|Ulfrik Essence||Used to summon Ulfrik (Raid)||Ulfrik quest boss|
|Hrolf's Boots||55||55||69||50||Increases Energy by 3||Quest Boss - Ulfrik|
|Gladiatoria||Used as an ingredient to craft Mestr Rekkr Essence||Ulfrik quest boss|
|Brown War Horn||Craft x2 Stat Points||Bludheim quests, help requests and gifting|
|Grey War Horn||Craft x2 Stat Points||Bludheim quests, help requests and gifting|
|Green War Horn||Craft x2 Stat Points||Bludheim quests, help requests and gifting|
|Blue War Horn||Craft x2 Stat Points||Bludheim quests, help requests and gifting|
|Purple War Horn||Craft x2 Stat Points||Bludheim quests, help requests and gifting|
|Orange War Horn||Craft x2 Stat Points||Bludheim quests, help requests and gifting|
You didn’t wish to waste time and further complicate matters by building wheels and attaching them to your siege weapons. But moving them doesn’t prove too challenging. Magical flames conjured up by your spell casters melt the snow, allowing some of the contraptions to be dragged towards Hralborg without becoming mired in great drifts, and enabling others to be carried amidst crowds of bearers.
As you approach the fortress, you see that archers have appeared atop the walls. Some of them are flexing their bows, preparing to rain their shafts down upon you. You doubt your hastily constructed siege engines will be able to put you beyond the range of falling arrows, not if you want them to strike the castle’s gates with full effect.
Marcus and Roland are marshaling those of your warriors with shields, instructing them to protect you and the rest of the crews who will work the war machines. Medea is giving orders to the magic-users, intending to use their arcane powers for both attack and defense.
Once these preparations are made, you give the signal. Your companions move the siege weapons into position, and a swarm of arrows flies up from Hralborg’s walls, outlined against the blue sky like a flock of birds
The Nord who taunted you from the walls now lies groaning in the snow. His face is battered, a red and purple mess where your gauntlets and the pommel of your weapon struck him again and again. There are gaping maws in his shirt, where the chain parted beneath your blade. Some are filled with blood, making them into sinister grins from ruby lips. But none of them should prove fatal. Not soon, at any rate. You wanted him alive.
Marcus and Roland lead most of your companions towards the walls, through the broken gates - in search of any Frost Wyrm warriors who remained within. At a nod from you, Solus follows them. He jumps into the air, and flaps his way above the wall. You see him dive down towards the battlements a moment later, and there's a scream as he disposes of a surviving archer.
Soon you, Aesa, and Medea are left in a lake of the dead. On its shores some of your healers ply their trade, but upon its grim surface the three of you stand alone.
The Nord commander's eyes regain their focus, and he glares up at you as his senses return. He opens his mouth as if he's about to speak, but only a choked splutter comes forth. He turns his head, and spits out a blend of blood and phlegm. Then the words come, a stream of gasped invectives in the language of Nordent.
"Where are the others?" you ask, before looking to Aesa. "Does he understand me?"
"We're not savages," she replies. "All Nords speak the common tongue, even if we prefer not to use your soft language. He just refuses to answer you."
A mirthless smile crosses the shaman's face turning its beauty into something dark and predatory.
"But he'll scream for me."
Medea's harp plays as the shaman moves. It's heavy, oppressive melody that grasps you by mind, heart, and throat. Your neck tightens, as if invisible fingers are squeezing it, slowly strangling you. The tune hammers at the insides of you skull, reverberating across your brain. And you're not even receiving the brunt of it. On the ground, the Nord's face twists into a painted grimace as the magical music flows over him.
Aesa crouches beside him, and reaches out for his hand. She lifts it in both of hers, and for a moment the scene before you seems incongruous, as if she seeks to comfort the wounded man. Then your gaze drifts to her face, and you see all the cold fatalism of the north displayed there. A second later there's a crack, accompanied by a cry of anguish, as one of the fingers breaks.
Between the ministrations of the elven bard and the Nord shaman, he doesn't stand a chance. Within minutes you've heard all you need to hear, and Aesa's sword opens his throat.
HP and Max DamageEdit
- Normal -
- Hard -
- Legendary -
- Nightmare - 2070 hp, 330 max damage