle]

Apologies for my absence again. I can't see myself being on for a couple of days either. The CO-GMs may take over my characters in order to get these room meetings sorted and out of the way. Just don't move on to morning without me :P

[Denalz]

<Snipped quote by Denalz>

Collabed. :P

@Partisan

So how does a collab work? Is it much shorter back and forth over PM?

[Partisan]

@Denalz Either that, or you use titanpad, which is basically a 'multiplayer word' hahahaha. We used titanpad.

[Denalz]

So, will Kyle being doing that with all of us? Or will we be working with you until he returns?

[Partisan]

I'm unsure - kinda reluctant to pick up those two characters because I am afraid I barely know how they talk and what they do.

[rivaan]

let's have some fun between the rest of the cast then.

[Partisan]

Yeah, it's probably best to visit some other rooms or something.

[rivaan]

Yep yep you know what to do... I think

[Denalz]

Who is posting next? I'm itching to get to work again.

[rivaan]

Should probably be me as I am the one who still haven't. Will start working on it.

[Centimane]

I'll be home tonight from around 6pm EST, and I'll be around on Saturday until around 4pm EST (not sure what time I'll be back on Saturday evening). Sunday I'll mostly be gone.

Anyway, if folks need/want me to push things forward for their PCs I'll see what I can do for ya. @Partisan let me know if you need me for anything.

[rivaan]

there posted~ if anyone is interrested they could write it as if they heard her praying as she was talking normally so it would be heard from outside the cheap door. Also maybe the slightly opened the door to see what was going on or something. Heck evenhave it the door was slightly open and not closed completely if you want.

[Rare]

In case you guys didn't get my message, I am going to be gone for the weekend.

So, you guys and the GM could take control of my character until I get back (if you guys want to).

[Denalz]

@Centimane If you are comfortable taking over Kyle's characters, I'd be happy to do our interview scene together.

[Centimane]

@Denalz Sure, sounds good to me.

EDIT: You should have a PM now. :)

[Senor Herp]

My bloated-ass sheet, for perusal and consideration. Refurbished some old conceptual junk and kitbashed it together. I took liberties in the absence of much information on the North, and so I hope I am not trundling over anything established behind the DM screen in so doing. Off-and-on tack-ons and a desire to have something rather completed meant it took a bit to get it hammered out to a degree I felt somewhat satisfied with as being potentially compelling. I feel that the smaller sections, ala skills & personality, are a bit anemic in comparison to the history, which by contrast is exceedingly dense, hopefully not in unuseful fashions. At the very least, those small sections are- at worst- a bit below par for the course.

Ormr

Character Theme – Walk the Wyrm's Spine
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Ormr is a head over many men at six foot, seven inches, blessed in this respect by blood or fate. His eyes, when seen, are green and piercing, his hair is blonde and long-braided, and his beard similarly braided down to the chest. A long scar traces up the left side of his chest, up from the sternum and over the heart. He looks older than his years, hard-bitten, but with no lack of vitality.

His features are very often hidden by a suit of fullplate, supposedly a relic of faraway times, worked from meteoric iron in the deep cold. Patterened with scale engravings, the helm stag-horned and faced with a wolflike draconic visage, its craftsmanship is out-of-place to its supposed origin in the farther north. Additional frills beyond the armor are sparse; he is often taken to wearing a heavy fur cloak to keep out the wind, and no more as an overlayer, while the underlayer is similarly furred and padded.

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【Full Name】
Ormr Sindrison

【Alias】
œðikollr (Oidikollr; wild-man)

【Gender】
Male

【Age】
36

【Sexuality】
Chaste by vow

【Birth Place】
Lindlund (on the coast northeast of Fort Cain)

【Nation/Allegiance】
Northron of the Lindings of Lindlund, Wyrmkin cult

【Profession】
Hirdman (martial retinue, bodyguard, man-at-arms)

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【Personality】

Ormr is, in many ways, the archetypal stoic northern doomseeker. Reserved and of few words when he can help it, substituting action in their place. He is seemingly heedless of the ruin around him, taking all in stride as the plague consumes his homelands, and if he is sorrowful for their plight, then he certainly shows nothing of it. If he is weary, he will not be the first to call it to attention. If outright retreat, and not tactical withdrawal, is most wise, he will be last to call it.

