Wulfgith snatched up two more arrows and let them fly.
Two of Cereidh's arrows pass through the orb as does one of Wulfgith's. Those are followed by another flurry from Thorgrim that further cuts the spirit's connections to the mortal realm while delivering another set of electrical shocks to the Beorning. The spirit is nearly driven away. Nearly, but not quite.
Hobwise dives for the last remaining orb misses. The malevolent spirit takes its opening shocking the hobbit with a minor blast of lightning and then absorbing the remaining free spirit to regain some of its lost energy.
Orb HP: 22/100 (34-32+20)
Sweat pours down Giles brow and into his eyes, as he attempts, again, to shoot malevolent the spirit.
Having missed the other orb, Hobwise ties the sack tightly and plays a game of "catch me if you can" with the big red orb.
"Hey!" Cereidh yells, shifting her feet before taking another two shots from her current strong stance. "You have more than one enemy here, foul ghost!"
Apparently a little guilty over Thorgrim getting more than his fair share of the spirit's retaliatory attention.
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That last one hurt.
Such a powerful voltage coursed through him that Thorgrim at last takes a knee, chasing after good breath as his body for a moment forgets how to breath.
Taking pause to at last observe the battlefield, he witnesses the orb vainly chasing after the agile half-man, fully ignoring the deadly barbs the elf continuously sends after it.
Thinking that he might be going about this the wrong way, he maintains his position of cover and plays witness to the goings on, conserving the last of his strength.
Wulfgith, ringing in her ears still, grabbed another set of arrows and hoped they'd hit better.
More arrows reduce the orbs glow and size, but not completely. The spirit spins and pulses furiously launching a cascading barrage of lightning that engulfs Hobwise. Despite his best efforts, the hobbit cannot escape the blast. Necrotic electricity courses through his frame causing him to shudder and smolder as he tries to maintain his grip on the sack hiding the single remaining sacrificial soul.
With most of its energy expended harassing Hobwise, the orb acknowledges Cereidh's bravado and sends a spark her way. Although the charge strikes the elf, it does little more than singe her fingers.
Orb HP: 7/100
Cereidh grimaces mockingly at it, and shoots it again.
She is aware that her efforts are disproportionate to their effect, but it's doing something.
Seeing Thorgrim uncharacteristically holding back, Giles comes up--waiving his hands to get the big man's attention--and quickly administers a poultice to the worst of the Beorning's wounds.
"There you go, now finish that foul spirit!" He says, on the off chance that Thorgrim can hear anything more than this infernal ringing that's making his skull ache.
"Thorgrim! Get back in there!" Wulfgith shouted, likely louder that she expected.
Hobwise holds onto the sack as best he can, tying the drawstring tighter and tighter as he defends himself against the orb.
Full Defense action.
Cereidh and Wulfgith continue their feathered assault upon the angry spirit. Finally one of the rider's arrows causes the orb a dissipate. Slender tendrils of ethereal spirit energy drift apart like cobwebs on a summer breeze. Following that final arrow strike and the orbs slow decay, the black altar cracks and a mighty moaning rumble shakes the chamber as whatever malevolent power that held this place in thrall for over a thousand years expires.
Another rumble rattles your very bones as the earth above and below begins to move. Dirt, stone and ice rain down. The walls crack and one of the skeletal bodies drops into a newly opened crack in the floor. A crack that continues to grow as the ground continues to shake and rumble.
All eyes turn toward the narrow, fragile tunnel leading out. Fortunately it still stands open, but only moments exist between escape and certain burial within this doomed and forsaken place.
Cereidh stops for just a moment, staring at the tunnel - still as a hawk and as brief in her stillness as a diving falcon. But as her compatriots are still standing and presumably able to fend for themselves ... she dashes for the tunnel.
Giles feels a moment of relief as the angry spirit fades. His eyes light toward the ancient relics and he has the merest moment to hope he'll be able to study them--and then the world crumbles.
"NOO!!!" He cries, as he feels-more-than-hears the tremor, and starts to dart for the door.
Why did we come down here, if not to unlock new secrets! He laments, as he scrambles for the tunnel.
"GO!" shouts Hobwise. Being the quickest and the most sure-footed, he directs the others to go first. At the same time, he somersaults over to the broken altar and deftly fingers first the scroll canisters - for Giles - pinning them under his arm, and then the scabbard and knife - for himself - which he secures between his teeth. Then he takes a look at the golden chain. It is a priceless relic of a prior age, to be sure - just the sort of thing Lord Elrond would wish to study.
With the floor now threatening to swallow him whole, he takes hold of the necklace and pulls. Should it not be yet held fast, he might slip it easily off the headless corpse. Then he leaps for the exit, the last one out.
