Beyond Myria

Game Masters

Game Information
  • Created Jun 30 '08
  • Last Post Nov 24 '10 at 1:49pm
  • Status Complete
  • System Iron Heroes

Game Description

Summary of History known

[1] Wendigo identified as threat somehow.
[2] Raenis begins his journey with his brother Niper/Gniepr from the city of Tywyn (meaning "On the sea")
[3] Along the way they meet with the leaders of many tribes, to ask for their pledge to fight the Wendigo and a champion to be found to represent them.
[4] Also some unknown race or spirits called dvarf aided them with crafting and magic
[5] The coterie of champions is completed by a highlander from the Kumsbin mountains and a Wolvun called Gerthwyn
[6] The army is joined by recruits of all the races and tribes pledged to fight the Wendigo
[7] Gerthwyn conducts some unknown sorcery against an agreement with Raenis
[8] Gerthwyn - now transformed by a demon spirit - seems to interfere in the campaign against the Wendigo somehow
[9] Raenis seems to think that his coterie and army will fail in fighting the Wendigo, so he prepares to stop Gerthwyn (now the Adelmada) to save something of the tribes
[10] The "loremasters" aid him in preserving some artefacts, knowledge and wisdom in case the worst should happen and agree to lead survivors to Tywyn
[11] Raenis traps Adelmada/Gerthwyn's spirit inside his body and sets up the physical/magical/spiritual prison to keep her there.
[12] The Wendigo rite succeeds and the sun loses it's power
[13] It seems that the Adelbrood (the Wolvun spawned of the Adelmada) hunted on the Lupin and other races for some time, before settling into a hunter-raider culture. Breeding with men, the Wolvun blood was seriously diluted and the demon blood suppressed.
[14] Hundreds, possibly thousands of years later, the Adelmada's power is stronger and her Adelbrood of Wolvun awaken and take over the Cadinoc tribesAt first there is not much to see.
The formless landscape has no shape, the textures have no edge, no seam to separate one object from another.
A tree, a rock, a home: each alike under the shroud of icy-white wool that hugs and shelters... and clings and gnaws and freezes.

The wind is visible here, it's sharp slashing scratches are white-blue ice. The flakes of so-gentle snow in freefall are caught up in it's rage and rip against your flesh like so many frosty claws.
Your breath is expelled in billowing clouds of heatless steam, causing moisture on the lips; momentarily pleasant but then numbing and nerve-killing.

The flakes float and drift along currents running over wide open plains, pock-marked with tracks of unknown creatures.
The barest detail breaks the monotony of the endless whiteness: a greyish pile of loose stone, sheltered by a snow-covered overhang; the glistening sheen of frozen pools where moisture goes to die, opaque and thick, criss-crossed with cracks; the hardy shrub, tenacious and undaunted, holding aloft it's handful of snow with the lush greenness of it's thorny leaves peeking through.

Here, on close inspection is the hidden world beneath the deathly layer. The green shoot that braves the journey to the surface is met by still morning air and fine mist, hanging with moisture and pockets of warmth from a waking sun. The ancient blurry orb, weak and orange, that rises bleery-eyed from deep slumber and yawns, stretching it's frail arms softly and lovingly over it's children.
And they rise to greet it -slowly and quietly- softly, so as not to startle the old man back to his bed or irk him such that he takes away his love. The first sweet chirrup from a bough brings a chorus of honking from low flying gaggles. The pad of soft athletes feet is unseen as it shifts the snow, it's ears keen and nose twitching, it's front teeth bared towards the finer roots that all rabbits love, in battle with the frozen earth that holds it's treasures close. The yellow eyes blink open within their rocky home, sharp ears quiver and powerful sinews stretch; well-oiled and sharp, weapons are drawn and sheathed in another blink and the wolf surveys the day. The hunt begins...

Across a field of upright pines that flow across the lazy sloping hillside, the tap and knock of axes chopping wood echoes shouts against a sheer mountainface. Tracks of bare brown run from place to place, the slush of mud and dirty ice makes cold more unpleasant still. A single tendril of welcoming smoke from a cabin of layered logs signals life.

Up unclimbable faces of mirrored ice, in the crags awash with thorny heather, cured skin doors make private caves to huddled families. When a spring from deepest earth pierces the rock, the trickle can shape the mountain and all life it holds with it. A patch of melting snow, a vibrant soil of human warmth, worms that turn the food for plants and there can be green grass. The last and rarest of all treasures may be found amongst the spores and fungus which clings to damp and wood. For here is the gold the dragons of ice give their lives to guard. A petal that colours the snow with shades of it's reflected glory, oft red it lends a pinkness to the world, it's beauty unchallenged.

Over the plateau of bare grainy rock, the valley floor below stretches to the horizon, bounded on all sides by mountains. Far, far below the tail of a dirty snake creeps it way towards the future. It's head unseen, it could lap the world thrice and never be met. It's body trails in awkward curves across the landscape, following the contours and leaving chaos in it's wake.

The Column could be ten miles long. Some weeks it may be twelve, some fifteen. Those at the front can rest and gather strength, for when they wake it has not passed. Those at the back must struggle on, and reach halfway before they sleep.
Walkers are many, drying their boots and feet often. Some herd children, some sheep, some goats. A dog may scatter them here or there. There maybe carts for the foolish who mend wheels by the dozen and waste food on cows better used for food themselves. Horses ridden by one or shared by many, wrapped in blankets and often cleaned. There are sleds, some fast, some large, some heavy laden. Dogs can be worth the feed and many catch their own.
The tracks behind the tons of human travellers are mud and churned snow, that are sweep clean in hours by new fall. The leavings are little for scraps are unheard of, all can be reused or traded. Even human dirt is warmth when burnt .
Somewhere at the front a guide points the way, unceasing, unslowing and careless of who is left behind.

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