Icewind Dale Roleplay

[Blothulfur]

"I was curious Iselore, something stirs in the wind and in the back of my mind, I sought answers." You state meeting his predatory gaze with a prideful glare.

He nods slowly, then turns back to the elf maiden who glares at you with all the hatred she can muster, they turn to discuss matters in private.

"Another enemy made, best join the damn queue woman!" You chuckle to yourself.

A large hand falls on your shoulder and a deep voice rumbles. "Making friends again I see!"

You turn to find your old friend Nathaniel, the Archdruid. He grasps your shoulders in his huge paws, and looks at you for a while, his huge teeth set in a happy grin, and his big brown eyes searching yours. "Are you well Black Wolf?" He asks.

"Bonny and braw as ever my friend, a few more scars and a few more secrets, but that's life eh?"

He nods happily and leads you to his little house, one huge arm about your shoulders.

"I could have sworn it was your Da come again when I saw you facing down Iselore Wolf, you're just as stupid and proud!" His laugh takes any sting from the words.

Soon you are sat by Nathaniel's fire, sipping from tumblers of burning Heartwine, the cluttered and overgrown root laden innards of his home unchanged, even after so long. Here you sat when you wished to escape the gloom of your home, listening to the roots complain and Nathaniel telling his tales of Druids long gone and heroics now all but forgotten. Here you learned of your heritage and the reason for your fathers death, and the Druid held you as you cried for your dead father, shedding tears your mother would count as weakness in a son of the Black Wolf.

"Welcome home Wolf." And with Nathaniels greeting you realise that yes, this is home for you.

You sit and talk until the wee hours, chatting of the world outside and the Dale across the mountains, until finally the Archdruid claps his knees and sighs.

"So old man, have you decided to tell me why you called?" You ask sensing his reluctance.

"Aye, aye I have." He looks into the fire, and begins his little speech. "You remember the master mage Orrick, ach of course you do he taught you your letters and such, well his lifes work is nearly complete and he and Iselore have decided that the great Oak must be protected."

"Protected?" You ask leaning forward, you know full well that the eyes of bird, beast and insect watch over the vale, and Iselore restrains massive powers.

"Yes, twice now in the recent past the vale has been threatened and the last time the tree itself was wounded, it still bears the scars." He winces as if remembering, then shakes his head and continues. "There are banes out there against which Iselore would falter and the tree itself would wither, forces of darkness and entropy from the lower planes and other more familiar evils."

"To stop them, to finally grant the tree peace, Iselore and Orrick have decided to call upon the most powerful and potent of old Elven magics. They are going to cast a Mythal over Kuldahar, and remove the Oak from the normal flow of time and space." He looks up at you, his eyes apologetic. "At Midwinter six months hence Kuldahar will disappear from the world, the planes will be aligned perfectly and the opportunity will not come again for a century or more."

"This is why I called you home Black Wolf."

You collapse back into your armchair, stunned into silence. Nathaniel watches you from under his shaggy brows, rolling his tumbler between his big hands.

Finally you gather your wits and respond.

What do you say?

 

[Guest 2091327]

Imagine if Icewind Dale itself had this good writing

 

[volsung]

don't know about you guys but on my end this game has great graphics!

 

[Guest 2091327]

True, it also makes me want to replay the game, with more meat on the bones.

 

[Blothulfur]

"No one can lay a Mythal Nathaniel!" You insist shaking your head. "Not even the great mages of old were so powerful, Orrick is deluding himself!"

"Iselore says that he is not, and when has that old man ever been wrong?" Nathaniel answers.

You bounce to your feet, full of energy and emotion, and begin pacing the room throwing your words at the Archdruid. "It cannot be done, does the lesson of the Severed Hand mean nothing to you?"

"Ah yes, the Severed Hand." The old Druid leans back, placing his glass to one side and looks into the past. "It was two centuries past that I heard of that place, I was a little boy going by the name of Nate, and I watched the path into Kuldahar and ran errands for Arundel the Archdruid." He smiles, lost in memory. "Orrick had been studying Mythals then for over a century, though we did not know it and had come north in search of that place."

Nathaniels brow creases, and his hands squeeze together. "Arundel was dead! A Demon named Belhifet had come to the vale and slain him, in his very home, this home!" He smiles then. "But the abomination had not counted on the six, they returned from the Dragon's Eye in a fury and smote Belhifet's minions, they almost had the creature itself, but it slipped away."

