Heimurn Chronicles (No, SV, you're a young valkyrie in the middle of a bizarre and dangerous journey)

"It's fastened!" a duo of sharp metallic clangs followed by Seph's cry-out breached your flimsy sense of the relative security which you gained from the earlier successful traverse through the cave. The ever-growing, incessant clicks and snarls of lurks catalyzed the emergence of a simple realization: the group was short on manpower, facing three issues and being able to allot a duo only against one of them. Inga's absence made you think that, perhaps, taking some time to scout the lakeshore for a better entrance point was a good idea. Alas, it was too late now, and the sole option within your powers was generating a plan everyone wordlessly expected from you.

Out of concern for everyone's safety (because what would be the reason for a rescue operation if not everyone returns or they do so in poor health?), you fancied a thought of collectively holding out in hopes that the voidling's vessel would hopefully get crippled enough to discount as a threat. However, the comprehension of the lurks swarm inevitably increasing in both numbers and ardor, same as the need to neutralize the voidling as soon as possible pushed you to consider a gamble for infiltrating the cellar, which was both your first destination and the sole advantageous spot available.

Then, after letting a heavy heartbeat sink, you made your decision, hastily voicing it before the chaos would ensue: "Seph, crack it open! Loїс, swap with Elgar and assist me against the demon!". You intended to voice command for Elgar, but the maimed voidling's shell cut you short with its swoop and a tricky uppercut with its right hind leg from beneath its torso. You barely raised the defenses before the collision, which resulted in the lack of manoeuvering space and stability to work around the impact force. Resigned to the strike's impact, you got pushed backward and even lifted from your tiptoes for a brief moment before landing near the wall. Fiercely clambering up to the freshly-evoked shining aegis of yours, the demon got no guard opening from you.

But before you got a window to counter, the meaty menace kneeled on its remaining limbs, sprang up, and spewed a compressed stream of pitch-black liquid from one of its deformed "head's" mouths, rendering most of your magic barrier opaque. Evidently, it was adapting to your tactics, and now it forced you to either lower the guard or go into the blind defense.

It would likely remain a mystery whether it was the cold awareness and tactical calculus or raw instinct and blind luck that made you tumble and roll to the side instead of keeping the compromised guards up, but it led you away from the demon's ramming course. A loud, wet, meaty crash echoed through the cavern's walls, penetrating through the cacophony of lurk's incessant clicking and hissing, also heralding what force you saved yourself from.

While recovering from both the jump and the noise, you caught a glimpse of Elgar rapidly lobbing javelins at the moving silhouettes in the half-darkness, caring not about them running out. His brother, who wasn't the primary target of the demon's shell fury, closed by and ran past you, seeking to exploit the abomination's opening to deliver free strikes. They were few and insignificant, alas, as the monstrosity - heeding not to the pain an actual living being would've felt from the ensued collision - swiftly recovered and began to prance and spin around its vertical axis. Not only it made landing any strikes riskier due to the rabid hind legs kicks, but the beast was also getting closer to lockpick-bound Seph with each leap.

"Seph, what takes you so long?!" You cried out while trying to both shield yourself from the kicks and to push the rabidly jumping demonic vessel away from your fellow daeva.

"It has a rear shaft! I'm doing what I can as fast as I can!" She cried back in both stress and annoyance.

And as if her response wasn't distressing enough in the given situation, the gnarls and clicks of lurks nearby transformed into a loud hissing, punctuated by wet cuts, Elgar's bawls, and curses. You did not need to look at him to understand that he engaged in a direct brawl with carnivorous amphibians.

Trying to win Seph as much time as possible, you had to push yourself against the whirl of the voidling's kicks and butting, ducking under the strikes that might have sent you flying, taking onto the arcane shields what you had no chance to evade, and bursting scattered volleys of shattered luminal materia onto the rampaging monster. But the best your exertions were provining was a shaky stalemate: neither you were damaging the pile of meat animated by the chaos magic, nor it was advancing at Seph reasonably fast.

Loїс made a couple attempts to harm the aberration. Still, those couple of stab dives that he made yielded no reaction from the monster, and, on the third attempt to enclose, a moment of his hesitation cost him a sustained kick that knocked him over. When you funneled more of your strengths into a temporary dome to shield the recovering archer, somewhere behind you, Elgar's growls became as ferocious as those of lurks he was now brawling with. You could clearly hear the sounds of ripping flesh, which made you not want to look back. The situation was getting quite bad pretty fast.