Cereidh slips and falls on the icy cracking her chin on the hard floor and is battered by several falling chunks of ice. Fortunately, Thorgrim is there in time to pull her out of the path of a much larger boulder that crashes to the floor a heartbeat later. The burly Beorning shouts at the elf and the others to run.
Meanwhile, dirt, ice and stone rain down upon Hobwise as he shoves the last of his companions toward the collapsing tunnel. With skill and grace the hobbit ducks and dodges the largest stones and debris falling into the shaking, rumbling chamber with its gruesome remains of ancient dark deeds. But no amount of nimbleness can truly avoid all of the falling debris. Fist sized chunks pelt and batter the hobbit even as he dodges the truly life ending larger stones.
With quick hands he grabs what he can of the ancient relics while watching the entrance to the tunnel slowly close as the chamber seems to be sinking deeper into the heart of the hill.
In the tunnel, the rest of the fleeing fellowship choke on dust and grit as the tunnel and lower catacombs of the tower also begin to collapse. The ground shifts and jerks slamming you into walls and causing supports to crumble.
The scrolls held tightly under his arm, Hobwise weighs the risk of retrieving other treasures against the increasing likelihood that he will be buried under a mountain of rock in very short order.
He cannot avoid the larger chunks of rock and is more gravely wounded, but he also cannot ignore the chance to secure at least one more artifact. WHile the debris rains down on top of him he frees the knife and scabbard from its eternal place at the belt of the wolfman.
Cereidh grips Thorgrim's elbow in thanks before continuing to flee.
Giles sees Hob risking life and limb to rescue relics...and is so heartened he doesn't look up until too late and a hunk of falling stone almost knocks him out cold.
Blood running into his eyes, he does his best to stay focused and make it out alive.
Wulfgith, seeing Hobwise's actions mimicked them, however she chose the necklace. Digging it out from the ice before following the others into the fray.
However upon the way out Wulfgith found herself struck by falling ice.
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"Gratitude," the big warrior rumbles out as Giles restores much of his fighting strength.
"YOU get back in there!" he reflexively shouts back to the Warden. He was getting ready to do just such a thing, but he took umbrage at being told to do what he was about to do.
Then the whole thing is rendered mute by events unfolding as he foresaw them and the elf's fine bow slaying the thing asunder.
And of course the cavern begins to collapse. 'Oh no not again,' he thinks, hi-tailing it out of there.
Warmed by the elf's touch, energy flows through him as from a volcano of power, and he lightly clambers up the tunnel with the grace of a Tirinthian dancer, unheeding of his bulky armor. The falling rocks seem to go out of there way to hit him as gently as possible.
"Nope, no time for sleeping," he murmurs to Wulfgith. His thick arms lightly pick her up and he carries on, his ever-burning strength noticing his bundle but little.
Moving onward, he notices the flagging scholar, judging Giles' weight and gauging his capacity at carrying two persons to safety.
Wulfgith collapses as a support beam catches her in the head knocking her unconscious and putting a massive dent in her ancestral helm. Thorgrim, who has suddenly become an expert at picking fallen companions from the floor, is there to grab the fallen rohirrim and carry her further up into the lower levels of the tower. Even here the stone cracks and crumbles. But the destruction is not yet so severe as nearer the ancient lair of darkness. For those who fled quickly, there is time to hurry up the stairs and escape to safety. For those who delayed, time runs short.
Still down in the chamber the rumble of moving earth and collapsing stone is deafening. Dust, dirt and a mist of shattered ice pollutes the air making movement that much more difficult. Amidst it all is one small hobbit scrambling for an ancient blade and scabbard. Having successfully grabbed the treasure, Hobwise doesn't see a large stone that slams into his shoulder from above. A cry of pain escapes his lips and his eyes see the tunnel opening shrinking further...
"Time to go!" The boulder nearly kills him, and had it hit the hobbit in the head instead of the shoulder he'd be done for. He reminds himself that treasure is useless to the dead, and leaves the golden chain behind, making for the exit as nimbly but quickly as his legs will carry.
Cereidh looks around desperately for a large log or beam to use to wedge open to exit for the rest of her companions.
Wulfgith was out cold, and her consciousness was slipping away.
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"No. Nothing will work here," Thorgrim grumbles at Cereidh as he catches her eye searching about, mirroring his own thoughts. He gently places Wulfgith down and gives voice to his view.
"To brace the passage I'd need to carve a good sapling, or split a tree of at least two years. A trice for Noctacide, but we've no time now. We must needs provide our own support."
