On the Outside

[Brian]

The silence at Mirallia's last comment hangs over the wagon until you come into sight of Stormwall Keep.

You know what it is the second you see it; the mountain range to the south has been growing higher on the horizon the longer you've been riding in the wagons.  But this mountain range is a sheer cliff, rising what looks like a solid kilometer into the sky.  Foothills sit at the base of the wall, but none high enough to even be considered as passes up into the mountains themselves.

A single gap sits squarely south of you, the land rising only a hundred meters or so, to a monumental fortress.  The pass is a kilometer wide, and filled, cliff wall to cliff wall, with stone wall at least thirty meters high.  It curves very slightly inwards, as though years of something beating against it have bowed its structure.  Four towers adorn the walls -- two on either side of the gatehouse, which is in the exact center of the wall.

Behind this wall, further buildings rise.  Eight towers stand higher than the walls, looking down onto the plain you're now riding across.  The walls bear scars and chips to show that they've seen wars before, lending the place an air of unshakable solidity.  At the base of the wall is a moat, a good dozen meters across, and frozen solid.  Further out is a second moat, this one dry, but filled with sharpened sticks.

If you have to fight out a siege, this is probably the best imaginable place for it.

You can see a building that rises higher than the walls, but is shorter than the towers.  You guess this to be the keep proper, but as you approach, a light flickers within, something behind the massive sealed gates you're riding towards.  It paints the walls of the keep and the towers behind it a brilliant red for a heartbeat before it fades, leaving the bleached white stone walls staring back at you blankly once more.

[Bjorn]

Bjorn studies the keep intently, aware, from what's he picked up, that he might very well be called on to develop some sort of battle plan -- and hoping that the sight of it might jog any memories his other-self had about the architecture of Stormwall Keep.  He also surveys the terrain in front of the keep -- looking for hills, trees or any sort of cover, and for the presence of any bodies of water.  

And, with morbid curiousity, he leans over the side of the wagon, looking back for any sign of the Dreadmarch.

[Brian]

The horizon is clear behind you for the moment.  Looking back upon the keep, you note that while it's impressive, you have an odd recolection of it.  It is not as though you've seen it before, but as if you've read about it, indeed, as though almost all of your tactical knowledge revolved around it.

While you watch, the gates ponderously creak open, revealing a tunnel, and giving you an insight as to the true thickness of the wall.  It goes back a good twenty meters through what looks like carved stone.  Another thick and heavy gate blocks the entrance to the courtyard, and doesn't begin to creak open until after your wagon passes beneath the archway.

When it does wind all the way open, you're treated to the sight of a huge courtyard, spanning from cliff to cliff, and from the defensive wall to the keep.  It's a good two hundred meters long, and the entire kilometer wide.  Most of it is filled with troops standing in formation, their squad captains looking them over curiously.

There are dozens -- perhaps hundreds -- of lightly armored men wearing leather helms and carrying longbows loitering around the edges of the courtyard.  Most of the individual troops are carrying spears and halberds, their armor a largely collective mishmash of whatever they could gather.  There are no horses in sight.

In the center of the courtyard, there is a giant stone post, like a perch for a massive bird, though, that bird would need to be large enough to fly off with a person or two to judge by the scale of the post.

The troops break off from what they were doing and watch warily as the wagons stop just inside the door, allowing everyone to climb off before heading to some stables set to one side of the keep.

No one else here is dressed anything like the rest of you.

[Bjorn]

Having helped Madame Mirallia exit from the wagon, Bjorn stands alertly by her side, dispassionately studying the soldiers surrounding them.

Only one wall?  If they had this much space to build a courtyard, but only put in one great wall... seige machinery can't be a major factor then.  Wet moat won't do much good right now, either.  What the hell is that... perch for?  And the towers...

With that thought, Bjorn studies the eight towers -- looking for openings, obvious armanents, how far they are from the keep -- and, again, if his memories of tactics involving Stormwall have anything to say.

[Brian]

Four of the towers are build into the keep itself, one at each corner.  The two furthest south have the greatest height.  An archer could probably stand atop the tower and rain arrows below, but you're not sure if that works, considering the general of the Dreadmarch is probably not going to lead the charge.  If they were that stupid, there wouldn't be a need for tactics.

From what you can gather, looking at those four towers, and then another  two towers, these built off of the cliff face itself, between the wall and the keep.  The final two are the tallest, one rising from the center of the keep, the other behind it, but highest by far.