... Or so was your thought, dictated by the guttural feel and the sinking heart until the salvatory metallic clang disrupted the savage cacophony. Seph did not even finish her "Opened!" yell when you bolted to her side and then into the depths of the estate's cellar, throwing back "Drag boys inside!" without even looking at your friend onto whom so much has hinged a moment ago.

After all that transpired today, you were morally ready for even more twists of fate like yet another blockage or another sort of barrier between you and what you identified as the voidling's anchor. But, contrary to your fears, it took only a few moments for you to sprint past what seemed as a vault with rotten barrels and crates and into the narrow corridor with urns & keepsakes-filled alcoves by the sides. You passed two rows of such when they all began to shiver. A moment later, an invisible force lifted some of the objects up and tossed them at you. A few urns crashed against the shimmering shield of solid light you held before you, and a few bricks fell down behind you. The same happened with the stones below: an invisible force knocked up some of them, attempting to stumble or otherwise unbalance you. Fortunately, you were too determined to reaching the phylactery item, crushing through the voidling's desperate opposition as it knew what you will do, and you knew these poltergeist-type phenomena to be its last line of defense.

You were so focused on reach and destroying the vessel that revealing it to be an old, dirty, and moldy child's cloth&straw doll resting atop of one of the altars chiseled no thoughts or reflexes out of you. Neither did the animation of the humanoid-shaped object and what you can only describe as its attempt to hide while all the space around you was crumbling down. You were fast and determined, nabbing the resisting vessel and charging back to your teammates as the crypt began to collapse behind you. You had to zig-zag to avoid the urns and rubble flying at you from behind and then had to roll over the crates and barrels the chaotic spirit pushed on your way.

With the wild heartbeat, rabidly resisting doll in your hands, and chased by the worsening building ruination, you made it back to the cellar's corridor to the cavern, training eyes on Loїс sending arrows into the darkness to cover Sephorah, who was leading leaning onto her Elgar to the iron doorway.

"A torch, quick!" You yelled at them while simultaneously blockading the pathway behind you with a luminal barrier. Having none, Loїс could not oblige you, receiving his bloodied brother from Seph's shoulder instead and hence freeing her up to lob the group's last burning torch at you. By the second it fell down nearby you, the final problem arose: the doll was desperately resisting your grip, less so remaining still enough to be incinerated. Adhering to a rather menacing idea that popped up in your mind, propelled by the sense of urgency, you reached for a knife - not the ceremonial one, but the old and now-dull small chopper Ulren gave you during the encounter with wargs. Not losing a second to hesitation, you pierced the knife through the "torso" of the rabidly resisting toy, nailing it to the oily head of the burning torch and thus giving it to fire.

With the hope for your plan's success in your heart, you blankly stared at the gradually decelerating conduit of the demon. You expected a howl, a tremor, or whatever menacing event could've taken place due to the exorcism of a demon from the object and surroundings it possessed, but nothing of a kind followed. The only extraordinary event that took place in this tense, prayer-like moment was the doll slowly clutching to the chalked blade of the old knife with its nigh-disintegrated "hands" like a real person would if they were to be sacrificed. Some silent moments later, the fetish turned to ash completely. A concurrent attempt to scan the surroundings for the arcane signatures reaffirmed your hope: despite the presence of residual void magic traces, the chaos spawn itself was no longer around.

In the gentle luminescence of a tiny orb floating around you, Loїс ignited his last spare torch before kneeling over his brother, who was leaning against the wall. The latter did not look pretty: bloodied face, crimson bites and scratches marks on his arms and thighs, no javelins left in the quiver on his back, and the edge of his left ear missing... Seph pensively glimpsed through the bars of the door she shuttered when you were taking care of the possessed doll; whatever she saw before the lurks piled at the metal, obstructing the view, made her grimace in disgust.

"Please, tell me that's the end of it," she said to you, paying absolutely no heed to the rioting by the door lurks and staring at the receding dust behind you.

"I no longer sense the voidspawn's presence, so... yes - the likely cause of local disappearances has been taken care of."

