Downtime between Machodor sessions #63 and #64: The Dive of Sever the Wrathful

(Background in the Session #64 report) I had a bit of fun with this downtime action based on Sever's player's orders, running the encounter normally and then putting the results into Grok.

(Sever himself is out of frame)

In the frost-kissed morning of the Bandit Mountains’ southeastern reaches, where rugged peaks rise like sentinels and the air gleamed with the pale light of dawn, Sever the Wrathful, a Ranger of renown, stood resolute. Near the looming shadow of the Hill Giant fort, a crude bastion of stone and cruelty, the wind carried a biting chill, yet Sever’s heart blazed with the fire of justice. Beside him, Thomas, steadfast and true, offered words of courage, his voice a clarion in the crisp morn. Above, Rabbit, keen-eyed and swift, wheeled through the sky, his bow a song of death poised to sing. Mustang, Sever’s noble Pegasus, stamped the air, his wings aglow with the first rays of sunlight, while the Pegasi of Thomas and Rabbit soared nearby, their grace a silent vow of victory. In Sever’s hand was Were’shbane, the intelligent blade, its voice rich and resonant, proclaiming, “Aye, lad, these brutes’ll taste our steel this morn!”

Below, five Hill Giants, brutish tyrants of these mountains, strode toward their home, their laughter a grating blasphemy against the dawn’s quiet. Their hides were thick, their clubs like fallen oaks, yet they knew not the doom that descended. With a nod to Thomas and a glance to Rabbit, Sever leapt from Mustang’s back, his heart a drum of war. The Wings of Flying, ancient and enchanted, unfurled at his command, and he plunged through the crystalline air, a falcon stooping upon its prey. Were’shbane growled, “Strike true, Sever! Let their blood paint the ground!”

The giants, dulled by gluttony, saw him not. The wind sang in Sever’s ears, and for two fleeting moments, the world held its breath. In the first, Sever struck, Were’shbane biting deep into the first giant’s neck. The force of his dive, doubled by the fury of his charge, cleaved through flesh and bone, and the brute fell, lifeless, a mountain toppled. “Hah! One down, lad!” Were’shbane roared. Sever’s second stroke, swift as lightning, tore into another, rending its hide and drawing a bellow of pain that echoed off the fort’s walls. Blood stained the snow, and the remaining giants’ eyes widened in terror, for they beheld him now—a wrathful storm clad in mortal form, with a blade that spoke of their doom.

Above, Rabbit’s bow sang its deadly hymn from his Pegasus’ back. Twelve arrows flew, swift as thought, and eight found their mark, piercing the giants’ flesh like thorns of retribution. The brutes staggered, their strength sapped, their resolve crumbling. In the second moment of surprise, Sever finished the wounded giant, its lifeless form crashing to the earth, a monument to his might.

The battle proper began, and the giants rallied, their clubs swinging with desperate force. Yet Sever was the master of this dance. Were’shbane, guided by the strength of his wielder's thews and the ranger’s art, hummed with power, its double edge honed by enchantments. Initiative was Sever’s, though the rhythm of his twin strikes needed no such edge. A third giant fell, its skull cloven by Sever’s unyielding wrath. Rabbit’s arrows wove a tapestry of pain, softening the fourth for Sever’s killing blow. Together, they brought the brute low, its body a ruin upon the frost.

The fifth giant, alone now, swung wildly, its club a futile gesture against Sever’s aerial grace. Two dire wolves, snarling minions of the giants, leapt skyward, their jaws snapping at Sever, but they found only air. Sever was untouchable, a storm beyond their reach.

Nearby, a group of orcs, wretched prisoners of the giants, seized their chance and fled into the woods. The dire wolves, driven by instinct, gave chase, their howls fading into the morning’s light.

One final round, one final foe. Initiative was Sever’s once more, and with Thomas’ steadfast gaze from his Pegasus and Rabbit’s arrows as his heralds, Sever descended upon the last Hill Giant. Were’shbane roared, “Finish it, Sever! Send this lout to his maker!” The giant fell, its life extinguished, its tyranny ended. The southeastern slopes were silent once more, save for the soft beat of Mustang’s wings as he rejoined Sever, and the distant cries of the freed orcs, now scattered to the winds.

Sever the Wrathful stood amidst the carnage, his breath steaming in the cold, Were’shbane dripping with the blood of the vanquished. The Hill Giant fort loomed nearby, yet no alarm stirred its walls, no cry of vengeance broke the stillness. The giants’ crude wealth lay strewn about: belts of rough hide, sacks of pilfered coin, perhaps treasures wrested from the mountain’s depths. Sever might pause to claim their spoils, searching their fallen forms for what riches they bore. Or he might depart, Mustang’s wings ready to bear him hence, to pursue the freed orcs or seek new perils. Perchance another path called, some deed yet unseen in this land of frost and shadow. The choice was Sever’s, and the Bandit Mountains waited upon his will. What deeds would he wrought next in this land of frost and fire?