"My old friend and mentors last deed was to guide the six to the Severed Hand, and to tell them of Larrel, the old Baelnorn who doomed and saved that place by trying to lay a Mythal upon it." He is silent a moment, then shakes his head and comes back to the present, looking at you. "Orrick dwelt and studied there for sixty years or so, until the tower was destroyed, and then he returned to us and renewed his studies with Iselore's aid. Fifty year ago he returned from five decades of study in Evermeet, bearing the respects of the Elven Spellweavers, they assured Iselore that he was more than able, still he delayed and tested and practised mindful of Larrel's folly." The old man sits back and watches your reaction.

You fling yourself back into your chair and snatching up your tumbler from the armrest throw it down, Nathaniel refills it without a word, and you throw that back as well. For a while there is silence buut for creaking roots and the crackling fire.

With a hoarse cough you respond. "So it is decided then, nothing remains to be said?" You ask.

"No...no that comes tomorrow when all Kuldahar votes on this." The Archdruid rumbles looking at his hands. "We hold council then, to discuss this and other matters besetting the north." He looks back up at you. "This is why I called you back with all urgency, so that you might stand and cast your vote along with all the others. Though I fear the majority want this, they are tired of danger and struggle, even old Garth in his tower." He smiles.

"Is there no chance of stopping this then?" You ask.

"There is always a chance my friend, always."

Soon you are bidding each other good night and with a pat on the back you part from Nathaniel, wobbling your way to the Evening Shade where a bed and a bath await. Your head full of sorceries and secrets you thread your way up the root path to your families inn, lost in contemplation.

You stumble and pain flares in your leg, looking down you see the shaft and flights of an arrow protruding from your knee. Roaring in pain and anger you pull forth your ancestral sword and look about, a buzzing whine sounds in your ears and you cut another shaft from the air with a flick of your wrist.

A shadow detaches from the roots and comes rushing at you, the glint of a steel in its hand. With a snarl of pain you set yourself to meet the attack.

What do you do?

 

[Guest 2091327]

Yikes, a sudden turn of events. A spell is very much in order I'd say, but I'm less sure which one. What kind of spell (levels) do we imagine this chap has access to?

Otherwise, it's steel on steel.

Edit: Oh, the choices are up now, they weren't before.

 

[Guest 2091327]

Had a bit of a think about this, but am not ecstatic about any of the options. Landed on the first though, steel on steel. Since there seem to be more than one enemy (steel shadow plus arrows flying in), perhaps a spell like protection from missiles would be nice, or some kind of undead protection.

 

[Blothulfur]

Will add those options.

 

[Guest 2091327]

Why aren't more people participating in this?

 

[Glaroug.531]

Moradin's hammer! There's a story in the making!!! Hope I'm not too late to the party.

Hmmm...limping away...probably wound't get far away enough. Besides, screw that. Let the White Wyrms roar rain havoc on the arrow spitting fiends!!!

 

[volsung]

I'll vote and comment later-ish. I like leaving this thread for when I have enough time to savor it.

Edit: OK read and voted! Nice, Bloth. Good job!

If you wrote all the possible substories branching from each choice we might be close to making a text based choose-your-own-adventure RPG, in a handy computer program

 

[Blothulfur]

You summon the storm to your command, rime and biting winds begin to swirl around your free hand as the fury of the Dales arctic winds is brought into being, raising your hand you unleash the tempest and the shadowy form is slammed back into the root it emerged from.

Limping forward you see a quiver and a great yew longbow lying abandoned by the crumpled form of your hooded and masked attacker, in the darkness you can just see the faintest of natural colours with which its robes are crafted and a suspicion of whom this is comes to mind. Your thoughts are interrupted however by the thrown dagger that comes from the prone figure, and as you clumsily sidestep the throw it twists smoothly to its feet, another dagger appearing in its hand.

Growling in irritation you make an obvious slash for your opponents head, which it dutifully ducks under, trying to get within your guard and gut you. Your raised boot in the side of its temple begs to differ however and the attacker is laid out once again, it shakes it head and makes to raise the blade again but the flat of your great ancestral sword swats the weapon away with a crack of breaking fingerbones.