"Means Amalia and Inga are safe now," she concluded with a relieved sigh.

"Saint Aethlig's buttock..." Loїс crouched against his sitting brother, "El, you look like crap."

"So thoughtful of you to notice it," Elgar snarked. Despite the uneven breathing, his voice sounded somewhat normal. With that, he tried to reach for his own left ear, immediately having his wrist slapped.

"Don't touch it: there's a bleeding stump there." Saying this, the archer dug into his own pockets, shortly procuring a wrapped roll of sanitized bandages.

"How bad?"

"I'd say a third or so now's missing."

"Eh, could've been worse." The beastmaster replied, lifting his hands in a bid to evaluate his own mobility. "Guess I look worse than I really am; not even half as bad as after that raid on baavghurs two years ago."

"Shut up and sit still: I don't want to remember that, and you don't want me to mess you up more," the ordinarily cocky sibling answered grimly, "Can you move?"

"As I said - it could've been worse. Not sure how good of a brawler I'm gonna be in this state, but I can move alright." After getting his head bandaged, he obediently lifted the right arm for Loїс to continue with the field aid. "Shame I ran out of javelins. Might've saved some for later only if I knew that the walking pile of flesh gonna go into some sort of stupor and then crumble into puss, meat, and turd."

While helping his sibling, Loїс looked your way, clearly directing his question to you: "Have you encountered these... things before?"

"Yes," you answered dryly, "One roaming and two settled. In the former case, we had to extract the conduit object from the carcass of the demon, and in the latter two, we had to devastate their shells completely."

"Are there also nomadic demons?"

You nodded in confirmation, "When the memory trace, emotion, or an idea ingrained into the object upon which a voidling feeds isn't bound to a particular place, there is a chance it would develop the capacity to roam around."

"Sounds like some high-brow academic drivel, if you ask me. But for as long as it allowed you to kill that thing, I have nothing against it."

"Oh, quit this bitching, Lo." Elgar clang in, "If not for her 'high-brow academics,' who knows what we had to do. Besides, it sounds pretty logical for anyone taking an interest in the animal world. One can even draw parallels with some of the mollusks' and spiders' behavior."

Aside from its old track record and the recent usage as a cursed doll restrainer, the old kife offered you a chance to dodge siblings' petty squabble by proceeding with its extraction from the torch. On which you carefully - if not precisely diplomatically - acted upon, beating the head of the burning torch against the wall until the dulled shank fell off on the dusty floor. You could almost feel Loїc's frustration from the lack of your response to his indirect characteristic of you.

"You better focus your wits on what we should do now." Somewhat annoyed, Loїс returned to speaking to his brother, "Don't forget we came here to get Altan, who might be in a better shape than you now."

"I'm fine..." Elgar groaned while standing up and shaking his bloodstained handaxe off the lurks (and maybe some of his own) blood, "These scumlets are time and a half bigger than they should be. Even as effing scouts. And they are now damnably sure smelled fresh blood and just wait for us to make a move."

"I saw the outlines of at least five," Seph said while peering through the locked grated door. "They sometimes try to approach the door but scatter away when threatened."

"No wonder," Elgar shrugged with one shoulder, "they are an odd case of immense carnivorousness restrained by the rudimentary intelligence. Contrary to how they look, their wits can be compared to those of infants. Bloodthirsty, tribal, ruthless human kids. I'm sure their hive is now completely alarmed, with scouts and fighters lured here by the scent of my blood."

"So, what you want to say is that we're trapped here and that they know of all our movements, right?"

"Wouldn't say "trapped" is the best word: the feral arse on four legs is now a pile of rot, and the lurks - even if oversized - are pretty predictable."

You did not listen to Seph's reply to Elgar's comment, and whatever banter that might have followed. Instead, you ceased your slow tread by the doors, summoning a larger orb behind bars and witnessing at least a trio of lurks scattering back, away from the light. Apparently, Elgar was right about their intolerance of illumination. Eyes closed, you took a few moments to scan the surroundings once again after liquidating the haunt. The reported "pile of puss and turd," which remained after the demon's shell still emitted chaotic aethers, but the malevolent being was no longer around. However, despite the banishment of the voidling, the dungeon still pulsated with the low-frequency body arcane aspect - the chaosit wasn't the source of it after all. Opting not to dwell on the remaining mystery, you took count of the dim, animalistic soul sparks of lurks, ending up with the count of two and a half dozens at least. Some were nearby, preparing to rush in the soonest your group unbolts the shelter. At the same time, two-thirds appeared to be concentrated below and further ahead - at the bottom of the grotto - the presumable nesting spot. The spark of the survivor was beyond your perceivable range, but you still had their dislocation in mind relative to the entrance spot.

