Etched rolaren ice hammer

This item was a prize from the Hunt for History.

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an etched rolaren ice hammer

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Loresong

The notes of your song seem to reverberate through the head of the rolaren ice hammer as an image coalesces. Seated around a campfire, giantmen of the Wsalamir clan take turns relating tales of history to the sons and daughters gathered at their feet. Rising slowly to stand before them, an elder chieftain takes a final slow pull at his pipe and exhales the smoke into the cold night air. A hush settles over the listeners as the deep, sing-song style of his quiet words sets the stage for this, the most important of their stories. At his dramatic pause, your verse runs out and the vision evaporates.

Your song resumes to find the chieftain beginning his tale in earnest. All of the children know of the wendigo and revere them as clan totem. The tale of the hunter named Templeton is one they have heard before. The listeners growl and hiss at the name, feeling anger and shame as the chieftain tells of the wendigo cruelly tortured. They howl in frustration as the wendigo did, and join hands as they listen to how the other wendigo gathered. In unison they chant a somber song and take pleasure as the villagers in the story grow fearful. Together they call out to Templeton, "Release our wendigo brother!" The tale still unfolding, your verse comes to an end and the image dissipates.

Eager to hear the rest of the tale, your song weaves the image once more. Snow tossed on the fire creates billowing steam which simulates the fog in the story. With mock screams and chattering teeth, the children imitate the frightened villagers. At a motion from the chieftain, all sound ceases. The Wsalamir warriors lift their hammers and pound a vengeful rhythm on the hard ice around them. As the last wisp of steam blows away, a single head-sized block of ice is placed atop a cairn of stone. Though this should have been the end, the children pale as they are told how the hunters retaliated. Several cover their eyes or clasp hands over their ears, not wanting to hear this part. Your vision obscured, as if by small giantkin hands, you find yourself back in the present.

Once more you lift your voice in song, this time to hear the end. The chieftain tells of the hundred years when Wsalamir were hunted along with wendigo. None at the time could believe the wendigo possessed such powerful magic, so they blamed the hapless Wsalamir. The children bow in honor to the Grishknel clan as the story tells of the truce they forged. Sad, wistful sighs recall the loss of both hunters and hunted. With piercing gaze the chieftain locks eyes with each child in turn. "Remember!" he demands, and the children nod in fierce affirmation. At last they all stand, touch cold fingers to the talismans they carry, and close their eyes in an attempt to commune with the elusive wendigo. As your verse ends, you return to yourself, feeling as isolated as the reclusive Wsalamir.