With a flick of your wrist you tear away the scarf the young Elf maiden was using as a mask, and lay your blade against her throat. "Desist girl, I have no desire to kill you over a mistake and your honour is not worth death." You growl at her.

She spits upon your sword blade, blood and phlegm run back down over her neck, and you rub your chin in bewilderment. "Very well Elf, I grant you your life to do with as you wish, but know this the next time you come against me I shall not hold back, I suggest that your next atatck is somewhat more potent." You punctuate your mercy with a spoken word that sends her mind reeling, stunned by the force of your will, a stupor that should last an hour or so, maybe less for an Elf.

Limping away you come to the Evening Shade, Kuldahars boarding house and your families home for the last thirty years. Slamming your fist against the door, you are soon greeted by your mothers unsmiling face, and a brief nod of recognition. She takes in your condition with a critical eye, and leads you with a nod to her sitting room, where her knitting sits abandoned by the fire.

"Lay yourself by the fire on the rug Eldest, I will not have you bleeding on my polished floors!" She instructs, her manner still befitting a queen more than a landlady.

"Yes Mother." You limp over to the rug and with a bit of difficulty lay yourself out, the arrow that has punched through your leg is beginning to send out waves of dull pain, and you turn your will inwards contesting with the sensation.

She returns with the tools of her trade, and sets to work on cleaning the wound. Before long she is preparing to push the arrow through, and raises a gag for you to bite down upon. You shake your head and tell her to slap your face when the deed is done, she frowns but begins her work and you focus your mind on the intricacies of your art, where pain is a small distraction and the flow of power is all that matters.

You feel rage, unimaginable rage.

The slap across your cheek wakes you to the world, and an uncomfortable stiff pain makes you grimace, your knee is bandaged and splinted. Your mothers experienced hands having done their work with her usual cool authority, as fine a healer as any Druid or Cleric. Clerics would of course not accept your atheist soul, and you do not wish to bother Iselore or Nathaniel with tales of breaking the peace of Kuldahar, so this shall have to do.

That said, there are tricks that a shaman may use to heal himself, and so you order a great feast from your mother placing a fat golden coin in her hands as more than payment. She says nothing, merely gliding to the kitchen, and you see your young brothers Secundus and Tertius, peaking around the doorframe as she leaves.

You wave them over with a smile and they bolt into your arms, knocking you over and testing their strength against yours. They are strong little rascals, all dirty faces and skinned elbows and knees, and have grown a clear foot since you last saw them. They seem happy despite the hard life and laws your mother enforces, and you are glad to see it. If you can bear the burden of the families quest and spare them this life, then all the better.

You sit with them for a while, gifting each with another fat gold coin and swapping tall tales and boasts of your exploits, their blue eyes are wide in amazement and their blond heads nod with every detail you impart.

"...And so the Giants retreated, fearing my great powers of sorcery, knowing that that day they had met a true son of the Black Wolf and risked a fate..." A disapproving cough sends them scurrying for the door, bowing low to mother, and you are surprised to see a smile of affection wreath her face as they race off.

She turns to you and places a groaning tray by your side on the ground, before resuming her seat in the rocking chair by the fire and taking up her knitting. You discount her presence and concentrate, feeling the life and energy that radiates from the warm banquet placed before you, and slowly it becomes usable. You leach it of every scrap of energy and pour that warmth into your knee, feeling the vaguely unpleasant shifting sensation that the spell always evokes.

When it is done there are only rotten ashes lying upon that tray, and cutting away both bandages and splints you find your knee scarred and pink, itching with a fury. You stand with a stagger of exhaustion, the spells takes a little from the weilder as well, and take the tray to the kitchen where you wash it clean and store it away. You devour a loaf and a joint of mutton in a grenzy of hunger, laying down another fat coin as payment and then head off to your room.

Your mothers voice rings out as you pass her sitting room. "We shall talk in the morning Eldest." You nod wearily and make your way up the stairs holding tight to the bannister.

Your dreams are vivid and yet confused, but a single scene keeps occuring, a great black wolf is chained before you, the chains are formed of red hot iron wherein screaming souls drift to the surface and retreat. All about you is a shifting battlescape, where banners rise and fall and even the dead have no peace. The wolf lunges at you, jaws spread wide and working constantly, but the chains restrain it from reaching too far.

