Fyn’s Flashback: The Squad
The hot afternoon sun beats down on the barren earth below. A single bead of sweat coalesces on Fyn’s temple. He stares intently into the distance from behind a rocky outcrop along the side of the Iron Peaks. The bead of sweat breaks from his temple, running down the side of his face before falling onto his black robes and disappearing. He turns around.
“Three stone giants,” Fyn says to the group of men crouching behind the rocks with him. “120 meters out. Each bears a satchel of stones. They’ll attempt to keep us at range and pick us apart with rocks.”
A stout, ragged-looking dwarf lets out a low laugh. “We outnumber them four to one. We ain’t seen better odds than that in a long time.”
Fyn tilts his head curiously at the dwarf. “That may be so, Fletch. However, we were sent here to investigate and eliminate the amassing giant forces on the Storval Plateau, not to die. It would do you well to be cautious.” Fletch replies with a noncommittal grunt.
The dozen men in Fyn’s unit begin to plan their attack. They group is predominantly human, with a few dwarves and a single halfling among them. Fyn is the only elf. Upon the left arm of every soldier is emblazoned a red patch bearing the insignia of the Korvosan Guard. The men’s bodies are covered in burns, scratches, and a thin layer of chalky dust. Despite their condition, they discuss their next move in high spirits.
Fyn’s Flashback: Preparing for the Assault
“We have to charge them!” Fletch whispers excitedly. A few murmurs break out among the rest of the squad as they look at Fyn expectantly.
Fyn purses his lips pensively. “I doubt half of us would make it there. They would notice us rather quickly and pick most of us off by the time we could engage them.”
The halfling chimes in. “We could wait until night? I reckon we could handle three sleeping stone giants.” This elicits a wave of agreeing nods and whispers.
“I’m afraid that’s not an option,” says Fyn in response. “This patrol will move into the mountains by nightfall. And stone giants can still see in the dark, which is more than most of you can say.” The halfling opens his mouth to respond, but instead closes it and frowns in silence.
“Have a better idea, Fyn?” Fletch says.
“As a matter of fact, I do!” says Fyn. “Kent, Arris, and Sylar, ready your bows. The rest of you, armor on and weapons out. We rush them together until the archers are in range, at which point I will teleport the rest of us to their feet. I will take the large one on the right.” Off in the distance, the large giant on the right picks his nose.
Fletch licks his lips. “Er, right. I suppose you have magic. You know we’ll follow you anywhere, Fyn. Hell, 400 miles and a handful of skirmishes later, and you haven’t lost a single one of us. Ha!” Fletch reaches down and picks up his helmet. “It’s a damned miracle, Fyn! Kroft won’t believe it when…” Fletch trails off, turning his eyes toward the sky as he notices a shadow flicker overhead. “What was th-“
An enormous rock smashes into Fletch’s skull, instantly killing him and sending his body hurtling backwards. His helmet drops to the ground unceremoniously with a loud clang.
Fyn’s Flashback: Ambush!
“Giants!” Fyn shouts, pointing upwards. Up the steep mountain slope, a small group of stone giants can be seen, sending a barrage of rocks toward the party. Fyn springs into action. “Archers, behind the outcrop. Infantrymen, to me. I’ll get us to them.” The Korvosan guard scrambles to grab their weapons as a torrent of boulders descends upon them. Screams ring out through the hot air as the boulders shatter the limbs and crush the bodies of the unsuspecting squad of soldiers.
Fyn whirls around, narrowly avoiding a large rock. The rock tumbles past Fyn and smashes into the halfling behind him. The halfling’s shout is cut short as his body is sent tumbling backwards. “Arris!” Fyn yells. He sprints toward the halfling while pulling a healing potion from his belt. How did the stone giants notice them? How long had the giants been following them? And why hadn’t they noticed? Fyn skids to a halt beside Arris and uncorks the healing potion. “Come on, Arris…” he whispers. Fyn tilts the potion down the halfling’s throat and leans forward, listening for a breath. A moment later, a weak and pained gasp escapes Arris’s lips. Fyn smiles triumphantly and grabs Arris by the wrist. “Time to go, Arris!” Fyn takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and begins uttering an incantation.
Before he can finish, a large stone crashes into his shoulder, and everything goes black.
Fyn’s Flashback: Meeting the Giants
Fyn awakes to the sound of low voices arguing. He lets out a quiet groan, which quickly turns into a loud, strained cough. The voices stop.
