Private Tales The Lair of Djævelens hul

A private roleplay only for those invited by the first writer


Character Biography

E R E T J V A * T U N D R A
Djævelens hul
The old, scraggled-toothed man had given the directions to those seeking coin. The path was treacherous, the trek riddled with wild beasts and unknown dangers. A lost, forgotten trail to the icy maw of Djævelens, it was at least a seven days ride from Verdju Fjod, with more than half the path requiring crossing Jekur lake while exposed to the icy elements and then an upward climb upon the craggy, obsidian cliffs towards the entrance of the ancient ruins.

Those who had braved the task were never seen again, and at this point, the crazed Nord was desperate to find someone to attempt the retrieval mission. You see, he'd lost his only son, trying to search the depths of Djævelens hul for renown. If his son lived, he wanted his safe returned, despite any objection, by force if necessary. If dead, he'd pay for his son's body to be returned whole with all of his possessions. Gold coins would be the reward for those who prove successful.

The trip would require ample provisions, the necessities that the old man would provide from his trading post. However, no gold would be given until the retrieval of his son or the entirety of his son's possessions, including any journals or adventuring scrolls he might have.

Normally, Nordenfiir might not have been interested in the quest. However, it appeared that a juvenile Nordenfirr sought to Take the Path to acquire a Svalen across Djævelens hul. It was now well past the year in the wilderness, and the Nordenfiir had yet to return. Those who perhaps had an interest in determining the status of the juvenile would find themselves at the trek leading up to Djævelens hul's lair along with anyone else seeking the prize of the coin.

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The icy wind whipped Ingrid's hair about her face as she stomped through the snow, her heavy greatsword bouncing on her back. There was a blizzard on the horizon, and of course her mother had sent her out now, right before the storm hit. Something about a lost Nordenfiir kid who was trying to find his svalen in the cold wilderness. Ingrid thought if the boy couldn't even last in the wilderness to find his true self, did he even deserve to be saved? Her mother thought differently, but then that was what had gotten her seven damn children in the first place.

She had all she would need for the journey across Djævelens hul. She had passed that crazed old man, searching desperately for anyone who would go out and look for his son for him. Shitty excuse for a father, Ingrid had thought, if he was paying other desperate fools to go out and find his son for him. If Ingrid had a kid (and she would never, she swore to herself), she would be the one out searching for her own flesh and blood.

The wind calmed a bit but she knew it was only the calm before the storm. She took the opportunity to push her hair out of her eyes and adjust her coat and sack. She tied her hair back in a long thick plait, then pulled a scarf up over her nose and ears, before pulling her hood back over her head. The tundra did not care who died in its icy grasp, and Ingrid was not stupid.
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The stiff gales would only pick up, sending the wind into a haunting and chilling resonance equally as ethereal as it was terrifying. But with the bursts of icy wind would come the sanguine scent familiar to the Nordenfiir.

Blood and meat. Thick. Fresh. The metallic tang strong within the biting storm.

Then came the horrid screech afterward. The sound was loud enough to prompt sensitive ears to a stab of pain. The scent and the sound would come from the right, along the ridgeline of trees right off the path headed off the lost, forgotten trail towards Jekur Lake.

A hooded figure cast its gaze up to the sky. Storm clouds carved the sky with its violent grasp, almost threatening a whiteout should its strength continue to rise. A puff of condensation went swirling out of the man’s mouth, face half-hidden save for the lower portion, revealing a pale complexion as it panned from left to right, searching -- listening. Citrine’s eyes would narrow, and a flare of nostrils would take in a sharp intake of breath. A series of scents would fill Malachi’s mind, with the flinch at the piercing banshee-like scream filling his ears.

Malachi disliked dealing with others, yet the necessity of using coins for transactions meant that he had to participate in a manner of earning them. Killing someone outright for them only received far more attention than he was willing to handle.

He’d taken the old man’s request, necessities, and warm clothing to the isolated trek to the ruins. He was well underway when the shriek was the first clue as to why so many were never heard from again. But what exactly made that shriek was yet to be confirmed.

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Ingrid's head snapped up as a shriek echoed around her. The path to the ruins was mostly empty- she could see a black dot up ahead of her, one behind her, and one a bit off to her right, nearly hidden by the trees. Her own clothes were more similar in color and texture to the snow and rocks around her, allowing her to blend in better. The fools around her would find out that the Gods had no qualms about letting them die for their stupidity.

The smell of fresh meat came with the sound and if she had been in her bear form, her hackles would have risen. A growl still echoed in the deep of her throat, a sound most humans could not hope to make.

The wind picked up again, the howling of it making it harder to hear. But Ingrid's senses were sharper than most and she heard faint, high laughter after the shriek. It was long enough after the shriek to be strange or almost separate, but Ingrid had a feeling it wasn't.

Maybe it was the dumbass Nordenfiir boy who was supposed to be finding his Svalen. Ingrid had had experience with dark magic and up here, where it was so cold your mind and body played tricks on you, it was more common than nearly anywhere else.

Ingrid grumbled to herself, turning in a circle, surveying her surroundings. She was not about to get killed for this kid.
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Malachi sifted through the air, smelling the rotten stench of death with that copper tang of blood. However, with it came an undercurrent of miasma that spoke of something rotting with dark magic—ancient, primal, oozing thick like a festering cesspool.

It wasn’t the only thing he could smell. There was another out there. It had the lingering essence of a kind blessed by Landvættir. A rumbling growl grew in the back of Malachi’s throat. There was too much ancient magic percolating here. More than what he’d originally been comfortable with.

A banshee-like scream and howl suddenly drew from his right, the slow but steady sound of cracking branches growing closer. A mirror image of the growing appearance of those dark figures Ingrid saw.

The fog around them grew thicker, and the temperature dropped. Condensation in Malachi’s breaths became a thick cloud. The sound of a sword sliding out of its sheath cut the sudden silence.

Blue flames in the icewight's eyes were the second clue. The blue-black ravaged skin, and mummified skin against the tattered clothing were the third.

Another corruption of the First Men’s greed for the Landvættir’s power. Another curse on the land that festered and spread like a disease.

In an instant, the Wight was upon him.
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Ingrid froze as a scream and howl came from the trees, bringing with it the scent of death and corruption. The icy fog thickened around her, blotting out the other figures on the path.

She heard the distinct sound of a sword being drawn, echoing around her as if bouncing endlessly against the sides of the wind-blown mountains. There was a rattling hiss and groan, and then a shout. Even with visibility limited, Ingrid knew the wight had attacked someone nearby.

Anyone with any sort of sense in them would have turned tail and ran, but Ingrid had killed wights before and knew that they rarely came alone. Besides, running wasn't her style.

As she marched toward the two figures in the fog, she shifted into her bear form, her front legs hitting the snowy ground with a resounding thud. Her vision hadn't gotten much better but her sense of smell and hearing had and what she smelled and heard made her wrinkle her snout in disgust.

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