What do you do?

 

[Blothulfur]

You gather your will and set it against the chains that bind the black wolf, insisting that they break asunder. The screaming faces that drift throughout the red hot iron of the links scream and gibber hatred at you, but still you maintain your commands to break. The chains stretch forth from the ground, emerging from red lit holes in the battlefield, and you notice that the bloody colour is growing more intense.

There are eyes upon you, and with a blink darkness shrouds this battlescape. Your will is shattered and broken, severed with a hideous strength.

"I SEE YOU LITTLE FLY!"

You awaken to green tinted sunlight streaming over your pillow, and stifle the scream that tears at your jaws. You are sweat soaked and feverish, and feel far more tired than when you limped to bed. The wound in your knees feels worse, as if the healing was partially undone.

"What the hell was that?" You mutter to yourself, rubbing your chin with a hand that shakes slightly.

In distracted bemusement you arise, wash and dress, before casting a number of spells of protection about yourself. If the Elven bitch should try her ambush again her arrows will not bite, and you will be ready to respond in kind. Looking at yourself in your rooms long mirror you are shocked by your appearance, your face looks drawn and shadows linger around your eyes, giving you a slightly sinister look. You are reminded of the face that appeared in the shield of force you summoned at Kuldahar pass.

You limp downstairs, growling in irritation at the pain in your knee. Your mother is up early as usual, sitting by the fire with her knitting, and you earn a raised eyebrow of regard from her. You nod and then head to the kitchen, mechanically chewing at a breakfast of smoked fish and bread, the food tastes like ash but your body craves it, even if your stomach threatens to rebel.

Finally you head back to the sitting room and sit opposite your mother, stretching forth your injured leg to soak up the heat. She puts her knitting aside and regards you steadily and critically.

"Has the Druid told you?" She asks.

"Yes, it seems we have a choice." You admit with a sigh.

"No!" She shakes her head with finality. "We do not, you do. As eldest male heir of the blood, it is your decision whether to stay and be dishonoured or to go forth from here and fulfill our obligations."

You sink back in shock, eyebrows rising and mouth hanging open. To hear this prideful woman abandon her authority, an authority she could legitimately claim until you had children of your own, is devastating. You feel your perceptions and world shook to the core.

"Don't gape fool boy." She hisses, taking up the poker to attack the waning fire with a will.

You shut your mouth with a click and begin rubbing your chin (you should have shaved this morning) in bewildered contemplation. You are not sure what any of this means, her abandonment of authority, the Druids determination to hide themselves away and all the rest, it is too much.

Your mother watches you with what might have been mistaken for pity in anybody elses parent, but you suspect is simply irritation at your silence, you contemplate and puzzle over decisions and omens, growing more confused by the moment.

You awaken to her hand upon your shoulder, she stands with a new shawl around her shoulders, and your two brothers skulking at her heels. Time has passed and you fell asleep, you feel better for the nap however and rise to stretch out, spreading your arms like the branches of the Kuldahar and yawning massively.

"It is time for the Druids council." Your mother intones. "I hope your slumber cleared your mind Eldest!" With that she turns and herds your brothers before her and out of the door.

You remain behind for a moment looking about the dimly lit sitting room, a home of sorts, even if you never felt wanted in it. There will be two choices laid before the people at the Council, whether to lay the Mythal or stay in the world. Your choice will be more simple dishonour or the Black Wolfs doom.

What is your choice?

 

[Guest 2091327]

Excellent writing as usual, and upon voting I see there is a 3-way tie. Oh dear.

 

[Blothulfur]

My thoughts exactly, was going to update tonight but i'll leave it another day to see if any more votes come in, if not i'll pull something out of me arse tomorrow night.

 

[Guest 2091327]

Err, seems I misread the vote options and voted for the Mythal when intending to vote against it. Sorry about that. Have deleted my vote and redone it. I'd love to see more people active in this though. 3-4 votes isn't much.

 

[Cs__sz__r]

Indeed, I figured we'd have a lot more voters. Also thanks for the delay, Bloth. I had been contemplating my choice and forgot to vote.

 

[volsung]

i'll pull something out of me arse tomorrow night.

OK. And when you're done with that you could decide what to do about the poll choices.

Just kidding! I am enjoying this. Keep it up Bloth. And yeah, why are there just 4 votes?

