Alvedr - Thorkil's Chronicle

[wiltshiresaint]

I hope this is the right place to post this. I've just started a solo campaign in Alvedr, a fantasy setting of my own creation, and here's the scene setter:

In the beginning...

Thorkil Olafsson trudged up the slopes the pine forest with a heavy legs and a heavier heart. In the valley behind him he could hear the sounds of the pursuing wolfhounds fading away. It didn’t pay to cross Wojan, leader of the Dugald clan. But then Thorkil was used to upsetting his kith and kin. His reluctance to enjoy the ritual killing of captured warriors from the rival Vegard and Jormungand clans had often caused friction with his peers, and it had always been a simple matter of time before things came to a head.

The previous day he’d come back into the clan stockade after spending a day hunting in the hills surrounding the settlement. Before he could visit the hut he shared with his brother Grimvald he’d been called into the headsman’s hall for a gathering. Lying on the beaten earth floor of the hall was a Vegard tribesman, and alongside him Astrid, eldest daughter to old Ingmar One-arm. Both were in bonds and looked the worse for wear.

It soon became apparent that Astrid had been secretly meeting the Vegard huntsman, something strictly against the traditions of the clan. Standing over both unfortunates, Wojan as headsman had passed judgement on the young man, and he was swiftly put to the sword by two Dugald warriors. This was always the way of things and Thorkil was largely unaffected as the sentence was carried out. However, when Wojan stepped towards the young Astrid with his dagger drawn and plunged it into the girl’s abdomen Thorkil couldn’t help but act. Stepping in, he pulled the dagger out and dragged Astrid away from the clan leader. Outraged, Wojan immediately lunged at Thorkil, who instinctively dodged the attack and responded by smashing his fist into the face of his elder. The crack as the headsman’s nose was shattered was audible even in the crowded and rowdy hut, and Wojan staggered back, blood pouring down his face.

The hall fell silent. Thorkil looked at the dying Astrid knowing that this time he’d gone too far. Making a snap decision he rushed to the door of the hut and out into the gathering darkness, grabbing his hunting pack from the entrance as he ran. Into the night and most of the following day Thorkil had fled, pursued within minutes of leaving the village by Wojan’s henchmen and his two prize wolfhounds. Keeping ahead of the pack had required all his fieldcraft, local knowledge and stamina but it seemed that in the last hour or so they’d finally lost the scent, the howling of the hounds becoming more distant. The fact they were now approaching the boundaries of the Dugald lands was probably a factor, something not lost on Thorkil who’d never previously travelled further than a day from the village.

Taking advantage of the respite, Thorkil sat on a fallen tree trunk and pondered the future. Snow was starting to fall through the green canopy overhead and a hard winter was looming. For the first time it really hit him. He could never go back.

[Hogscape]

Nice work. Let's see some more - and a bit more of the world material?

[wiltshiresaint]

Decision made

Thorkil trudged through the forest until it was nearly dusk. By now he could hear no sound of the pursuing hounds and he was confident he had made it out of Dugald lands. This meant he was now in Jormungand territory, but it was sanctuary of sorts so long as he could avoid their clansmen.

With no moon he was unlikely to be detected by anyone, but it made travelling through the pine forests hazardous. As soon as he could Thorkil set camp but took care to light no fire. Fortunately he still had some dried meat in his backpack, and a little beer in his waterskin. Chewing on the food and supping from his waterskin, he thought on when he’d next taste Dugald ale.

He had few options. Returning home after striking the headsman would mean a death sentence. Staying in rival territory was also fraught with danger and it would surely just be a matter of time before he was discovered. With winter coming in he couldn’t avoid setting setting a fire at night. That left one option – to head towards the northern coast and the outlander settlement of Ostend. Tales he’d heard from wandering tinkers visiting his village had made it clear that although any clansman would find prejudice there, they’d meet with nothing worse. Perhaps there he’d be hired by someone wanting a tracker, a strong arm, or maybe he'd even get a working passage on a ship leaving Vekik, bound for another of the Northern Isles. From what little he knew of these parts he’d have another 2-3 days of hard travelling before he reached the coast, and from there he’d head east until he reach the Estharian outpost. With these thoughts Thorkil unrolled his bedroll and settled down for a cold night.

[wiltshiresaint]

First blood?

For two days Thorkil had made his way through the Jormungand lands without incident. The monotony of the pine forests would have unsettled many people but Thorkil always enjoyed the challenge of the wilderness and found the silence calming rather than oppressive. The weather was setting in now and although it wasn’t snowing yet, a steady, bitterly cold rain had been steadily falling since dusk the previous day. Fortunately, this far north the risk of meeting Jormungand hunters was very slight and Thorkil was looking forward to setting a fire tonight for the first time since he’d fled the village.

It was late afternoon, and as he was making his way up yet another forested ridgeline Thorkil realised that for the last few minutes the normal signs of everyday animal life had ceased. He could hear no birds, and he’d not seen any tracks for some time. Fully alert now, he saw ahead of him a break in the trees. Moving closer he saw in the centre of a clearing there loomed a high stone tower. Obviously he’d heard tell of stone built buildings previously ,Thorkil has never seen one, all the structures in his village being constructed from wood or cobb.

The tower looked as if it had been unoccupied for many years, with vegetation encroaching right up to entrance, which Thorkil could see had been undisturbed for some time. The heavy wooden door to the only entrance was half open, and above it were a number of narrow windows.

Sunset was only an hour or two and a freezing wind had picked up, rustling through the tops of the pines surrounding the clearing. The rain was turning to sleet and by nightfall it would almost certainly be snow. A night in the tower would certainly be a lot warmer than sleeping outside, and safer from predators too. Decision made, he detached his shield from his pack and strapped it securely to his left arm. Taking his spear in right hand he stepped forward and made his way warily to the entrance 30’ away.