“Oy! Look at this one! An elf!” a voice rings out in Giant. Fyn’s mind begins to race. Realizing he is in danger, he attempts to crawl away from the voices. His left arm drags limply against the ground as he struggles to stand up. Giant footsteps behind him grow louder and louder. Fyn coughs again, spitting out a mouthful of blood. He opens his mouth to reciting an incantation, but nothing more than strained wheezes comes out of his mouth. The footsteps stop. Fyn, gasping for air, turns around.
A Giant foot kicks Fyn backwards, sending Fyn to the earth on his back. The tall stone giant lets out a laugh, brandishing a sizable stone club.
“I ain’t never seen a elf out here! I’ma to kill a elf!” Chuckles can be heard from the small group of stone giants standing among the remains of Fyn’s squad. The stone giant gives Fyn an evil smile, raising the club high above his head. Fyn closes his eyes.
“STOP!”
The stone giant instantly lowers his weapon. A hush breaks out among the remainder of the stone giant. Still on his back, Fyn tilts his head to the side to get a better view of the source of the voice.
A grizzled old stone giant begins approaching Fyn. The other stone giants look to the ground as he passes by. Fyn’s eyes dart to the stone giant’s hands. In his right hand is an enormous glaive. In the left hand is…Fyn can’t quite make it out. A club? No, it’s not the right shape…
Fyn’s Flashback: The Jormunsir
The old stone giant stops in front of Fyn and peers down at him. Where one of his eyes should be is instead a black, empty socket. He crouches down next to Fyn, bringing his enormous head close to Fyn’s body. Hot, fetid breath crashes into Fyn.
“What are you doing here?” the old stone giant asks.
Fyn inhales slowly and attempts to speak, but falls into a fit of coughing and wheezing. The old stone giant rolls his single eye.
“Useless. You small folk are all so weak.” The old stone giant stands back up. As he does, Fyn hears a whimper come from his left hand. He makes out the small form of Arris, silently sobbing in the hand of the old stone giant. Fyn immediately struggles to shout, but manages nothing more than a few bloody coughs. A wry smile spreads across the old stone giant’s lips.
“I saw you try and save this one, you know.” The old stone giant extends his left hand, holding Arris by the torso toward Fyn. “I can’t imagine why. This tiny creature is the shit of the small folk.” He looks with disgust at Arris’s tiny trembling form, sobbing quietly in his hand. The old stone giant sighs. “You should have just let him die.” With a flick of his fingers, the old stone giant snaps Arris’s neck. A loud crack is heard, and Arris’s sobs abruptly stop. Fyn watches in horror as the old stone giant throws Arris’s lifeless body carelessly to the ground nearby. The old stone giant brandishes his glaive with both hands.
“It is not uncommon, elf, for a single enemy soldier to be spared. The soldier is supposed to crawl back to whatever shithole they’re from and warn their worthless friends to stay away the Jormunsir.” The old stone giant leans toward Fyn. “You know what I think about that, elf?” Fyn stares blankly back at him, straining desperately for air.
“I think it’s bullshit.” The old stone giant raises his glaive upwards, the blade pointing downwards at Fyn. With a mighty heave, he smashes the enormous weapon clean through Fyn’s chest. The metal blade rips entirely through the right side of Fyn’s torso. The last thing Fyn hears is a sickening screech as as the force behind the thrust lodges the glaive into the rock underneath him. And with that, Fyn dies.
Fyn’s Flashback: The River of Souls
Fyn’s consciousness regains as he finds himself floating in a swirling, unstructured tunnel of energy. Bright motes of multicolored light dance lazily around him. Peering beyond the confines of the tunnel, he sees slow shifting mists obscure any semblance of a landscape. Fyn peers down at his ethereal body. He sees no bruises, burns, or gashes. Fyn considers his situation for a moment, and concludes that he has, in fact, died. His soul has been deposited into the Ethereal Plane. This tunnel could only be the River of Souls, through which all mortals pass on their way to judgment in Pharasma’s Boneyard.
Fyn sighs. He had not planned to die so young. With a shrug, he propels his body forward. Honestly, death was not so bad. At the moment, it was not much of anything, really. Fyn begins to wonder where Pharasma would assign him. Maybe Nirvana? Anything but one of the Lower Planes would be reasonable. Perhaps Fyn should have spent more time tending to the needs of the poor? Well, there was nothing to be gained by wishful thinking.
Fyn floats forward a short distance before he is stopped in his tracks by a large and particularly bright mote of light that appears a few feet in front of him. Fyn cocks his head curiously to the side, watching the light grow larger and larger. Maybe this was another soul entering the River? Fyn waits patiently until the ball of light finally explodes in a blinding luminescence, causing Fyn to raise his hands to shield his eyes. Fyn slowly lowers his hands, and immediately frowns as he considers what stands before him.
