Schierke Wiking requires 5 Energy to fight and is a random encounter appearing in Orange Eyes.
You will win Schierke Wiking upon completing the encounter.
| Difficulty | Stats | Gold | XP | Energy | HP | Deck |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| Normal | 0 0 0 | 100 | 8 | 5 | 1 | 30 |
| Hard | 0 0 0 | 100 | 8 | 5 | 1 | |
| Nightmare | 0 0 0 | 100 | 8 | 5 | 1 |
Deck List[]
The enemy's deck has:
(See Enemy Deck for more information)
Alphabetical Table[]
| Card | Normal | Hard | Nightmare |
|---|---|---|---|
| Acid Flask | 1 | ||
| Adrenaline Rush | 3 | ||
| Armlock | 1 | ||
| Barbaric Assault | 3 | ||
| Cunning Blow | 2 | ||
| Greater Barbed Broach | 1 | ||
| Greater Bash | 3 | ||
| Hand of Sand | 2 | ||
| Headbutt | 2 | ||
| Nord Berserker | 3 | ||
| Nord Warrior | 2 | ||
| Reckless Barrage | 1 | ||
| Soul Spear | 2 | ||
| Talisman of Slaying | 1 | ||
| Wild Flail | 3 |
Transcript[]
Introduction[]
"Where next?" Rakshara asks.
The orange oroc gazes around, shield raised and swords braced, seeking the next foes amid the chaos.
"We-" Tessa begins.
She pauses. And so does everything else.
The noise of the battle is... gone. There's no screaming, no shouting, no clashing steel. It's as though silence has descended as a physical thing, a portcullis that's shut out sound like an invading army.
It's dark now. The clear blue sky and bright sun that looked down upon the fighting but a moment ago have gone, replaced by blackness decorated with eldritch constellations. They shift and swirl like living things, celestial movements that make the stiffness of flesh and steel seem all the more bizarre.
Royal soldiers, orcs, Nords, and your companions are motionless, stopped in mid-blow or word. They're distant as well... The ground is clear for a dozen yards around you, the bloody, trodden snow empty. It's as though the universe has stretched away in all directions, leaving you alone at the nexus of the bizarre happenstance.
You've experienced enough sorcery to understand what's happening. Time hasn't stopped. Day hasn't given way to night. The clashing warriors haven't been shunted away like markers on a campaign map. You're inside your mind...
A burst of harp music radiates through the air behind you, its swirling melody enveloping the clearing like wine adopting the contours of a jug. It can only mean one thing...
"Hello, Medea..."
But it isn't the elven bard that you see when you turn round.
A man kneels in the snow, eyes closed, his hands working the strings of a grand harp. The instrument isn't solid -- not a construction of wood and gut. Instead it's translucent, its curved frame and dancing strings formed of the same flickering, shimmering energy. The harpist's face is young, but his hair is as white as the snow beneath. Those alabaster locks and the light that washes over his features make him seem both youthful and ancient.
"Whoever you are," you say, "you've picked a bad time to get in my way."
"Perhaps. But perhaps this is the most fitting time, as you stand on the cusp of great victory or bitter defeat."
His words drift alongside the music, matching its tone and cadence. The man's eyes open.
"You don't look like one of Crenus' mages. Or a Nord."
"I'm neither," he replies. "My name is Schierke Wiking, and I'm simply one who records those deeds which must never be forgotten."
"Wiking? There's no noble family with that name."
"Ah, such irony... It is we ourselves who have been forgotten, our name scattered across the sands of time even as our songs live on."
"That's... great. Now undo your magic. I promise you, you don't want to become my enemy."
"No... But we must fight. How else can I know if you're the one my song must follow?"
His fingers quicken on the strings. The music intensifies into a rushing, beautiful crash of sound. Cyan streams drift from the harp, striking the ground and expanding into the forms of armed warriors.
Conclusion[]
"One last chance," you say.
Your sword hovers, its point poised to strike. A thrust will send it through the bard's neck, and your magic will ensure that its effect is lethal through whatever connection his mind has forged with yours. But if he's perturbed by impending death, it doesn't disturb his features or his tune. The harp continues to play, now in a slower, softer melody.
"I shall enjoy weaving my song around your deeds," he says.
Light and noise return, your mind flashing back to reality with jarring swiftness.
"-should flank that group", Tessa finishes, indicating a band of enemy warriors that's clashing with a smaller force of Nords.
"Agreed," you reply.
As you move into the fray, a faint chord of harp music flutters by your ear.