The free companies and refugees he travelled south with knew him little and knew less of him. Occasionally, hearsay and rumor would be passed of his lineage, the disgraced son of the mad chief of Lindlund, but never overloud, never within earshot, and never widely. The small fair fame he had in this, and in his martial services to those insulted amongst the feuding tribals, and rarely in actions against the Vasili, has been largely overshadowed by the plague, and this does not bother him in the least, for he yet has no need of renown. In those days, a scarce few would come to him, to ask of him or his advice, and his answers always pointfully obscure in both cases. Relatively wise in the right ways of the North, he often found himself a mediator, a role in which he was impartial and quick to suggest or himself dispense justice, either in mercy or severity as necessary.

Despite this practical courtesy, his social sensibilities are dulled and cold when it comes to interrelation. To the point, and little else. While his self-interest is unspoken, it is clear in his avoidance that there is more to his joining than a mere desire to cleanse the North of what ails it, or even to return home, of which he does not speak to most. With the increasing disarray of the tribal lands and the sheer flood of rumors that travel south, there is little to pick out about him, despite some small former prominence. What, then, can be discerned about his ulterior motives? Only that he seeks it to the ends of the earth, to the grave and beyond if need be.

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【History】

STARWATCHING

In days all too far past,it is said that the North was a land mythic. Great dragons and beasts walked the earth seeking the craftswork of those below them, and faefolk mingled with men openly. Magic, good and bad, ran wild, yet the former always triumphed in health over the latter. The bitter cold of the eternal snowfall was matched tenfold by the heat of the hearthfires of giants, god-men, dwarves, and elves, and nothing was hidden from them. So say the tales of yore. These days are remembered fondly in northern tales - the mystic recitals of druids and skalds - the wistful recounting of a primordial age that may have never even been.

Twenty-five years ago the dragon Turaung was slain. His contemporary grandeur paled relative to his mythical forebears, whose armor was tenfold shields, with teeth as swords and claws as spears, thunderbolt-tails, hurricanes in wing and breathing death, but he was a true dragon nonetheless, and lorded himself over men as he saw as his right. On this day, a seven-tailed comet flew overhead, shining like the sun, and in its wake followed the sibling-stars, which one could not parse in one moment and the next as one or two, merging and breaking at will.

Many of the northern shaman debated the meaning of this celestial manifestation; only a quiet few of a particular cult, gifted with ill-known lore, could speak to its nature, and they remained quiet. Eleven years before, Ormr, son of Sindri, chief of the Lindings, had been born beneath that comet's first passing- the sibling stars absent- and the shamans of the Wyrmkin of Lindlund, Land of the Lime Tree Copse, did see the signs. And they did know what was to come.

HOPE AND LITTLE SIGNS

Lindlund, that land south of Falkreach and north of Fort Cain, is often said to be one of the most myth-touched lands in the North outside the unknown reaches of the Grey Islands and the wastes 'cross the mountains. Strange, then, that the petty king of this chiefdom would be the most mundane of men. A widower ill-gifted in rulership, weak in the sword, vile in lecherousness, and poor in humor, Sindri son of Hrafn was unliked by his vassals and the commonfolk alike, kept on the throne only because of the holiness of his ancient bloodline. He was nothing alike to his father, a man of good blood and better character, highly esteemed by his peers and his allies, even and especially outside Lindlund. But Ormr, too, was not alike to his father, and in this was he blessed.