Pushing the once stout but now decaying door fully open, Thorkil took in the ruins of what was once an impressive entrance chamber. Mould encrusted plaster was still visible on the walls, and overhead were wooden timbers decorated with various sigils, presumably supporting the floor above. He noted the ornate carved wooden staircase circling up against the external walls to the floor above, but what was most apparent was the condition of the room. Animal bones lay on the floor, leaves and dead vegetation blown in by the wind were everywhere, and the remaining fittings were completely destroyed, laying in pieces around the room. It was difficult to see what they were once but it looked like a table and chairs, and what appeared to have been a large closet or chest. There were no other rooms on this level. Making his way to the stairs, Thorkil noted for the first time the strange star shape depicted under the dust on the marble flooring. It was exquisitely made but its meaning or significance was totally beyond him.

Warily, he made his way up the creaking and unsteady stairs. As he neared the top a step gave out under him, and had he not been more agile he would have slipped through onto the hard marble floor 10’ below. As it was he clung to the wooden handrail and managed to pull himself up. There was no door at the top of the stairs, just an opening into what had clearly once been the main living quarters of tower. Set into one wall was a great stone chimney, ornately carved with more sigils, and the wind whistled in through two narrow slits in the walls, once filled with glass but no longer. Rotting chairs and fabrics were strewn around the room. Shelves lining the walls were full of broken glass bottles and smashed pots, and more such debris covered the floor. The room was otherwise as empty as the entrance chamber. The staircase continued to a higher level, and Thorkil cautiously made his way up it.

The room on the second level contained a ruined bed, the remains of a large chest and a broken ladder. Of sturdy construction the chest had nevertheless been completely destroyed. The ceiling of the room was low and stone-vaulted, with a wooden hatch in the centre. Having checked there was nothing more of interest in the chamber Thorkil manoeuvred the larger pieces of wood into a position where he could reach the hatch. Pushing it up he felt a blast of freezing air and looked up at the darkening sky.

Peering under the hatch he scanned the tower rooftop and seeing it was clear Thorkil hoisted himself up. The roof of the tower had once been surmounted by two feet thick battlements, but these were now in a ruinous condition. However, in one corner of the rooftop there was a black marble plinth, on top of which sat a crouching figure carved in granite. Although human-like, the statue had a set of heavily carved wings on its back, and a horned head. In its hand was a large sword. The strangest thing about the statue was its condition – the carving looked like it had just been completed.

As he approached the statue Thorkil was amazed to see a glowing red light appear in its eyes. Stepping back, he watched in amazement as the stone creature started moving, rising from its crouching position to full height. As it did so its stone skin transformed into something approaching thick leather hide. Thorkil just had time to set into a combat stance when, with a malevolent glance at him the creature pounced forward. Swinging it’s sword it nearly caught him, but he responded with a thrust to the creature’s belly which drew blood. Relieved that the beast could be hurt he attacked again, and a lengthy battle ensued. The creature had the best of the early exchanges and he was only saved by his stout hard leather armour. As the fight drew on though, Thorkil began to inflict greater punishment on his fiery-eyed opponent and although exhausted, he finally managed to impale it with a killing thrust to its chest. As he withdrew his spear he watched the creature as it first turned back to stone, and then rapidly crumbled to dust. In no time the wind had blown away the last remnants of the thing.

Wearily, with dark falling rapidly, Thorkil made his way back down to the first level chamber. Here he judged he’d be safest, able to hear anyone or anything approaching up or down the creaking staircases and sheltered from the elements. Looking through the narrow window a heavy snow was now falling, increasing the need for him to recuperate from the combat he’d just fought before trudging on to Ostend. Taking a calculated risk he lit a small fire in the room’s enormous hearth and set about tending his wounds.

[wiltshiresaint]

Into the labyrinth

The night passed without incident, but the following morning Thorkil woke feeling like his body had been beaten with a cudgel all night.

Packing his equipment, he noticed a small clay vial lying amongst in the pile of debris he’d pushed aside to create somewhere to sleep. Intrigued at finding something intact, he examined the item more closely. It was about the length and thickness of his thumb, and still sealed with a waxed cork. He tentatively broke the seal, took out the stopper and sniffed the contents. The smell instantly reminded him of the elixir the clan shaman made him drink when he broke his leg falling from a tree all those years ago. He tipped the vial against his finger and tasted the thick, brown liquid with the tip of his tongue. Within seconds he felt more awake and refreshed. Waiting a few minutes he experienced no ill effects, so he took a small sip directly from the vial. He looked at the wound to his arm he’d sustained in his fight the previous day, and watched as the deep gash first narrowed and then in the course of a few moments healed over. He felt reinvigorated and the aches, cuts and bruises he'd suffered were gone.

The vial must have been a healing potion of a kind similar to what the shaman used to concoct. Grateful for his good luck, especially since there were probably three more doses left in the vial, he put the stopper back and packed it securely.

Making his way down to the entrance chamber Thorkil resolved to check the room again in the hope of finding something useful there that he’d missed the previous day. In the course of his search he noticed a minute crack around the star pattern in the marble floor. Bending down, he saw a similar crack around the two circular devices in the centre of the pattern. After a few failed attempts at levering these up with his pocket knife, he tried pushing them. As he did so, he heard a grinding sound and the entire area of the floor that made up the pattern dropped a few inches and slid to one side. It left a 3’ wide hole in the floor. Peering down, Thorkil could see an iron ladder leading down into a room perhaps 10’ beneath the entrance hall. Unlit as it was, he could just make out a bench of some kind in the gloom beneath him. Using his flint and steel he quickly made a makeshift torch from the broken and tinder dry furniture and, checking the room below was unoccupied, he made his way down the ladder.