"Say, Elgar, what would happen if we take out their nest?" You finally voiced your musings by the time there no longer was any banter, Seph inspected the collapsed corridor's rubble, and Elgar stared numbly into the darkness of the cave.

"If what you want to know is whether or not beheading a hive can crumble its resistance, then no. Even if we take out the colony's brood mother, her entourage won't scatter around and flee."

"I see. Is there anything else we can use to our advantage?"

The lad looked at Seph and the rubble-filled section of the corridor, "When we have to weed such colonies out, we use fire and oil, poison, or smoke. Nothing from what we can find here, it seems, so it's all down to culling their numbers first-hand."

He paused for a moment, staring at the reddish bandage-covered bite mark on his hand.

"This breed, though... Not only are they huge, but even their scouts seem to have shelled backs, so don't waste time trying to slash down onto them. Instead, seek out for their bellies or limbs." He shook his hand just to estimate how it would hurt, "Will hate to see their fighters. Freaky bastards..."
(all party members get +1 to melee rolls)

As you had to mentally skip the man's very last remark, you tried to 'feel' the moment. Even though not mentioning it out loud, your companions were enjoying a moment of respite that this chunk of the corridor offered. Too bad that the voidling's last-ditch attempt to secure itself caused the collapse of the cellar and a segment of the passage, so neither you could investigate it for a possible escape, nor you were able to scour the basement for flammables and whatnot. With no other reason to stay in relative safety than catching one's breath, you had to cut it short regardless of how much you disliked stressing others. Moreover, you had to develop a new plan, as the endowment of you with the informal leadership in this group seemed like fait accompli.

[] "We must press on. Even though the main threat has been neutralized, we achieve nothing by sitting here. Besides, with lurks rattled like this, we don't know how safe the survivor is." (faster progress, team offense score check: 52 team defense score check: 62)
[] "Here, we can alleviate the lurks' numeric advantage should we open the doors and hold the spot for as long as they dare to come. Eventually, they would either run out of either courage or numbers." (slower progress, team offense score check: 46 team defense score check: 28)

Your gaze glided at Elgar, who was still leaning against the wall, clutching to the bandaged arm and staring back at you.

[] "If you still feel like fighting, I'm not the one to stop you. If so, then perhaps... (Elgar participates in a skirmish. Team defense score failure would put him at risk)
-[] "Seophorah would share her knives with you" (Supplies Elgar with one more round of projectiles. Sephorah will be locked to pure melee style)
-[] "Loїс would give you his bow should you try to cover us" (Elgar will be locked to ranged roll without such for defense. Loїс won't be able to provide cover fire anymore)
-[] "You would be able to clear out the undershoots while we take on the main brunt." (Elgar will be locked to pure melee style. Tea, defense score failure would put him at even greater risk)
[] "It would be better for everyone if you stay behind us for now" (Elgar does not participate in a skirmish, and does not take any further risks for now)
-[] "And give your hatchet to your brother: I would like to have my sword back." (Regain mixed combat style capability, but Elgar would be defenseless if everything goes horribly bad)
-[] "Keep your hatchet, just in case." (You will be locked to the full arcane style, but Elgar would have his last resort weapon.)