Though born as a babe and as an adolescent 'man' under the sign of a seven-tailed comet and sibling stars, something that might be considered exceedingly auspicious in the south and a sign of a special fate, it drew no great attention in the North. In those lands, every child is born under peculiar signs, once as they come into the world, and once as they grow old enough to tread paths of learning and labour, every father and mother marking down the omens for interpretation, and moreso in Lindlund, a realm regarded both with romance and as exceedingly pompous for such a middling demesne. Ormr's signs, when heard as boasts from an ill-liked chief who fancies himself king, were altogether expected and regarded with skepticism; the shaman searched for all manner of interpretations of the comet's passing in lieu of this explanation. Neither the Wyrmkin nor Ormr himself cared overmuch for these feelings; the former traced the way of things in their meditations, and the latter was young, and humble, and good of heart, birthsign or no.

Sindri, generally distant and uninterested in his progeny despite a token love, left his raising to the court, to those men whom knew Hrafn son of Alawīdaz, and the men who knew them. Then were the seeds of nostalgia sowed, for these men were old and set in their ways, be they Wyrmish or more conventionally heathenish. Far from his father, apatheistically content to laze and enjoy what luxury he could afford to the shame of Hrafn, the young Ormr was eager, befit with a vitality and energy beyond children his age. He learned the sword-ways, the good laws of courtesy and hospitality, the writing and reading of runes, and the outer mysteries of the Wyrmkin, through whatever kernels of knowledge and truth the court shamans might bemusedly share to the boy in riddles and games. It would not be bold to say that he was loved by his guardians, and in his sparse interactions with the commonfolk, he was sure to endear himself, not for mere practicality's sake, but a sincere belief in the good law.

A PALE LIGHT

It was inevitable, then, that the good law, in good application, should meet its opposite, and in bad application. Sindri was never a pious soul, but always fearful, both for his own mortality and the poorly afterlife he had garnered for his mediocrity, that of an unvirtuous stick-picker, or so the shamans told him. Always, they demanded that he avert course, but the bad king was adamantly indecisive, dependent on Providence. And, in an ugly light, it did shine down on him. Evangelists of the south, flaggelants and psychotics all, had beat a manic path on the backs of local hospitality and following ejection for its abuse; rather than turn for home, they had always gone further north, to 'save these miserable barbarian heathens' souls.'

They were at the end of their doomed road; word had spread far and wide of their desecrations and shrill blasphemies, and they would have no more hospitality. All that was left was Lindlund, and the wilds. They all but commanded the bad king to sponsor them, take them in and convert; in return, they told him all he wished to hear. A heaven without works and a stay from hell. And he granted their every request. The court was deeply disturbed, on the verge of rebellion, but Ormr was too young, and too unblooded, now forteen years of age. He could not take the throne, and a regency was inconcievable; the old blood was the holy of holies, and to put any man in supremacy over it was unspeakable, no matter the circumstance. Any coup would have to wait.

It was not long 'til Ormr began to understand his guardian's anxieties. Self-hating to the point of madness, this particular crop of Lightists called out to the One for everything, at every turn, scraping and groveling. But in the next moment, they would turn on their fellow with venom and fire and hate, chastising for every perceived impurity, and their wrath was worse on the peasantfolk. Necessary defense against their assaults became all too regular, but Sindri forbade any harm to befall them. A band of incompetent foreign hystericals had become a second court practically overnight, and had eagerly set to breaking parts of the populace into line, by any and all means.

But it was not these aspects that Ormr grew to despise. Not the substitution of rapture for love, not the begging of an unanswering deity, not the rages and paranoias, not the floggings, not the blasphemies, not the complete and utter disrespect for the good and right Law, and the disallowance of rightful reprisal. These he hated, but they were not what he despised. What he truly, truly despised most of all was the dichotomy between adherents; either they were utter hypocrites, who believed not a word of what they preached, or complete madmen, who believed every word of self-contradicting psychosis. And both were endlessly caught in iniquities contrary to their preaching. Happy was he, then, when he heard of the rise of Cain the Great, Cain the Deliverer, Cain the Hero, and myriad other titles, whom spoke against the softness and rot southwards, the festering of Vasili's disrespect for the Law, some six-hundred years on. And so did the boy, over four years a stranger to this new court, confiding with and being confided in with his old teachers, so did he become enamoured with that rising star amongst the northmen.