Most likely these are just used to survey the battlefield and issue orders ... they would be ideal for sighting and giving directions to siege machinery, were there any about.  As far as what the perch is for, you've got no real idea.  A thorough bestiary wasn't included in your tactical knowledge; which figures, as apparently horses don't exist here.

[Dracos]

Dracos stands up, glancing over the men and stretching out just a bit, getting the krinks from the wagon ride out of his system.  He looks about for the signs of who is in charge here and how things are run.

Dracos

[Brian]

Each group of men (probably every fifty of them or so) is lead by a much better dressed one, probably squads and squad commanders.  But obviously, they can't run things, and about the same time Mirallia is dusting herself off, the doors to the keep (nearly as imposing as the gate doors, which are even now swinging shut) open, and a man in shining armor steps out, followed by a trio of retainers.

This man is a large man, almost as tall as Phil.  His armor is well fitted, and looks comfortable on him -- most likely he had it made for him.  A look at the average footsoldier, and even their commanders suggests that they can't afford this.  It's plate, more solid than Bjorn's, just as easy for him to move in as Phil and Nathan.  His cloak flares and waves behind him as he marches forward with a ground-eating pace.

His scabbard is wrought with intricate golden sigils on them, and his helm is strapped to one shoulderplate, to leave his head uncovered.  He's got short black hair, a black beard, and a handsome countenance.

His retainers are:

A man who would be Gandalf, provided Gandalf were Gandalf the Brown instead of Gandalf the Gray (or white).  He's got the same hat, the same robes, and the same beard.  But it's all brown, and he looks a shade younger than you'd expect a venerable wizard to be.  He walks with the aid of a tall wooden stick, a bit gnarled on the top, but he moves like he belongs in this place just as much as the lordly-looking guy and his other retainers.

The second is a man who looks like he could be Liandral's cousin, wearing soft finery, and carrying no weapons.  His hair is blond, like Mirallia's, though, instead of black of Liandral's.  His face is bearing the hints of a knowing smirk that look to be permanent.

The third is a man in armor almost, but not quite as nice as the lord's, but not as highly polished.  He wears no cape, and his hair is red.  It's much longer than the lord's, but bound back with a strip of leather, and his long beard has golden rings braided into it.

They draw to a halt before Mirallia, who bows deeply.  "Welcome!" the lord speaks in a booming voice.  "We had not expected you for two days yet!"

Liandral quickly mirrors Mirallia's bow.

[Bjorn]

Bjorn also bows, hand on sword to keep it out of the way, even deeper than Mirallia.

[Dracos]

Dracos politely and civilly bows before the obvious Lord of the Keep, letting the priestess of Hammar do the talking.

Dracos

[Brian]

Nathan, Paul, and Parthipan, catching the drift, all do their best to bow as well.  Nathan's bow is servicable, Paul's is masterful, and Parthipan's attempt earns him a chuckle from the wizard, and a cold look from the elf.

The lord ignores everyone except for Mirallia, waving a hand dismissively.  "We've time for formality later," he booms.  "Come, enter my hall, avail yourselves of food, drink.  Rest, and perhaps bathe the dust of the roads from yourselves before we begin that work which we must attend.

"Yes," he says, nodding as though he just realized something.  "A meal, and then talk.  Come!"  Turning about on one heel, he marches away, and all his retainers follow, save for the wizard, who raises a hand to halt you.

In a low voice, he says, "We must speak.  Watch your tongue in the great hall, and wait for me to summon you."  With that, he nods, and scurries to join the other retainers.

[Bjorn]

Bjorn studies the back of the wizard as he marches away, and then flicks his eyes towards the others -- probably in an attempt to convey something meaningful -- before ghosting after Mirallia.

[Dracos]

Dracos...blinks.  And then follows along, curious.

Dracos

[Ginrai]

Ginrai follows, trying to remember where he's seen those four before since the wizard's action seemed to convey that they have met prior.

[Huitzil]

"We've many days travel under our belts to get here. Enjoying the courtesy of your hall would be a very welcome respite."

Paul follows his host,  trying to look noble and bard-esque while not being overwhelmed by the sheer "holy shit" aspect of this whole castle, complete with mysterious wizard.

[Brian]

Parthipan: You don't remember meeting him specifically, but you do remember learning about him.  He's one of the Lorekeepers, but not one of the normal, recognized groups.  Most of the Lorekeepers focus on something like, the stars, the wind, the earth, or fire.  He focuses on combat, and, as it turns out, is pretty good at it, too.