Your own style:
Lucy's engagement style:
[] combined (Applicable only via previous option. 1/2 arcane skill roll + 1/2 melee skill roll, 1/2 arcane skill roll + 1/2 defense skill roll, luck roll, per -4 to total offense and defense requirements for the target you are engaging. The offensive arcane score adds up 0.3 of its total value to Lucy's total defense score against lurks)
[] physical (Applicable only via previous option. melee skill roll, defense skill roll, luck roll)
[] Full arcane style (Lucy's offensive arcane skill check score adds up 0.3 of its total value to the defensive arcane skill score when dealing with lurks)
-[] onslaught (full arcane skill roll for offense, 1/2 arcane skill roll defense, luck roll. This action provides a bonus defense score against lurks)
-[] warding (1/2 of arcane skill roll for offense, full arcane skill roll for defense, luck roll. This action provides a bonus defense score against lurks)

Your companions' preferable styles (unless overdriven by previous voting options)
[preferable] Sephorah: melee/combined melee (melee skill roll OR 1/2 melee skill roll + 1/2 objects usage skill roll, defense skill roll, luck roll)
[preferable] Elgar: objects usage/combined melee (objects usage roll OR 1/2 melee skill roll + 1/2 objects usage skill roll, defense skill roll, luck roll)
[preferable] Loїс: melee (melee skill roll, defense skill roll, luck roll)

Guest companions' status:
Elgar: moderately injured

Loїс: bruised

Excerpt from "Navigator's memoirs" by Stanely Rogerson, commemorative of the crew of "Venturer."

White Sea - the ancestral waters lying between Yrsengard and Pheotor, which gained its name from the occasional snowstorms hailing from humanity's old cradle, are seldomly considered anything special by landsmen. Even star-struck young mariners rarely understand what they are subjecting themselves to when volunteering onto vessels traversing between Nyth-Rhaton and Yrs jarldoms. By the time my crew and I got an offer to join a merchant flotilla to the White Sea, there was enough salt in my bones to frown at those who disparage the waves. But even then, the northern sea found its way to give us a few lessons about perseverance and awe.

The first thing necessary to know about the White Sea is its dualistic and fickle nature. With the warm oceanic stream from Ars scooped out by Gulljar Islands, the sea is divided into two parts: the colder shore of Pheotor and the warmer coast of Yrsengard. This stream bounces off the Yrsk's beaches and then whirls precisely at the center of the span between Gulljar and Chorothean Islands. This warm stream establishes the main naval routes in the area and factors the most to the climate of the coastal lands as, without it, Yrsengard might've been a cold, frigid wasteland.

The weather over the White Sea is changing, though, like sympathy of a fickle lass. Especially common to the northern part of the blue, one would frequently find their ship accosted with rain, snow, rain again, and then nothing at all, as if the weather was fair for the whole day. In addition to precariousness, the White Sea is also troubled. And while its storms can't stand the comparison in sheer scale with the worst of Ars' oceans fury, the northern waves are rarely resting, threatening to lash onto one's ship on a whim and with little if any warning.

To brave the White Sea, one must have extensive experience, a cold mind, and a brave heart, as most things that can go wrong will go wrong sooner or later. But impermanence of elements is not the only thing one should be wary of: these waves home scores of grand denizens, among which liehvals are not the most terrifying. From my exchanges with other captains, I gathered at least a dozen accounts of their ships witnessing or being assaulted by sea serpents, sea drakes, and monstrosities that could not be so easily described. The truth is, anyone who dares to go east of Gulljar will sooner or later witness one of the naval titans or will be accosted by one of them and will know at least someone who will perish to these menaces. And I am not an exception to this rule.

Venturer, her crew, and I were lucky, though. Our "baptism" took place on afternoon accurately in the middle of the line between Thronholm and Farann, on our return haul to Trista. While writing the log and musing on the anxious remarks of crewmembers of how they haven't seen any signs of marine life for the greater half of the day, I was drawn by the commotion on deck. Abandoning my devices, I had to rush to witness it firsthand, finding many of the crew leering down from railings. Some were mute, anxious to make a sound, others were mumbling prayers to either Highfather, Borea, or the Mother of Pain, and a few tried to explain the outline 'neath our ship as some peculiar geology.

But those were not mere rocks or shallows in the middle of the sea: the shape moved. About two hulls' heights below us, a creature of titanic sizes made its course. Even in the scarce sunlight, dissipated by the thin veil of fog, its skin appeared gray-ish. Should it expose itself from the waves, I'm sure that we would've seen a ghostly gray or maybe even pearl-white skin. Fancying us with announcing its presence was not in its plans, which was a great fortune for us as the dimensions of the beast were that six or seven times larger than an average liehval, and it could've whimsically capsized our vessel should it have a will to do so. From what little I could estimate, the creature cut its way through the body of water via vertical motions and had prominent side fins - the features not typical to most aquatic predators, which might also explain its lack of interest in us. But regardless of this notion, my crew would share their versions of facing the sea beast long after its shape slipped from under Venturer's starboard, with the ferocity of the beast proportional to the amount of booze consumed by the teller.