SUPERSTITION AND AMBITION

It was to Ormr's great surprise, then, when Sindri decided to lend his sword to Cain's forces. Why a change of heart now? He had no love of the old ways, nor any personal love for the other tribes, nor any animosity towards Vasili, and his vizier-flaggelants were outright hostile. Yet it was one of these flaggelants who was key, a much-scarred man with black beard and mane, disjointed and flashy in his fashion, psychosis clear in his eyes and seeping up from his soul, a Vasiliman by the name of Kaganovich. A would-be prophet, he was utterly convinced that, in order for the Light to prevail, the weak and sinful south-men would have to be annihilated to the last. A new covenant was in order, one with the men of the North, in whom he saw great potential, if their loyalties could be turned from the Law to a construct of his own devising. He would rot the very soul out of the North and put a simulacra in its place in the postwar, turning Cain's New Kingdom to his New Light. And, inevitably, he had informed Sindri of a high place in this new order, to which the bad king was most pleased. Soon, Kaganovich had converted a fair number of the other Lightists, and had surrounded himself with a solid core of true believers.

Prophets, however, are rarely alone, and rarely sincere. One of the most well-respected and inscrutable of the Wyrmkin Shaman, a mad old seer known only as Stag-Horns- for he wore the skull of a stag, and took its name for himself, as was the way of the more eccentric ascetics- had his own tale to tell of the future, and one which Sindri was most displeased with. Ormr's destiny, his truestmost fate, was to be a Hero in the archetypal sense; to live and to die for his people. 'Should he go under arms in the name of Cain,' Stag-Horns rasped, 'then the most glorious fate of all awaits him!' And the old peers of Hrafn were proud, and even Sindri, a cold, deprived and depraved man, felt a swell of warm paternal love for a moment. But, as Stag-Horns continued, 'that glorious fate will await him in a suiting death, for in this path he is doom-bound.' And pride gave way to murmurings, and murmurings to fear, and fear into outrage. The weaponthanes and runic men despaired, for Ormr was a bright and young soul, tragic to part with, and they beat their chests with fist and sword against shield. The flaggelants were enraged that a heathen still held sway in the court, and turned their venomous tongues against the son of the Lindings and the false prophetry on display.

It was Sindri's word that was deciding, for bad chief or not, he was King of the Lindings, and his word was the law when it came to the old blood. Though fearing for his power in the age of the New Light should he go on without an heir- for he could produce none, having gone barren with disease from his iniquities and depravities- he was, for the first time in his life, afraid for his son, for in him he saw a determination he had never known, and apparitions of the future threw themselves upon his ailing mind, bloody and terrible. For the first and only time, love motivated him. He explicitly forbade Ormr from raising his arms in Cain's name. And again, the court was in uproar. Swords flashed, voices rose up in anger and adulation both, and more than one scathing verse classic and improvised was thrown against the name of Sindri and the Light. At the height of the uproar, Stag-Horns made all silent with the low crack of his staff's butt-end against the floor. 'You, then, will go in disgrace,' he proclaimed, his gaze and all gazes upon Sindri, 'And his fate will be yours in a different way.' Then was Stag-Horns banished in a final outrage, barred from returning to castle Lind, and Ormr was locked away for the wartime.

ALLIANCES UNCLEAN

Then did the Lindings go to war at Cain's side, and many acts of great valor were done in his name. The good and right ways and all the might of the North was on their side; there could be nothing but victory, they thought. But treachery would come again into their midst, both expected an unexpected, for Kaganovich's evangelists had not the slightest luck in swaying men or banners to their cause. To sway men whom were already utterly convinced in their ways, ways revitalized by a triumphant hero, was impossible. And Sindri was impatient, and spiteful, and envious, and syphilis ate away at his mind. He was swiftly becoming a joke, a soon-to-be-villain of the great prose, whose ways were worse and more despised than the south-men, whose fate was to be supplanted by the son of Ormr, the good son of the Lindings, whom may soon be. The New Light would have to come in a different way.