Rumor has it that he can also speak with birds and insects, though you don't know if this is true.

Everyone:  Following the group into the keep, you wander through a series of ante-chambers before reaching a massive hall.  Tables line it, with room enough for probably almost all of the troops in the courtyard.  The ceiling seems to go all the way to the roof of this place, the heights vanishing into darkness.  It's lit with a quartet of fireplaces (huge, massive things, probably each with an entire tree inside of them), and additional torches across the walls.  In a few places, torchstands bear a few more around the room.

There's a table much higher than all the others, and the Lord is already seating himself at a chair, there, his retainers sitting near him.  Wizard to his left, armored human to his right, and the elf next to the wizard.

Mirallia makes a bee-line for a table that's not on the raised dias, but offers seats facing the lord himself.  Once you're seated, a series of cooks parade into the room bearing trays from what you imagine is the kitchen (the door is to the right of the entrance), and everyone is given a selection from this medival buffet, along with water to drink.

Cold, clear, fresh water.  "The water is safe," the lord says, before anyone can ask.  "Radagast has devised a way to keep it pure.  We find it keeps the soldier's minds sharper than beer.  Now, let us eat, and regain our strength, before we discuss what comes."

So saying, he lays into a side of (you think) beef, slicing off a chunk with a big knife, and then putting it on his plate.  Everyone waits for him to eat before serving themselves.

On the table before you is another side of beef, a pot of soup, bread, various other meats (looks like a roast pig, there, and that drumstick is certainly from some form of bird), a smattering of vegetables, and some fruits.

Once everyone's eaten their fill, the cooks return, sweep the dishes away, give everyone more water, and then vanish.

"Now," booms the lord, his right-hand man absorbed in picking his teeth clean with a knife, "what brings you here so early?"

"With respect, my lord," Mirallia says politely, pushing back her seat and rising, "we encountered no small amount of trouble on our jouney, but, if you have the patience, I can tell you what has happened since our journey began."

"Of course," the lord says, motioning her to continue with one hand.

"Ah.  We set out from Winterhaven as scheduled, myself, and the traditional four Vassals of Hammar that had not come to Winterhaven through Gatemaster Eske's doorway.  As the only ones qualified for the pilgrimage, we set out, seeking aid from the storm-riders, the Sons of Liam.

"But aid came to us before we left Winterhaven, for the bard and poet, Master Durant," here she pauses and indicates Paul, "had arrived to visit Winterhaven, and gather stories.  He said he planned to join the watch at Stormwall Keep, and to witness a struggle against the forces of Dread.

"There, too, was Loremaster Parthipan, who had journeyed with a supply caravan, hoping to meet Gatemaster Eske.  When Eske was not to be found, Loremaster Parthipan asked to join with us, for he spoke to me of his need for a quest to attain mastery in his school.  Is there not a more noble cause for a Loremaster to seek?  We could not think of one, so he was allowed to join us.

"From there, we were awarded three companions by Lord Markam, and then proceeded south.  But we were attacked, as we slept, by a horde of minions of the Dread.  We survived, only barely, and found our route to Stormwall Keep cut off by the advancing army.  Trapped, and with no other choices, master Liandral, who had elected to lead our party from Winterhaven, as he'd done once before, told us of a secret, but dangerous way through the mountains.

"At great risk, we took this pass ... and that is how we came to cross the mountains so swiftly."

The lord looks less than pleased to hear this tale.  "Ill tidings," he ruminates.  "Ill tidings indeed.  So Gatemaster Eske remains missing."  He drums his fingers on the table and furrows his brow.  "We have made it this far," he decides.  "We shall be even more on guard than we have been."  He looks at his right-hand man, who maintains an entirely impassive expression, and then at the wizard, who looks a bit intrigued.  "What do you think of this?"

"That you are correct, and we must remain on our guard," the right-hand man says, nodding.

"And you, Radagast?" the lord says, turning to the wizard.

"A lost pass," the wizard muses.  "Before all else, I would like a moment, My Lord, to speak with these brave survivors of their accomplishments, and what portents they hold."

"Save Master Liandral," says the elf at the table.  "Gone too long from court, and now we must speak."

The wizard looks at the elf speciously, but nods.  "So be it," he says, rising.  "Follow me," he adds, marching towards one of the room's doors.

Mirallia quickly bows to the lord before following the wizard.  Liandral just looks uncomfortable and stares defiantly up at the other elf.