 

[Blothulfur]

You must vote against the Mythal, though your family deserves the peace of the Oak and the good folk of the vale also deserve it, you cannot rob the north of hope, to do so out of fear seems cowardly and small. Kuldahar is your home and you wish to return here when your quest is done, whether alive or dead, to lie under the boughs of the Oak for eternity.

You limp after your family your mind at last set, down the oak path to where the great old menhirs stand, where Iselore, Orrick and Nathaniel wait by the Heartstone Gem. The folk of the vale greet you as they too travel to the council, slapping you on the back and inquiring as to your health. You nod and smile, shaking a hand here and a few words there, until you take your place at your mothers side. Secundus and Tertius coming to stand at your knee, and recieve a ruffle of their hair.

Soon the folk are gathered and Nathaniel steps forward, spreading his arms in benediction. Together you all bow your heads to the Oak, while Nathaniel praises its life and strength, not a prayer but a mere statement of fact and gratitude. This done he places his arms behind his back and steps forward to speak, casting a stern eye around the crowd.

"The Kuldahar has spoken!" He announces, raising one hand to stem the tide of murmuring that arises with his words. "It gave its last vision to Iselore last night through the Heartstone Gem, and accepted what will come to pass." He pauses as if unsure of how to proceed, and then launches into it. "The Heartstone Gem has always seen the future and far off things, for it is a seed of hope planted for the future, and though we always knew that the Oak and the Gem were bound together we did not know how."

"Now we do. The Gem will give no more visions, for it is no longer a seed of the future but of the present, and the great Oak has commanded that the Gem be planted in the Dale so that hope is not lost when it is gone. The Heartstone Gem is the seed of the Kuldahar, and its birth will usher in a new age!"

Voices arise and murmurs of doubt and fear are heard from the people, for two centuries now the Archdruids have ensured peace through the scryings of the Heartstone Gem, and now it is to be lost. Some call for it to be kept here and used, but Iselore strides forth to meet these complaints head on: "This is no request, no favour, the Oak that shelters you all has spoken! To ignore its words and deny the North its gift is an act of evil, and will benefit you nought, the Gem will no longer see!"

The people quiet and step back, cowed by the old Elfs anger and physical presence, he casts his eyes about and then relents. "Besides your guardian will remain, as I always have and will, that must be enough." For some reason you feel the Druids anger is in part sorrow for the passing of the Gem, he is as vulnerable as the rest of the people here.

"What is this talk of a new age Druid?" Your mothers sharp voice cuts through the tension like a knife, and Nathaniel turns to her with something like gratitude in his eyes.

"A good question Aud." He responds. "Warmth and life are coming to Icewind Dale, a great stream of warm air and water drawn from across the ocean, allready storms and inclement weather have heralded the change it will bring, and within a decade the Dale will be a different place. The Kuldahar's seed will strengthen and hasten this change, so that crops may be grown and herds other than reindeer may gather."

"Thus we can protect the great Oak and leave hope in the north as its sapling grows, thus we serve the mandate of the Earthmight." Nathaniels falters and then shrugs. "Thus you know all that we do, and are free to make your votes from an informed viewpoint."

Your friend steps aside and the aged mage Orrick steps forward, he seems older to you but the arcane might that enshrouds him is potent beyond belief, he stops briefly to look at the invisible runes carved into your flesh and raise an eyuebrow in interest but then resumes his pacing. When he stands by the Heartstone Gem he produces a sack from his long grey robes, which rattles like it is filled with stones, he proceeds to empty hundreds of black and white pebbles upon the ground.

With a gesture Iselore bids two roots to appear from the earth, and form bowls, Orrick nods his thanks and clears his throat. "If you want the Mythal place a white stone in this bowl, if not then place a black stone in the other, we'll tally them up at the end, simple really." He totters off muttering to himself and you get the definite impression that he begrudges being here, and allowing a vote.

As the first villagers make their votes you think on all you have heard, but it does not alter your position, this is still your home and it is a haven throughout the North. Why can the land not benefit from two of the great Oaks, and all the strength and life they bring.

All too soon you are casting your vote and noticing that your black stone has few compatriots, while the other bowl brims with white. You are angry for a moment but it passes, these people mean no harm and merely want safety, they are ignorant of your family and its vain quest.