Then did Sindri throw his lot in with the traitor Tanner and his peers, those men whom- for whatever reasons they may have had- did want to see Cain die. Men with a messiah will hear no prophets, and both Sindri and Kaganovich knew this. So they worked to murder Cain the Hero, supplying hooked-arrows, and foul alchemies, and a forgotten old blade whose name was Treachery. And Cain did die, to the horror of all, and Tanner suffered for his crimes, and died in turn. But Sindri, and Kaganovich, were not discovered in that time. The Lindings withdrew- forcibly and with great protest, the most righteous and most mighty refusing to lay down their arms and fighting for Cain's name to the bitter and bloody end- and the alliance of the north fell. Then did they gloat openly, when the weaponthanes had returned to their posts and the field-men to their homes, of the failure of Cain, for he refused to embrace the New Light. In all but the most explicit terms, they were clear in their conspiratory nature in Cain's murder. So did many of the good men of the Lindings throw down their badges, and pennants, and cloaks, and all marks of their allegiance, refusing to serve Sindri and pledging to return when 'the good son did sit upon the throne.'

These men were lucky, for Ormr could do no such thing, tied in blood as he was. A few of the most loyal had elected to stay, to guard against treachery and guide Ormr yet a while longer, yet they grew old. Now free from his doomed fate, the house arrest placed on Ormr was lifed, yet there was naught for him to live for. One night, he disappeared into the woods and groves, to whatever fate awaited him. Death, or providence. And providence smiled upon him, for there he found the exile Stag-Horns, alive and well. And Stag-Horns had much to tell him, about his old fate, and his new one, and the way of things, and the things that harness the ways. He was taught to use the Soma in the mushrooms of the linden-root, that strange plant that can at once calm the mind, bring utter tranquility, and also call up the most furious and divine wrath. He had learned to read the runes; now he learned which runes to read, with the old mysteries transmitted to him now. His heart grew harder, and bolder, and when his father or the mad priest would confront him with false sayings and taunts, he would have a counter-saying prepared, and they could not assail him. In this was Sindri driven finally away from any affection, falling into a black hate of his kin.

LOSS AND LOATHING

Three years have gone on, and Ormr is twenty-one years of age. Sindri speaks not to his, for he is withering fast, and seeks no reminder, and fails to remember. He is old, and he will die soon enough. The remainder of the old guard, both those near as old as he of Hrafn's time and the young and vital who took after him, have thoroughly thrown in with Ormr, while his flaggelants and their converts are falling to attrition from disease and self-wounding and exposure and more. With a maiden of Falkreach, daughter of their Chief, Ormr had fallen in love, both walking the paths of the lime tree copse. He would be wed, and she would be with child, and Sindri, a ruined man with an evil mind, would assuredly be forced to step down, and the entire farce of the New Light cast out. He, in so few words, was doombound. The words of Stag-Horns echoed in his mind; 'you will go in disgrace, and his fate will be yours, in a different way.' The bad king was beset by visions every night, and every day, whispering and babbling. The Light spoke to him, and it told him that his only hope was to extinguish his line; to become a kinslayer. He would rise from his grave as a god-king of the Lindings and the north-men, and the rest of the peoples of the world would be his inheritance. Perhaps the product of his broken mind, perhaps an illusion set in place by the mad prophet Kaganovich. His choice was singular.

