Would You Like Ice In That?

Would you like ice in That?

Time to return home after our enjoyable sojourn here in elsewhere land. But to where would we be returned? Nowhere safe/ good/ wholesome/ homely or hearty that’s to be sure. So not even a surprise when we pop out of our inter planar express in the middle of a cave of bony white material in the middle of a snow white landscape formed exclusively of, well snow. That’s actually unfair, there was ice too, and howling gales although these were not white in colour except when a gust lashed exposed flesh with needle like icy shards.

The bony white material – that turned out to be bone, deposited by the decomposition of some giant wyrm. What were the chances of us landing inside one? Well given that we had appeared in this arctic wilderness, the chances were actually pretty good, given that as our eyes adjusted to the white glare we could see enough of these skeletons littering the landscape to make the average elephants’ graveyard hunter throw up his arms in despair and retire.

Talking of people retiring I’m sure I speak for all of us when I wish that a certain death mage would do just that, but hey ho, for the moment I will content myself by quietly freezing to death. We can also see several ziggurats in the near distance,* so we set off for them rather than wait for terminal hypothermia to take full hold.

*Although distance was difficult to judge with all this white on white, turned out they were actually a couple of miles away

This could only be one place, the realm of the north, and the fortress we approached had to be the lair of the lych king, leader of the scourge and master of the Ice Crown Citadel. We headed through the forest of frost wyrm bones, earnestly hoping that no fully clothed wyrms were in our area looking for a snack.

A gigantic skeleton emerged from the very wall of the nearest citadel encouraging us to pick up the pace and evade. Spirits rose from the ground to swarm about party members at various times, but our new best friend mage seemed to have an affinity for all things dead and was able to drive them away several times, aided by his buxom apprentice, the lovely formerly feathered Chappaquiddick.

The citadel was scaled for 150 foot tall skeletons which included the specification used for doorways. These were therefore ideally sized for us, had we just had the foresight to undergo that late growth spurt to add about 144 feet to our puny stature. I used my wand of fire exhausting it driving a tunnel through the wall and we charged inside, desperately searching for somewhere more sheltered, possibly with a Jacuzzi of some sort and a recently boiled kettle. We also hoped for somewhere a little less threatened by an enormous skeleton.

The tunnel collapsed behind us, re sealing the entrance I had formed and cutting off possible pursuit/ trapping us forever in the heart of the enemy’s most powerful fortress depending on whether you’re the glass half full or empty type. Inside, a double tower some fifteen storeys high with a connecting bridge on the first floor guarded the approach to the first courtyard within. Green energy fields flickered at the entrances to each tower, but these were harmless and we passed within and mercifully out of the cold which had been gnawing at all my favourite extremities.

Inside we found the tower walls were embedded with countless skeletons fused to the stonework, there were also fountains of blood in the centre of both towers on the first floor, fountains that were forged it seemed from a single skeleton. A very unwelcome development that soon became apparent was the discovery that I and my fellow spellcasters were unable to use or regain magic.

Keen to display his unpleasant traits in full to us, Wanker began dabbling with his dark arts: sampling the blood from the fountain; animating a skeleton which he named Chatters before it fell apart in a rather pathetic one legged display.* Chappas however still seemed doe eyed and sycophantically devoted to him despite the obvious ineptitude of his efforts.

*Wanker clearly not the dark artist he thinks he is

I examined the fountains carefully and discovered names inscribed on the skulls, Yioza and Dimata, odd because I had once studied with a fellow arcanist of the latter name. Speaking the name out loud had a remarkable effect, restoring the fountain to human form. Incredibly, it was the very Dimata of my former acquaintance, and I was able to heal him and restore him to coherency whilst the deadly duo did the same for Yioza.

Restoring these two dispelled the null field that had hampered our magic and the skeletons in the walls were also restored to, well I won’t say life, but confused activity might be a fairer description. They were like a primitive version of the forsaken, self aware but confused after who knew how much time imprisoned. They were looking for answers, direction, leadership, purpose, thousands of them: They got us.

Dimata explained that he had joined a cult in the service of the lych king years before. The lych king was in the central tower of the huge complex around us, his essence contained in a sword and the helm worn by the body of King Arthus, the last mortal to attempt to slay that being.

He also explained that the lych king must not be destroyed as he protects the world from daemon kind, but that the essence can transfer to another via his helmet.* Only the sword Ashbringer can defeat the king, and that sword is held by Death knight Dorian Moregrain, who may live here in the Halls of Reflection. The lych king uses frostbrand and is served by the Blood council which includes other worthies such as Professor Putricide; Lady Morowinter; Frost wyrm Sewer Fang and Guardian of the Citadel, a two headed mage.

*Ooh er

We decided that our destiny lay ahead, and bolstered by 8000 heavily armed skeletal undead recently re equipped from the nearby armoury and inspired by my inflammatory oratory* we decided that the time had come to fight until we were masters of the citadel or dead. After all there were precious few other ways available to keep warm and both options might involve getting rid of Woodwanker. Pausing only to send off Plainsweaver’s bird for reinforcements,** we decided that with surprise on our side, what could go wrong?***

*Or was it ossuary? (Hey look it up, bet there aren’t many jokes with an ossuary in the punchline. Sometimes I don’t know why I bother. Come to think of it, I never know why I bother…)

**Not quite sure how that would happen but hey where there’s life…

***If I was an umpteenth level lych king indestructible save from one weapon held by a trusted and deadly lieutenant in my own fortress protected by tens of thousands of undead slaves and mighty enchantments, frost wyrms and chilly weather, I’d certainly be surprised when attacked by the six of us. My only worry would be that I’d die laughing.

25.5.13