Act II, Chapter Two: Memories of Dawn

FROZEN BARRENS | MARCH OF SNOW AND ECHOES | SNOW-DUSTED MID-AFTERNOON
Regret covers the cairns, deeper and colder than the snow.
Northward the land unrolls in muted whites and greys, a slow-climbing braid of ridges where fresh snow drifts make progress slow and tedious. The storm’s roar is a memory now, only the dry hiss of constant, gentle flakes accompany the party’s march. Packs jingle softly, breath curls and fades. Kaelith leads, footfalls ghost-quiet, eyes forever measuring and evaluating, never lingering for more than a moment on a single object. At each crest he pauses long enough to scrape a quick symbol into the powder, an Erunsil scout's shorthand that promises safe footing for those who follow and warns him if someone slips behind.

On easier stretches Ulfr and Azote range wide, scouting for spoor or patrol prints. None present themselves. Izrador’s hunters favor clearer weather and easier kills; today the Barrens belong only to stone, snow, and the muffled drumbeat of rebellious hearts. Behind them Petra murmurs a half-remembered rhyme, timing each stanza to match Seelah's even steps. Jasir remains mostly silent, taking notes at seemingly random intervals and absent mindedly memes arcane symbols. Varin carries the rear, pace hurried yet tireless, ever vigilant to the threat of unforeseen dangers.

The march continues as such until Kaelith raises a hand and the column halts. Ahead, half-sunken stones jut from the ridge, rough crowns visible above the snow’s thin crust. Even at a distance they are unmistakable: cairns, once Dornish signal markers, now broken and daubed with oily glyphs that shine like bruises across the granite.

No gust disturbs the stillness, yet each noise seems amplified, as though the ridge itself is listening. Snow continues to fall, soft, dispassionate, infinite. It blurs the cairns and mutes all color yet cannot smother what lingers beneath.

The scout’s voice shatters the silence in a hush of iron-cold wind, "Remember, we tread lightly in these lands. The memories here lie frozen in regret, their bitterness still bites."

The party stands at the threshold of a ridge infested with bitter regret and memories long forgotten.

What do you do?

---

Quiet Elven Azote traverse the travels quietly. She has no knowledge to exhibit here. She does however send Tork to the sky to watch over our ways.

Jasir clearly comes with the mystifying eccentricities that are "typical" of a mind that operates at a different level. Making an unknowable number of connections and passive observations at a dizzying rate. From the types of stones that are used in the construction in a cairn to the various sigils and heraldry that might be visible. Occasionally his hand sweeps through a few gestures, warding superstitions that don't carry any particular magic to them but are believed in some circles to placate the dead.

Varin lingers at the rear of the group, his steps steady and deliberate as he trails a few paces behind the others. His eyes constantly scan the snow-covered terrain, flicking between ridgelines, tree lines, and any patch of shadow that could hide danger. Every so often, he pauses to glance over their tracks, ensuring nothing unusual disturbs the path they've left behind.

Petra eyes the cairns with wariness and tries to remember any lore she's heard about them and their connection to spirits. Or to magical workings, but this is a weak area in her education.

Seelah stoops low and examines the cairns with gauntleted hands.

Úlfr tries to follow the script. At minimum he clears enough off for others to read.

Petra announces, "This is Third Watch Ridge, a muster point for Dornish patrols. These cairns here are a resting place of honor for fallen Dornish soldiers, but they have another purpose too."

She points. "These cairns served as a barrier for the Fell. The line can be re-activated by..."

Jasir starts to mutter quietly, flipping between languages. "Fourth orison... eighth derivation upon Entinosh's canticle..." He shuffles sideways and brushes some more snow aside. More arcane muttering follows and he turns to look skywards. "The cairns are defaced. This oil-script... the barrier cannot function. Sealed."

He glances over at Petra as she speaks. "Wipe away the oil-script, one wipes away the magic. But when one does it triggers the secondary effect. The Fell will be drawn to this place like moths to a flame." He tilts his head. "It might return function to the barrier."

The singular point of focus seems to fade as the mystery unravels for the Sarcosan and he takes a step back and folds his hands together in a contemplative posture. "Dangerous. Not required of us to rekindle every fire. But it is a wonderful rarity."

"What do you all wish?" He asks of the group. "I'd not set you all into danger and it might not be worth the effort."

Third Watch Ridge you say, replies our ebony erelander to Petra. Seelah closes her eyes in contemplation brief and quiet. She opens her brown eyes, and gazes downward at Dawnward, held tightly in gauntleted grip.

If I can honor the fallen, I will do so.

"It's a song or a poem, isn't it?"

Kaelith lingers a step back from Jasir as he inspects the cairns.

Cautiously he approaches and crouches, gloved fingertips brushing loose powder from a second stone. Reconsecrating it may wake more than memories, yet leaving it bound in Black Tongue feels worse.

"I have walked this path without meddling in the cairns, and the ridge welcomed me each time. If we clean the stone and speak the ward, the spirits might light us forward… or rouse hungry guardians."

His gaze sweeps the faces of comrades, "Decide swiftly," he adds, tapping the rune-groove with a knife hilt, "Nightfall will not pardon hesitation."

He steps aside, tension coiled beneath the calm; apprehensive, yet drawn by the promise that the old ward might shine once more.

Azote asks candidly, "Wouldn't you know what is best?"

Let us speak the ward, friends!

Jasir raises his eyes towards the giant Norther Úlfr and spreads his hands slightly and nods. "The power present in words is not restricted to the arcane. Songs. Prayers. Poetry. Connected with the same threads. You see?" A roll of his cloaked shoulder follows.

"If we are to get rid of the oil script and speak the proper words for the wards, they ought to be in Norther, and one with a Gift or Talent for the arcane arts must lead. I could do it but it doesn't have to be me."

[Ritual leader must expend 1 spell energy point.]

"If we proceed--and I think we should--our chant must be made made three times in unison and in the native tongue it will signify

'Wards of stone, awaken now; blood and bone, lie silent in frost.
Forefathers on watch, hold the guard; shine the path to dawn’s crossing.'


Then she shares with them the words in Norther, as many times as it take for it to be memorized:

Varth rúnar, vaknið nú; 
Blóð ok bein hvíla í frost.
Forfeðr vaktar, haldið vörð; 
Lýsið leið til dögun kross.

Úlfr adds his rich bass voice to her's.

Varth rúnar, vaknið nú; 
Blóð ok bein hvíla í frost.
Forfeðr vaktar, haldið vörð; 
Lýsið leið til dögun kross.

Azote sends Tork above to spot for any incoming problems to us. Azote retrieves out the Orcian bow for range and has an arrow knocked. She doesn't commit or respond much about the procedure happening.

"If we might draw many Fell to us...and if any need a weapon of defense against the Fell, I could bless three stones at a time small enough to throw by hand, or sling with this?" the dwarrow offers.


Her throat bobs and she says in a small voice, "I know it will work against them because when my father rose as one of the Fell, I could not bear for him to remain trapped in that dead flesh... That was the first time Aryth worked its will and mystical energy through me."