In the blooming time of the dawn of Spring, when the snow grows thin, and the green fruit grows, and all things flower, Ormr, son of Sindri, and Dagheiðr, daughter of BaþufriþuR, stood beneath the First Tree at the heart of the royal copse, said to be the ancient progenitor of all lime trees. There they were to be wed, beneath all the gods and before all the good men of Lindlund and Falkreach. Then might they have ascended to the throne of Lindlund to set right what has gone wrong, and bear the Good Son to rule after them, but fate is cruel. The Bad King appeared in the midst of all in sparking smoke and foul smell, preaching evil things and death upon all attending. And the flaggelants appeared in the rear and all around, with arms in hand and bleeding scrawl upon butchered skin. And many did die in that day, for all had bound their sword into scabbard with knotted loops of tight thread, in deference to peace and the groom- who solely did not bind his sword- that they could not rise to their defense quickly enough. In an instant, Sindri slashed Dagheiðr below the ribs, and struck her down, and cleaved the heart-breast of his own son wide, but not deep, and he was made to bleed, but not die. In foul smoke, he manifested again amongst the attendants, and joined his foul host.

But Ormr was not a weak man, nor a fearful one, and flew into a rage of mourning. He held his bride as she died, each speaking their vows to become as husband and wife, and laid her to rest against the First Tree, then struck down three flagellants in the drawing of his sword. And BaþufriþuR cursed him, and his name, for he had allowed his only daughter to die, even as they came together in the defense of those still living to slaughter manyscore of evil men. Kaganovich fled, and Sindri disappeared. BaþufriþuR called to arms all the fighting men of Falkreach, first those amongst him, and soon, all his banners, and laid siege to Castle Lind with such haste as to leave his daughter where she lay. Ormr grieved a while longer for his lost love, before setting to pursue his father and slay him, no matter how grievous the punishment on the kinslayer. But in that moment, Stag-Horns appeared again, and stopped him where he stood. 'Rash action will malign your fate,' he warned, 'so you must follow me now, to the secret places of your old blood.' And had any other man said such in that time, Ormr would have struck him down without mercy, and without remorse, such was his grieving. But he knew Stag-Horns was wise, and followed him through the deep woods, to a secret place only he and the Wyrmkin now knew.

BUT FOR SIX TREE-NAILS

In the shadow of Castle Lind, they came upon a sheer rock face, too high to climb or to fall from, thus left ungarded by the Falkreach men. Ormr, even wounded, was angered and at a loss, and the bolster of Soma only made his passions rise higher. But Stag-Horns was wise, and touching the stone, revealed it as a secret door, carved with the likeness of the Wyrm and opening only to the old blood. Ormr took the blood of his breast, and let the stone taste of it, and it opened to a passage without light. Stag-Horns, still wise, let unseen sconces taste of the blue flame, and their way was lit. So they plunged into the forgotten reaches of Castle Lind, that even Ormr had not known until now, and came to a hollow beneath the castle, carved into the very hills it was seated on. The true seat of the ancient Linding kings, carved from a great rough of quartz, and seated in it was a suit of armor finer than any Ormr had seen before, not mail, but great scales and plates of darkened metal, and in its lap was an implement of lore nearly forgotten, the Wyrmhammer. 'You are no longer Ormr Sindrison, but œðikollr the Wildman, first to uptake this weapon, first to walk the Wyrm's spine, and you will remain he until the right signs appear,' spake Stag-Horns. And though Ormr was hesitant for but a moment, the appearance of Kaganovich in the far door did away with all doubt. Threatening all manner of tortures, dispensing with all pretense of his false-faith and casting spells of an evil light, he was silenced first with the strike of the fist, and then with a puff of dry-snow from Stag-Horn's pouch, falling into deep sleep.

When Ormr emerged from the deep place again, he had taken the new name, and the new face, and drug the half-corpse of the exploiter of his father's corruption behind. He and Stag-Horns returned to the grove, where Dagheiðr still lay, embraced gently by the snow and the branch, but not touched. And with the hammer of the Wyrm and the great iron stake, they crucified Kaganovich against the First Tree, still living, by leg, and hand, and heart. And he woke, and screamed, and preached blasphemies, confessing their falsehood, and foretold damnation and ruin on all houses, and the return of a great dragon. When he would not cease, he was silenced with a final nail between his lips. Some of the fighting men of Falkreach were attracted to the clamour, and seeing the strange figures standing over the body of their chief's daughter, they launched into the attack. Once-Sindrison and the shaman of old fled, disappearing into the thickets, losing their pursuers. When the fighting men returned, they found Kaganovich was still alive. The first nail they pulled from his mouth, he screamed his blasphemies again, and his anguish; the second from his heart, and then he died in a final gush of blood. And though the maiden had died weeping, and though she was beneath the bleeding prophet, the fighting-men swore that her lips had curved into a tranquil smile, and neither tear, nor snow, nor blood stained her.