Returning to the sagging tunnel, he goes until meeting a part of it that is giving way more than most. Standing, straightening up, he places his leather-hard palms against the ceiling, and braces his back to the weakening earth.
Filling the passage with a blood-chilling cry, he exerts his full measure against the flagging stones, putting off their ultimate demise by trading buckets full of his own sweat.
Face purpling with exertion, a random thought drifts across his mind. It seems that he once heard a far-fetched tale of some backward people who thought a giant creature bore up the skies--or was it the earth itself?--on his own back. He thinks this and how similar it is to his own present experience.
Cereidh drops to her knees beside Wulfgith, staring down at her in shocked, dumb reaction. But maybe habit will prevail. She sets her hands to tending her.
Knowing the hobbit should be coming, Thorgrim does what he can to brace one of the few remaining beams in the tunnel with his own large frame. Seemingly oblivious to the debris battering his head, shoulders, and back, the big warrior stands firm. Eventually the beorning is rewarded as a dust enshrouded Hobwise emerges from the billowing cloud created by the ever growing cave in. The coughing and hacking hobbit hurries past. The earth continues to rumble, groan, and shake as if it doesn't want those who intruded upon this dark place to escape. Whatever foundation held up the ruins finally and utterly begins to give way. With the hobbit scampering past, Thorgrim leaps free of the big wooden beam moments before it finally cracks and collapses with the rest of the tunnel.
The two race ahead of the cascading dirt and stone. Thorgrim grabbing the stable but still unconscious form of Wulfgith just as Cereidh finishes her quick ministrations. Racing up the final stairwell, the fellowship bursts out into the open air followed by an expanding cloud of dust as the ground continues to sink and churn.
The ancient ruins sway and tumble all about the summit. The one lone tower that held the lair of the wargs teeters momentarily and then crumbles in a slow moving wave of stone down the hillside.
Swiftkiss whinnies in panic and breaks free of the loosely tied reins back in the camp. With the grace and speed of its lineage, the horse dashes for safety down slope, leading the way for the slower moving members of the fellowship.
There's no time to grab gear as the ground beneath your feet continues to give way beneath your racing feet. The air is completely engulfed in a cloud of choking dirt and stone dust making each breath a painful misery.
Finally upon reaching the very outer rim of the hillside the ground feels more solid and the shaking of the collapse begins to subside. The immediate danger has passed. But rising into the sky like a great beacon is the cloud of dust and debris.
As the cloud slowly dissipates the extent of the damage becomes more clear. It is as if the top of the hill simply collapsed upon itself. The already ruined tower and surrounding walls is now nothing more than a chaotic mass of shattered stone, fallen trees, brush and dirt in the center of a sunken crater.
Cereidh collapses to her knees, coughing violently. She sways there for a moment before falling further, rolling into her back. Her chest rises and falls raggedly for a moment before she coughs again, and settles back down with a sigh.
She lays there for a moment, eyelids fluttering, before she opens her eyes and starts to laugh.
"Drat!" curses the hobbit. "My dwarven-forged pots were left at camp!" He wonders if the defeat of another ancient evil was worth the price.
Hobwise dusts himself off. He's severely wounded but it could have been worse.
"These are for you, Giles." the hobbit hands the pair of scroll cases to the scholar. "I hope they don't conjure some great horror from a previous age. If they do, I'll be quite cross with myself."
Once the company has reached a place to briefly rest and take stock, he examines the scabbard and knife - practically a short sword in his hands - looking for any clues as to its origin. One Giles is suitably settled, he asks the scholar to take a look at it as well.
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"A pox on it! And my saddle and bit as well! It'll be a rough week stretching leather again for a new one. Ah well, nothing for it and I've no horse-flesh to tie it to anyway."
At first he looks quizzically as the she-elf is rocked by peels of laughter. After a moment's ponderance, he sees the joke in the thing and joins her gaiety, shaking the sky with a lusty guffaw of his own.
Once sobriety is regained, he looks upon their surroundings. "Beseems few of us are in a state to travel, and that earth-shake should scare off all baleful animals for a fortnight, at least.
What say I start a fire and we have a good rest until morning?"
"I could sleep well," she agrees, surprisingly mild. "Near the - ruins of our victory."
As Giles emerges from the stale darkness into the fresh air, he gasps and is about to collapse on the wet grass, when he notices Thorgrim carrying Wulfgith's unconscious body.
"Bring her to me." he sighs, as he unpacks his supplies. Taking his time this time, he carefully washes her wounds and applies a thick, pungent ointment before bandaging her. As he works, he glances hungrily at the scroll cases Hobwise rescued. When--finally--he's content with his ministrations, he turns to the hobbit.
