Session 27: The Jarl of Midgard

Whispers Before Dawn

The night following Auril’s Blesstide hung heavy and silent over Skjaldgarðr, the Goliath district of Midgard. Snowflakes drifted down like ash from unseen fires, and the world seemed caught between waking and dream. In the early hours, a soft sound began to ripple through the streets—a low, resonant humming, half song and half prayer.

Those who stirred to listen would hear Unknown, the Dawncaller of Midgard and commander of its nightwatch, singing her ancient hymn to the morning. Her voice echoed through the frosted stone, measured and solemn, marking the passage from night into day.

Not all were content with her melody. From somewhere farther down the street, another voice—boisterous and bright—rose in challenge. Unknown, Midgard’s resident bard and notorious showman, had taken it upon himself to “improve” the dawncall, strumming his lyre and improvising verses between Veyra’s disciplined notes.

For a time, the two sang in opposition: the Dawncaller’s solemn hymn against the bard’s irreverent echoes. By morning, the city awoke not to silence, but to laughter echoing through the frost.

The Frostmaiden’s Whisper

When the first light touched their windows, a sound deeper and louder than before rolled across the city—the Dawncaller’s true song, resonating like a living clocktower, calling Midgard to rise.

One among the party woke with an unnatural chill. Near their bed, frost curled along the wooden floorboards, and resting there was a shard of perfect ice, sharp as glass and clear as starlight. From within, a faint voice whispered in melodic Elvish—The Frostmaiden’s Whisper. The words were indistinct, like hearing a memory underwater.

The Sea Burial of the Lamentor

Downstairs, Harbard awaited, his face pale and lined. “Today,” he said, “we lay my predecessor to rest. You should come. Afterwards, the Jarl will receive you in Unknown.”

The procession wound through the streets, flanked by citizens bearing lanterns. At the harbor, they beheld a small funeral boat carved from white wood, its prow etched with runes of peace. The deceased Lamentor lay within, his face veiled by cloth, the cause of death marked by a strange, neat wound to the skull. “The cult of the Frostmaiden grows bolder,” Harbard said grimly. “They must have new tactics.”

The pyre was lit. Flames licked the figure, and the boat drifted outward toward the fog. When the wind changed, the burning vessel began to glide toward the distant mist of Helheim. The gathered Goliaths bowed their heads, and the party felt the weight of old customs heavy in the air—death here was not an ending, but a passing through ice and fire.

Amid the crowd, a strange movement caught their eyes—a small, twitching shape scuttling across the snow. It vanished into an alley. When they pursued later, they caught a glimpse of an Intellect Devourer, leaving behind shallow claw prints that disappeared near a crack in the northern wall.

Himinháll – The Hall of the Heavens

At the heart of Midgard stood Himinháll, the Hall of the Heavens. Its longhouse roof rose high above the city, crowned by a massive carved effigy of the goat Heidrun, whose likeness loomed against the clouded sky. Inside, dragon-bone beams crisscrossed the vaulted ceiling, and the air was heavy with the mingled scents of smoke, resin, and oiled fur.

The Jarl sat upon his high seat beneath the effigy. The hall was alive with low voices—clan leaders, envoys, and guards murmuring as the party was led forward.

The Jarl’s Decree

Vingthor rose as they approached, his presence commanding and austere. “Much has gone wrong across the isles,” he said. “Loki has been exiled—he destroyed the Gjallarhorn and my Hammer both. For this betrayal, he was forced to guide us to Yggdrasil, where he was chained and left to die. A new Archdruid will be chosen by the tree.”

He gestured toward the vaulted roof, where faint lightning danced within the carved horns of Heidrun. “Since then, our link to Odin has gone dark. Asgard is shrouded in storm clouds, and Odin has missed his Shattering of the Ice—the first time in living memory. None have seen him for over a week. We believe he is angry at the people for the destruction of the Gjallarhorn.”

The Jarl paused, his tone hardening. “A new horn must be forged. But the art of its making… has been lost to time.”

The Runevault

After their audience, the party was permitted to explore the Runevault—an archive of runestones, tablets, and druidic relics chronicling the ancient history of the Isles. Faint blue light pulsed between the runes as if the walls themselves remembered the voices that once inscribed them. What they found there—references to old myths and more recent tales or letters from the people of The Bifrost Isles both.

Fafnir Missing

It had been five days since Fafnir’s departure, yet he had not returned. Concern growing, the party used Albion’s Key to open the portal to the Blackstaff’s office.

Inside, Albion Dusklight greeted them wearily. “I’ve been trying to reach you through Slobberchops,” he explained with a strained smile, “but the cat despises me.” His expression darkened. “Fafnir came to me days ago seeking counsel. Since then, I’ve felt his presence… shift. I fear he has been taken by the mind flayer. If you find him again, do not assume he’s himself.”

The Trap in the Snow

That night, wandering the northeastern edge of Midgard, the party saw another Intellect Devourer scurrying through the snow. They followed its tracks to a small crack in the city wall and decided to set a trap. When they returned later, something struggled within the snare. Quertex raised a Firebolt—and upon releasing it, saw only a small rat, smoldering slightly in the cold night air.

The others laughed, but unease lingered. For all its humor, the sound of scuttling feet in the snow would not leave them that night.