From then on, Ormr Sindrison was no longer. He fully embraced the personae of œðikollr, and determined himself to one day return to his home and oust his father, or else his memory, to clear the name of his blood in vengeance for his lady-love, to whom he vowed chastity unto death. So he set out as a free hirdman, occasionally guided by the stag-horned shaman, and turned his eyes away from Lindlund, though not his ears. The siege was successful, and castle Lind stormed, for the fighting-men still loyal to Sindri were few, rendering its high perch, its walls and its keep all but useless. The Lindings were left on their own, forming a council regency of thanes and shamans once the men of Falkreach had gone home, for now satisfied with the killing of Sindri's loyalists, though the bad king himself had disappeared. A grudge declared against Sindri and his line, but œðikollr went unhunted. And with the end of the brief Cainite War, and its resultant disarray, there was no end of work for a hirdman. œðikollr drifted from retinue to retinue, solving disputes in law with word or hammer, slaying monsters, even spirit-walking and spirit-talking in the absence of a shaman proper. He made his living, and earned his scars, and as Ormr was forgotten, œðikollr gained a small fair fame. Few knew the relevant lore outside of Lindlund, and the Lindings were ill inclined to share such with outsiders in their present hardships, but a few truthful rumors did make their way into circulation. And amongst those, many others, substantially more far-fetched. Giving no regard to this talk, œðikollr watched for the signs. Patiently and ever-after.

RIDE THROUGH THE DARK

For fifteen years, œðikollr continued in this path. And for fifteen years, he watched the signs, awaiting their culmination. And after fifteen years, a dread sign appeared. In his dreams, the stars were snuffed out, blacker than the night sky itself. And they had begun to bleed, a tarry darkness consuming all beneath in a torrent of hateful bile. The world devoured. It did not take long for him to understand. In the service of Finnólfr the Watchful, his duty was to serve on the front line in besieging a den of outlaws. Cut-throats, thieves, murderers, kinslayers all, they had established themselves in an old shrine in the mountainside near Boulder Town, in great disrepair, and set to exploiting the local populace. There they made their final stand, cowering behind wall and boarded window, doors barred in delay of the inevitable. A mad rider, one of the outlaw's number, rode on horseback past Finnólfr's lines and over the six-foot wall, a grevious wound sticking in his side and his horse physically malaise-ridden. Nothing was made of this, save the odd joke of rats and their sinking ships. In the hour following, the warrior-band was prepared to scale the squat shrine walls and storm it, but had not the chance, for the outlaws abandoned their fortifications in a final sally. Each one frothing mad, biting his shield and screaming nonsense, bleeding blackblood. The fight was bloody and hard, but œðikollr felled many of their number, and the band of Finnólfr was victorious. The shamans and the god-talkers were wary of whatever had struck these outlaws, and though heeded in their warnings of dread and evil magic at work, spirits went undampened. Only so much of the black-blooded men had traveled south in these weeks.

