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Cold Claws of Death

by Steel Claw

Though the atmosphere outside, with snow and wind, was silent, Murg knocked on the door. Entering and closing the door behind him, he met with an elderly human crone (the very picture of a witch in the woods). The mage god down to business, casting tiny hut off of a scroll and directing we vanguards inside.

"Alright then, what's the issue? Bone rot, nettle-skin?"In broken stories, we explained that although we were on our way through Karkasa's Pass, we had picked up the dumbo Argbarr who was without memories. Through herbs and alchemy, she performed a kind of divination to create a poultice applied to Argbarr to gauge his symptoms and reaction. "I can only assume this is a curse."

At Murg's pressing, the witch described a weed that grows at the base of Varenmund that she would pay us for. At her scoffing "you won't survive", she explained that the tower is a preserve of a wizard's dream: magical creatures and arcane materials. However, since a strange light enveloped the tower one day, no one has returned since. She believes the tower is not the original wizard's, but another wizard's who ended up losing his life to lichdom (in failure). Theo presumed that this could mean a boneclaw, a twisted horror and living weapon.

Banshee Hollow

We left the cottage, leaving the witch bheind to forage forwards. It wasn't but an hour before we come upon an old campsite, abandoned for months. As we walked through a growing fog, a high-pitched cry cracked through the still air and lilting snow -- then cut off as quickly as it came. Theo amazed us all as he brought forth the great Staff of Freja, drawing from its energy to communicate with the woods itself. Placing his hand on a tree, the life within spoke to him: You are already in danger. Already surrounded. It is too late. Theo asked about further dangers in this part of the woods, and almost in chorus the woods spoke back: The interloper. It comes from the tower. The creature stalks these woods. It has no name, no face. Only shadow. "Light will be your saving." Everyone, Steel included (magical tinkering) brought forth arcane light, in one form or another.

We heard the cry again, though no closer than before. As we crept forward, another tree spoke to Theo in a new voice, warning of shadows incoming. Murg cast protections upon himself, and Theo experimentally tugged at the arcane weave, successfully twisting the air around him to create a gust of wind. Unfortunately, the fog began to condense into a blood-red liquid that hung in the air. Eerily, it swept over the party, choking our cleric and causing him to spit up blood with the red air.

We crept forward even more, and the fog lifted enough for us to see that we were nearly surrounded by zombies, led by two wraiths in dilapidated armor. Though the two greater undead swooped directly into the party, threatening to rip the flesh from Murg's and Theo's bodies, we grouped together defensively. Steel summoned a wall of wind, Yrna a thunderstorm (call lightning), and Murg tinier bugbear spiritual guardians. Together, we protected thr group, though the bear Francis took a brunt of the attack. "I was protecting the youngling [egg] with my life, master," he declared to Murg (who tended to his wounds). Before moving on, Steel cautioned that the injured bear and his cargo might exercise more caution.

Moving onwards, it seemed that the fog-yet-snow was now turning to ash, especially as it hit the ground. Shadows seem to flicker at the edge of vision, and we all agreed that something was stalking us. It was Theo to spot it: the red eyes, the savage foot-long claws. He mentioned this to the group, and we agreed.

Whipping around, Theo unleashed a fireball on where the creature last stood. Flames exploded, licking up the tree. There was no sound, no response, no effect.
So we ran.

We ran and ran, crashing through brush and jumping over debris. As teh spell ticked down, with almost a minute remaining, we broke through the trees. The tower of Varenmund was still far away, barely a shade in the fog, and as Theo's daylight fladed into nothingness, we slowed to circle once more around Theo. Cautiously, we moved foward, coming to the edge of a frozen lake in the fog. With apprehension, we circled the edge of the lake (counter-clockwise). As we reached the south side, we nearly missed a broken-down lean-to, a temporary shelter from long ago, Three crates were buried in the snow, and between Murg and Steel they managed to half-uncover the crates. They contained only simple adventuring tools, though we looted them nonetheless. It was underneath the third that we found an almost mummified gnome clutching a journal as big as he was. We agreed to set fire to the gnome in a short funeral (& pyre).

From the journal, we found that Eisley and his adventuring band headed south as we did, and faced the same terror (though to a much worse end). The nightmare creature picked the group off one-by-one, especially each night. Eisley's last moments were from his makeshift wooden refuge, whimpering from the claws scratching on the outside of the box. On the back cover of the journal, hastily scrawled: "Don't look in the center." We guessed he meant the frozen lake.

Moving onwards, it seemed that the landscape slowly became... paler. As if the very color was being drained from the the surroundings. Definitely something foul, something to do with necromancy. Though he kept it to himself, Theo later mentioned that similar effects have been recorded in the Shadowfell, though always under the control of a mage or arcane channeler. Moving through this area, as it became increasing black-and-white (including us), we began to see more of the skeletons we faced earlier, though these were half-buried in ice and snow. Perhaps they fell, and nature claimed them. From the mist, as we moved onwards, a rocky spire materialized before us. Almost magically. Yet as our eyes crossed over it, an eldritch force crept into our minds... calling for us to reach out and touch it.

Only Argbarr and Steel were able to resist, and as Murg stepped forward to lay a hand on the gigantic rock, a wave of every surged outwards. All arcane lighting winked out of existence, and we heard the rustling of bones as the dead rose once more. And atop the spire, staring down at us, two red eyes gleamed off of long, sharp claws.

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Cold Claws of Death

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