Iselore steps forward and places his hands over the bowls, and they sink below the earth with the roots that carried them. "Two hundred and ninety vote for the Mythal, twelve against, the laying shall begin in six months and end at midwinter." With that said he strides away, leaving both people and Heartstone Gem behind for the first time in a century or more.

Nathaniel looks after him for a moment, worry eating at his features and then shrugs and turns back to the crowd. "Come see me at my home as you wish, you who voted to deny the Mythal, there are six months remaining and no rush to make decisions or plans. Either way we shall help and protect you." There is a ripple of nods and thanks at this proclomation, then the people begin to drift away, silent and deep in thought.

Your mother is climbing the roots back to the Evening Shade, your brothers playing at her heels, and you suddenly feel very alone standing alone here by the Heartstone Gem.

What do you do?

 

[Blothulfur]

You stretch shaking hands out to the Hearstone Gem, and feels arcs of power skipping through your fingers as they wrap around the great amber stone, with a blink you let your mortal sight go and immerse yourself into the spirit realm.

[video=youtube;ED-L_OQwFI4]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ED-L_OQwFI4[/video]

The Gem raises you up through the branches of the Kuldahar, high into the skies revealing the Spine of the World in all its pristine beauty. Somewhere a bound wolf howls for your attention, but you put that strange dream to one side and stay the path. A great wind arises and you are swept north, into the endless tundra of the Icewind Dale, with a speed that makes of the world a blur.

Darkness claims you, a stygian gloom that enwraps and holds. Are you within the earth itself?

With a blink the darkness changes, there is not light but still you can see in a fashion. Great rock walls dripping moisture, rotten straw lininhg the floor, a monolithic oaken door in which a small barred window is set, showing nothing but more darkness.

A massive hand heavy with calluses rises to rub at your eyes, and then stops. There is a growl and you come to your feet with a lurch, you notice that you are not very tall. One of your fist slams into the wall, and then tears free a stone with casual strength.

A deep voice, your voice, snarls in fury. "Enjoying your little ride you piking bastard, stitch this!" The stone is slammed into your forehead.

You come to a dozen feet from the Heartstone Gem, on your back with ears ringing and your spirit cringing in pain, whoever that was he did not like sharing his body with you. You lie back and close your eyes for a moment, letting the life and strength of the Kuldahar comfort you. When you open them both Iselore and Nathaniel stand above you, you grin up at them guiltily and are dragged to your feet by Nathaniel, you had forgotten just how strong the Druid is. Stood on your feet once more Natahiel puts his arm under your shoulder, and you totter back to his house in silence.

He lowers you into your usual chair by the fire, and then resumes his spot across from you, Iselore stands by the door his mossy robes and wild appearance at odds with the Archdruids comfortable little house. Nathaniel pushes a tumbler of Heartwine into your hands, and you gladly throw it back.

"Well Black Wolf, did you see the Dwarf?" Iselore demands.

You glance at the Guardian and nod. "A Dwarf, yes that makes sense, I thought you said that the Gem would no longer scry Iselore?"

"It won't, it shows only that Dwarf, sat in his cell rotting away somewhere in the Dale. It has chosen him to bear it and will show nothing else, that is its last scrying." He snaps angrily.

With a shock you guess that this is why Iselore is angry, he resents that he was not chosen to bear the seed. You realise that you have been staring at the Guardian, and that he is glaring back revealing massive canines behind snarled lips. Quickly you turn your gaze away and drain the last dregs from your glass, aware of the old Elfs gaze burning into you.

"So how do you plan to find this dwarf?" You ask Nathaniel, putting your tumbler to one side.

The Archdruid looks at the Guardian, raises an eyebrow and then shrugs. "Might as well tell you lad, he should be coming to us, the Heartsone Gem has called and he should answer, but his will is very strong." He sighs and spreads his hands. "We're at a loss."

"The pathfinder Cat Dances Lightning has offered her aid, but the Gem will not acknowledge her or give that vision." Iselore growls.

Your mind races, and you rub your chin in thought, the man who brought the great Oaks seed to Icewind Dale bringing warmth life and fertility to the tundra would win great renown. Perhaps enough to redeems ones family and their doom. Your gaze switches from Nathaniel to Iselore and back again, would they agree?

You lean forward and say: