Cold
Comfort
14/15/10,121 - Samadum to Brev
Trudging through the deepening snow visibility worsens until near white out conditions exist, by late afternoon the wagons grind to a halt & an early camp is made in an attempt to try & unfreeze parts that shouldn't freeze.
In the shrouded half-light dawn reveals at least nine inches or more of clinging wet snow & more falling by the hour. Through the swirling snow they push on as best they can, in the treacherous conditions it is difficult to keep to the supposed trail & more than once they have to retrace their steps. By mid afternoon our intrepid fivesome are only some two miles along the trail, making the seven of the first day seem positively exhilarating.
The keen ears of Tharla half-elf, pick up a squeal maybe, or was it a voice, the cry of an animal, standing quietly she lets her mind clear & watches through the wind driven snow. To the right, a movement, a figure, now two, three maybe more, keeping abreast of the wagon. Without showing any sign of being alerted to the presence of a shadowing party Tharla works her way forward & lets Kilite know the score, he in turn relates the sighting to the others.
Keeping moving so as not to cause alert, Molin, feigning concern with one of his bear's paws hangs back along the trail, throwing a pack up & over the bears back, he hopes, in the swirling conditions, it resembles a hunched figure. In his element he cuts back & across in the direction Tharla advised she had seen figures & finds tracks roughly where she said they would be. Although already half covered the tracks show three or four sets of prints, roughly shod but definitely humanoid. Pegging the tracks he is startled as they converge with more, twenty plus, cautiously now he continues & as he ponders as to why several sets split away he is caught flat footed as a figure erupts towards him from beneath the snow.
Kilite surreptitiously casts detect enemy & is appalled to feel the hatred of first one, then another & yet more flit in & out of contact closely skirting the Southern edge of the trail.
Looking into the hatred filled face bearing down upon him, Molin drags his axe up to defend himself, fortunately however the wildly swung scimitar skids of his helm without causing injury. Cutting his adversaries legs from beneath him, Molin curses under his breath,
"Orcs, fuckin' orc's, you let em' fuckin' live an' they fucking try to kill ya for yer trouble, ugly miserable fuckers are gonna die for this"
Turning Gunter back,Molin cuts through the drifts to try & intercept his friends before they are struck down, crossing the wagons snow filled ruts he turns to follow & is soon abreast of the wagon & warns the others that the rumours aren't rumours, there are orc's a plenty out there. Kilite, detect enemy still running, keeps the others warned of any impending rush.
Forewarned, the group push forward, weapons loosened in their sheaths, hands on hilts. Illyra, with only one arm, is atop the front wagon, Kilite steering the second with Brasso perched on its rear, Tharla, light of foot, is leading the front wagon with Molin ahead astride Gunter. At a signal from Molin the wagons halt, ahead on the trail waiting for them are three gangling well armed orc's.
Riding forward, alert to the presence of others Molin is hailed by the smaller of the orc's, who, in broken common, demands in the name of his master, The Mighty Guzzberker One Ear, they abandon there weapons, wagons & chattels for which their pitiful lives will be spared. Not bothering to reply Molin merely grins &, with a cry to Ust, urges Gunter to the charge. Catching the three off guard, other orc's rise from beneath snow covered blankets & launch a salvo of arrows & rocks toward the wagons, only Brasso takes injury of note as an arrow pierces armour & skewers the flesh of his left knee. To the dismay of the charging orc's their volley does not go unanswered as both Illyra & Kilite gout flames from the their respective ring & newly acquired staff. Tharla, a protective warding cast upon her, slips stealthily forward & quietly slits the throat of an unwary archer.
Riding down the larger of the orc's, Molin smashes his two handed axe into the face of the orc who had made demands upon them & wheels towards the third, out of the corner of his eye he can see orc's scrambling up & onto the wagons but grins, happy for the first time in weeks, as several fall back, blood spurting onto the crisp snow. Hard pressed however he turns to face a second wave emerging from the blizzard, thirty or maybe more in total.
Bollocks, maybe I under estimated the little fuckers, thought Molin as he wiped the guts of a not so grinning orc from his axe.