A shimmering ethereal peacock blocks Fyn’s path, staring at him with an uncomfortable intensity. Fyn scratches his chin, then nods politely.
“Yes. Excuse me.” He looks expectantly at the peacock. The peacock does not acknowledge that Fyn says anything. It continues staring at him.
“Excuse me,” repeats Fyn to the peacock. “I am rather anxious to meet Pharasma…” Again, the peacock does not respond.
Fyn begins to float to the side of the wide River of Souls to circumvent the peacock entirely. “What a strange place the Ethereal Plane is,” he mutters to himself.
Without warning, the great peacock spreads it wings and feathers. A colossal tower of elegant, glimmering plumage fills the River of Souls. The peacock lets out a shrill call at Fyn, who finds himself hurtled backwards. The River of Souls begins to fade around him as his soul is slowly pulled out of the Ethereal Plane. As his vision goes black, he catches a glimpse of the great peacock, steadfast and regal, watching him intently.
Fyn’s Flashback: Korvosa-Bound
Fyn gasps, greedily sucking in the cool air around him. Opening his eyes, he sees a broad sky of stars twinkling carelessly high above him. He sees neither sight nor sound of any giants. Slowly, his sense of smell returns, and his nostrils are assaulted with the scent of blood and death. He grunts and manages to look down at his torso. His body is immediately wracked with pain as he sees a colossal wound running up the entire right side of his torso. The glaive had slammed clean through his body, crushing many of ribs and doing an unknown amount of damage to his organs. All things considered, Fyn should be dead three times over. He grimaces as he feels the dust beneath him mingle painfully with the exit sound running up and down his back.
Fyn lays motionless for several minutes, recalling his…experience?…vision?…at the River of Souls. He finally concludes that he will not get closer to understanding anything by thinking. Fyn’s goal is to return to civilization. He turns his head to the side, wheezing deeply as he assesses the area around him. Arris’s mangled corpse lay nearby, a waterskin strapped to the dead halfling’s side. That’s a start. With his right hand, Fyn cautiously feels for a leather pouch affixed to his belt. It was still there. Potions, herbs, and spell components lay inside. He takes a deep, pained breath. It was time to begin the long journey back to Korvosa.
Scouting the Camp
Fyn lets on to the rest of the group that he has died before, possibly at the hands of some of the giants here, in Jorgenfist. Everyone is appreciative of his experience and magical prowess; without the elf’s timely spells, the party might not have made this far.
Looking down at the smattering of giant camps surrounding the fortress, it’s clear that there is some distinctive separation between the tribes. Fobias points out a predominantly-female clan of stone giants, a camp containing two separate tribes of ogres, and another stone giant camp where someone is sharpening a glaive.
Off in the distance, Krask notices a cave high in the mountainside. Thinking that it might be advantageous to use it as a vantage point, they teleport over.
Immediately, the party realizes that something truly monstrous must inhabit this cave. Between the discarded bones of drakes and rocs, Krask becomes exceedingly cautious. However, being the most stealthy, he is delegated with the task of investigating the interior.
Moving slowly through the darkness, the kobold moves forward. The bones on the floor eventually give way to mounds of copper coins that eventually end in a hoard of treasure. There’s no sign of life here at the moment. Scorch marks on the wall suggest that this could be a dragon’s lair.
Plan of Action
Not wasting any time, the party scoop the valuables into their bag of holding. As they do, dreams of sabotage spring to mind; if the party can somehow convince the dragon that the giants are responsible for the theft, the dissent could work to their advantage. Perhaps leaving giant residue here might play into that idea.
The party only has time to scatter a scavenged set of hide armor in the cave before they hear draconic shrieks in the distance. As they teleport back to the base, they see a pair of dragon-like shapes swooping down towards the Muschkal River.
After an uneventful night studying the patrols, the party debates their next move. There’s talk of waiting until evening and teleporting directly into the inner circle of the fortress. It seems overly risky, however, so they decide against that.
There’s also the possibility of scouting out the western camps, but the lack of cover on that side is disconcerning. Plus, there’s the dragon to consider.
Finally, the party decides on assaulting the watchtower nearby. They gather together and prepare to unleash confusion on the unsuspecting giants. POP!
They appear right next to a blue-skinned taiga giant on the roof of the tower. Two other giants, marked with strange runes, are working near the base. All three giants are branded with the Sihedron rune.
Will the giants have enough time to light the signal fire? Can the party convince a dragon that giants stole their horde? Does a wicked scar help Fyn with the ladies?