It was only in the following hour that it became clear that this magic was a contagious affair as a number of the warband's fighting men were driven to the same insanity, crying black, flesh growing sick with pustule and filth, strength to match their rage granted by the sickness. These men, too, were put down, and great care was taken to avoid the evil blood. Unease set in, and a short time of grieving, but this would not be the end of their woes. œðikollr was sure of this. And surely enough, all soon went wrong. Dead-men came, beset the camp and waged war for slaughter's sake alone, all that is human in them long gone. Again the dead-men were beaten back, and a few more men of the band infected. They resolved to throw themselves into the source before their minds were lost, and disappeared into the snow, their names remembered forever after. Refugees were next to come, fleeing from the onset of this plague, telling of death and ruin for any who remain. They were without protection, doomed on the road were they to continue onwards. Finnólfr, a man of the Law to his innermost heart, refused to abandon them, and so molded his band 'round those in retreat. Each infected would take up the doomseeker's vow, and rush headlong northward to delay the infected. Every refugee and every fighting-man whom they came across would join, and travel south. One of the largest exoduses had thus formed, and œðikollr distinguished himself in both the killing of dead-men, and the length of his service, being one of only so many who had survived this retreat from the north, only a short ways ahead of the forward elements of the corpse-eater host at any time.

APPEARANCE OF THE GUIDE

After a month of furious marching, Finnólfr and his charges reached the town of the Cross Roads, many hoping to escape west, or south. Finnólfr himself resolved to rest a while, then pledge his fighting men- whoever would stay- to any banner whom would take him to fight the black-bloods. œðikollr was not amongst them, for though he bore no infection, he had taken the doomseeker's vow; to go north and kill the plague, or die in the attempt. All asked why; the fighting-men thought him mad, and the common men paid their respects for the dead. Yet he could give no reasons, for he knew them not yet himself. It was mad to think that his father might have survived all these years, and once more through the onset of plague, but the possibility gripped him, tore at him. He needed to be sure. He sat in the shadow of an old runestone in the hills overlooking the city, waiting only a short time before he would set out. Stag-Horns had left him a long time ago, and the barbarian knew not his fate; perhaps he was still alive by his cunning, far in the north, but he could offer no counsel. He waited, once more, for the signs, that he may know the way of things, and he did so alone. For three days and three nights he was still as the stone he sat beneath, eating not of bread and drinking not of horn, living only on the Soma. And finally, his sign came, in the form of a peculiar sorcerer of a southron land...

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【Skills and Abilities】
The foremost skills Ormr possesses lie in war. Strong in arms and will, his hammer fells men and blackbloods alike with shocking ease. Many years wielding said weapon exclusively has left his skill in other weapons rusted, but not dulled; fierceness compensates for the techniques he has unlearned.

His years as a retinue-drifting hirdman, additionally, have left him with an understanding of a fair number of northron dialects and some of the terminology peculiar to them, making him potentially useful in interprative & cultural minutae.

Beside words, he is versed well enough in the correct common courtesies and hospitalities of the more established tribes, and some of the more nomadic, adding to this utility.

He is more than a little taken to use of narcotics for mystical purposes, and would make an able botanical assistant, particularly but not exclusively with fungi.

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【Weapons/Tools and Magic】
Weapons/Tools
The weapon of Ormr's heritage and the one which he has come to some level of mastery of is the Wyrmhammer. Supposedly forged from a fallen star and as old as the Lindings, it is an exceedingly heavy, ornate polehammer, nearly as long as a man is tall. One head is blunt-convex and capable of pulping a man or caving a breastplate in a blow, the other an armor-piercing spike, cruel and claw-shaped, dully bladed, such to punch through armor and flesh. Originally an implement meant to ring the colossal Wyrmcall Gong of Castle Linden, it is vexing to those aware of it amongst both musical scholars and smiths, as hammer and gong alike should be too hard to strike without cracking. Yet they have persisted, largely unmarred.

In a pinch, his hereditary armor's fists are more than sufficiently deadly, both thanks to his frame and the sturdy construction & weight of the gauntlets, which break bones, pound flesh and pop eyes with great efficiency.

Wherever Ormr goes, he always has a bag on his belt filled to bursting with fungi. A great number of these are red-capped hallucinogens- used to enter a berserking state- there are also psilocybins for astral projection, and purely culinary varieties.

Magical Spells
Ormr, despite his inclinations towards hallucinogenic shaman's craft, knows nothing of magic in the proper sense.

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on milkshakes