A Fearsome New Arrival

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    • Markshire PCs:

    The adventurers stood dumfounded, their minds mixed with horror and confusion. Why hadn’t the binding worked? Even the most astute and knowledgeable amongst them, an assistant to the Sage of Foothold, was at a loss for words as to why the foul being–a grotesque monster of the fiendish race known as the Fjandi–so easily escaped the confines of the circle in which it was summoned.

    The smell of sulfur, remnants of the essence of Muspelheim, still lingered in the dank cavern where the adventurers stood, though the Fjandi was long gone. After discussing the possible actions of the freed beast the three explorers elected to go their separate ways and notify the authorities in the largest settlements in Northern Markshire: Stonemark, Cona, Yar Village, Spinehold, and of course Foothold. That was the plan, unless it was already too late. The Fjandi had escaped from the cavern quickly, aided by his infernal, bat-like wings, while the adventurers were forced to navigate the twisting tunnels of the subterranean complex in which they’d found the damned summoning circle and its strange guardians.


    Grimly elated with the possibility of finding more Children of Thrym to slay, the Fjandi took flight, erupting from the small dwelling in the middle of the Northern Plains, as if Surtur himself had thrown his flaming broadsword across the skies. The creature paid the settlements only a passing interest, scanning the horizon for a place called ‘Gastlinyk Gate.’ It was there, said the long-haired fleshling that had freed it from its ethereal prison, that many frost giants could be found. A cloud of steam encircled the flying beast as it sailed over the Thrym Mountains, its unflinching gaze searching out it’s blue-skinned enemies.

    Soon, the spiraling tendrils of smoke eddying lazily from the spires of Gastlinyk Gate were spied by the Fjandi on the horizon. Ignoring the painful sting of the falling snow upon its fire-birthed skin, the creature doubled its pace. Once past the walls, it descended, streaming downward like a crimson spearhead into the ruined city. It shrieked out an oath to Surtur, its lord and master, summoning the frost giants from their barrows.

    In a blazing, glorious ceremony, the creature brandished its twin scimitars, fiercely beckoning to the gathering crowd of giants and giantkin.

    In the frost giant’s own guttural language, it announced: “Come at me, you thrice-cursed goat-bastards of Thrym!”

    The Fjandi’s iron-scaled tongue lashed across its twisted lips, eager for the pitched battle to come. As one, the frost giants charged towards the flame-enshrouded invader. Soon, the battlefield was awash with the blood of many wounded, dead, and dying jotuns, and the Fjandi was lost within a sea of steel and flesh. From its throat roared a tremulous battle cry, not heard in those frozen lands for generations.


    As these two forces met in battle, the only disturbance heard by anyone in the nearest civilized settlement was a low, rumbling drone, emanating from the Thrym Pass.

    Thrym, Lord of Winter, dourly gazed towards the shattered city of Gastlinyk Gate from his battlements.

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