But if the notions of unbridled weather conditions and giants-infested waves did not give you the association of the northern sea as a moody, embittered mistress, then I have something that ought to make you fear her. As a person who spent half of their life traversing the waters around Pheotor, I can firmly state that I have never seen a sea more haunted than the one between Pheotor and Yrsengard. Just like with the dwellers of the depths, unless you are partaking a short traverse or two, the chances are you will experience the unexplainable. The strange is so commonplace that the dwellers of the shores build up their lives and daily trades around the anticipation of encountering the mysterious.

The most well-known example of it would be the Wailing Birutte of Solstrum Strait. This phenomenon reoccurs in between Gulljarr and Teinar-Kur, and is said to take the form of a deafening, thunder-like, mixture of a furious female roar and a wail minutes before a severe storm would erupt. It is believed to belong to the spirit of Birutte - a local woman who had lost her husband and both sons to the waves. Some say that she drowned herself, unable to endure the sorrow, while others state that she took a boat and disappeared into the sea, now settling the score with it even after her death by timely alerting those who are about to be struck by a freak storm. Or, at least, this is what some of the locals say. On my question to how long and frequently it has been happening, they usually reply along the lines of two to four times a year during the last six centuries. One would, perhaps, expect skeptics to explain the phenomena by peculiar acoustics of the Gulljarr Isle's mountain or such. However, in my travels, I haven't come across a single one, and not without reason.

Our crew's first brush against the White Sea hauntings took place not far from Yrsengard shore. It was still and foggy early evening. Due to the conditions, we had little choice but to wait for the winds to pick up and visibility to clear. Our morale at the time was uplifted as we expected the smooth travel to Nordmark to continue. Although, on that day, two of our ship cats - Ash and Falco - acted distracted and irritated. By the time fog began to rise up, both of them had hidden in the cargo hold, refusing the crew's attempts to lure them out with food. Back then, we discarded their odd behavior as a reaction to the weather change, which irritated us due to stopping our journey with the risk of hitting a shole or an islet. Little did we know just how well animals can sense something if something is amiss...

Later that day, the encounter took place - when the fog began to recede, but only a little. Our spotter at the time - Lennister Frant - was the first to raise the alarm as he saw about a dozen lights emerging in the mist. Not taking any chances with what we expected to be the pirates, we armed ourselves and prepared to engage the possible threat. There, standing on the deck fully armed, we quietly anticipated for the shadowy outlines of the boats to appear from the fogbank. But it never happened.

Instead of lanterns illuminating the boats they were installed on, we saw glowing, half-transparent, antique longboats. About two dozen of them were heading our way in a scattered "wedge" formation, led by one of the largest boats of their flotilla. Those ghostly boats weren't making any waves on the water; they were all manned by the samely transparent glowing figures of antiquely-clad people, some of whom seem to beat into the ghostly drums, none of which made any sound. At the forward of those boats stood their hird leaders, gesturing and yelling at the phantom rowers the words we weren't hearing. The entire flotilla seemed to be out of place and time, existing in our world as a disembodied echo of ancient memory. Paralyzed with fear as we were, there was little we could do to avoid the collision against a couple of ghostly boats whose crew did not seem to even register our presence, but ultimately, there was no collision. Two of the phantom longboats went through Venturer like smoke, causing no damage except scaring our cook - Goeffrey - by their passing-through so severely, he could not speak straight for two days after the event.

Their disappearance on the other side of the mist cloud was similar to their appearance. Looking back at it, I realize we were lucky to have our first encounter with the unexplained so relatively harmless since it made us warier of the White Sea's many mysteries. In our later journeys, we encountered rolling in the air light spheres that blinded some of the crew and nearly burned out sails, passed through waters that seemed to resonate with mysterious, no-source drumming that drove a few sailors rabidly violent, and other incidents which could've had a higher toll on us should we be less suspicious of what the White Sea has to offer. For it is not for the faint of heart.