1.5.1 The Pact
The PCs meet with the Pact and identify sponsors get a look into the politics in the Pact. This session is mostly a theatre-of-the-mind session.
This session should be a more social and roleplay session packed with intrigue. Veylith accompanies the PCs as a friendly face and to solidify the Hammerfall Elves position within the Pact.
Opening Monologue¶
The streets of Hammerfall are hushed as you march. Behind you lies fire and ruin—demons scattered, blood spilled, and an uneasy pact struck between sworn enemies. Before you lies Upper Hammerfall, the Uppers—the ancient seat of elven glory, stolen long ago.
Here the city changes. The architecture sharpens into elegance, every stone laid with impossible precision. Marble roads curl like rivers, softened by wildflowers and living roots that weave through cobblestones as if the city itself still breathes. Towers and archways bend with grace, every vine and branch cultivated to perfect form. Even in occupation, it is magnificent—intimidating in its beauty, a reminder of what once was and what has been lost.
You ascend toward the heart of this district: the Council Chambers. Their form is timeless—circular, marbled, held aloft by towering columns. Tiered seating curves upward like an amphitheater of judgment, but your eyes are drawn to the central dais: raised seats of prominence, crafted for rulers and statesmen. Once many, now only three are filled.
The air is heavy with history, power, and the weight of what is about to be decided. The elves walk with you, their eyes wide as they tread once more on the marble of their forebears. Whatever comes next—citizenship or vassalage, survival or extinction—will be decided in this chamber.
Scene 1¶
A cold welcome¶
_circular room, greco-roman architecture. Marbled columns and tiered seating. Centrally are multiple seperated raised seats standing out prominent against the tiered seating behind. These obviously were built for heads of state or representatives, forming some sort of council. Now though several sit vacant, only three are occupied as you enter.
Upon the first sits a gigantic ork. So large to dwarf even One-Tusk. He is mature but you see his muscles are still large and taut. Obviously he is still in pristine fighting form. No doubt that he is in premium fighting form, at the top of his game. Resting across his large oaken legs sits a mighty hammer. Its blunted mace shaved and carved into a gleering skull with hollow eyes which hold a depth and blackness seeming impossible - the doomhammer, you have heard of this weapon. So this would be Orgrim, chieftain of all the Orks.
The second seat upon which sets a very contrasting character. Trader Yennen fat / boisterous / conniving - seemingly a guild patsy
The third is the Speaker of the Chosen. mysterious / hidden in dark robes / speaks very little unless spoken to.
Jarl Ivar strides up and takes the fourth seat. Older man. Moustachious. Bit of a cretin.
Scene 2¶
Veylith thanks the PCs¶
_heartfelt thanks
brings gifts- rune of deathdrinking - gunnar boots of elvenkind - gunnar cloak of elvenkind - riven the pathogen - hantz walking cauldron - hantz
Scene 3¶
Ygritte is taken¶
A loud commotion is heard from outside... Jarl Ivar stumbles towards a house, his feet are dragging and his balance impaired, his heavy boots dragging mud across polished stone. His laughter is coarse, bitter—still echoing from whatever low hall he’s left behind.
Ygritte waits in the shadows of the chamber, lips pressed tight. Her voice is cold steel.
“You reek of ale and whoring. Do you ever tire of wallowing in filth?”
Ivar lurches toward her, grin split across his ruddy face.
“Filth? Bah! I take comfort where it’s offered. If my prude of a wife would warm my bed, perhaps I’d not need the arms of brutes and whores.” He chuckles, a guttural, mocking sound. “But no, Ygritte, you clutch your virtue like a shield and leave me to freeze.”
Her hand snaps across his cheek. He blinks once, then his smile dies. His own strike comes heavy and sudden, sending her sprawling to the floor.
And then—silence. Until a boy’s sharp breath cuts it. Their son, pale with fury, stands over his mother, hands clenched, trembling with the will to defy him.
Ivar stares a moment, lips curling with rage. His fists tighten—then he spits to the side, snarling curses.
“Ungrateful whelp. Ungrateful bitch. Keep your cold hearth. I’ll find warmth where it’s wanted.”
He storms out, slamming the door behind him, his curses trailing down the hall as he returns to his brutes and whores, leaving the chamber steeped in fear and silence.
...hours pass
You wake to the clatter of metal and the shriek of voices in the night. The air is thick with smoke and panic. Men stumble from their homes, still drunk from the hearth, grasping spears and axes with clumsy hands.
Shapes move in the dark—monstrous silhouettes with limbs too long, joints bending wrong, claws raking through timber and flesh alike. Their screeches pierce the night as steel meets claw, but the clash is brief, panicked. The creatures do not linger in battle. They strike, tear, and seize.
Through the smoke and flashing torchlight you glimpse them—villagers dragged screaming into the night. Pale figures slung over crooked shoulders, vanishing toward the gaping wound in the earth.
Then—her cry cuts through the chaos. A scream of fury, of terror. Your eyes catch a shimmer of crimson fabric. Ygritte—her arms thrashing, nails clawing at the air—as one of the things hauls her toward the Pit. Her voice carries, desperate and raw.
The stolen bride of Balder, wife to Jarl Ivar, disappears into the dark maw, her scream echoing long after her form is gone.
And then she is swallowed by the Pit.
Scene 4¶
Something must be done¶
ivar is mad pact rallying forces to defend against these demons PCs form a rescue squad for Ygritte + the first down into the Pit.
Session Notes¶
Ragnorak vibes
PCs wanted to dive down the pit immediately anyway
Balder told the PCs his story, everyone agrees Ivar is a dick
Next session we launch into the rescue of Ygritte / exploration of the catacombs.