"Master Hornblower, you are brave indeed. Thank you for risking yourself to rescue these ancient scrolls. I can't begin to imagine what they might contain."
Giles begins to slowly, carefully examine the cases before opening them and examining their contents.
Inside you find a set of rolled vellum scrolls. The delicate but intact sheets are filled with a flowing writing inked in pure gold. But as you peer at the text further your heart lurches and your palms begin to sweat. The words are in no language of elves or men, but are most certainly some ancient form of the Black Speech.
The knife itself feels warm to the touch. The bone handle is tipped with silver and a band of amethyst and bloodstone. Despite its age and long years buried beneath ice and grime, the steel blue blade still gleams in the sunlight. It's edge sharp enough to easily cut your thumb as you run it gingerly across the blade. Exquisitely balanced, the long knife feels like it is a mere extension of your hand. Almost as if it were a long claw rather than an unwieldy blade of steel.
As you ponder the knife in the warmth of the sun, you can't help but wonder how it would feel to fight with such a weapon. How easily it would bite into a foe's soft skin. The glorious exhilaration of carving a path through a whole line of hated enemies. The joy of having it outshine every other mortal blade. Surely this is such a weapon.
Despite the size of its haft, the knife feels natural in Hobwise' hand. He cuts through the air, imagining orcs falling to pieces before him. It is at once exhilarating and frightening that a hobbit should want such a thing. He returns the unblemished blade to the scabbard and fastens it tightly to his belt.
Cereidh looks at Hobwise, a little suspicious but not surprised, and not outright alarmed.
Wulfgith groaned as she slowly opened her eyes. Her head spun but when she was greeted with the sight of her friends she smiled. They hadn't left her behind. Slowly she opened her hand go show them what she had taken, which had almost cost her everything. "I... Was able to grab this." She told them as she showed them the necklace. "Thank you... For pulling me out of there."
Steadily Wulfgith got herself up, happy to be alive after that happened. "How is everyone else?" She asked.
"Whole," Cereidh replies cheerfully.
Giles carefully pulls the first scroll out and begins to scan them with some excitement...until he realizes they are in some ancient form of the Black Speech.
Sweating, he puts them back in their case, saying, "It may be that Lord Elrond will have a use for these...but I think it unwise to study them too much away from his halls.
"Still, I'm quite sure it's good that you managed to grab them, Master Hornblower. Say, may I examine that blade as well? It seems quite a fine thing, and clearly ancient of make.
"And Wulfgith, I would be interested in studying that necklace as well."
The knife itself feels warm to the touch. The bone handle is tipped with silver and a band of amethyst and bloodstone. Despite its age and long years buried beneath ice and grime, the steel blue blade still gleams in the sunlight. It's edge sharp enough to easily cut your thumb as you run it gingerly across the blade. Exquisitely balanced, the long knife feels like it is a mere extension of your hand.
You can't really determine anything else about the blade at the moment. Perhaps will a little more time and with the help of some of the books back in Rivendell.
As for the necklace the bit of gold that Wulfgith grabbed isn't the same as that you saw draped around the neck of the wolf beast on the altar. Instead, judging by the design, this must have come from one of the sacrificial Dunedain victims and been uncovered by the chaos of the caverns destruction. The pattern is certainly from old Cardolan and the family crest on the inlay is that of the Eldanar family. The family once ruled a large swath of Cardolan and their most ancient ancestors are buried in the Barrow Downs.
The remainder of the day and the night pass uneventfully offering everyone the chance to rest and regain a bit of strength. However, without the benefit of blankets, food, and cooking gear a true rest is unattainable. Yet despite the rough conditions during the night the following morning brings a certain amount of thankfulness for being alive and well enough to greet the rising sun.
Giles' eyebrows rise as he feels the power in the blade. "You've found an interesting prize, Master Hobwise. May it serve you well.
"I feel there's more to learn about it, but perhaps after I've had a good night's rest...and I don't know we'll have one of those before we make it back to Rivendell, sadly."
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Thorgrim rose and stretched, his thick muscles popping and grinding as he greeted the warmth of the sun. He had spent many a lonely night on the road, and his primordial vitality had already recovered from the worst of yesterdays privations. However such a hardy recovery had its price and he felt famished.
Kindling the remains of the night's fire into a happy flame, he waited until everyone had risen before brightly announcing, "Well I'm one to show this place our backs! And fear not about rations! Many a day I've walked the paths with even less than we now have, so keep a steely ken! We've all the forest to reap for our cookfire, and every cave or copse we pass will freely shelter us without asking for a copper in return!
I may have an idea to get us to civilization on the quick, and once we do I'm sure we can kit ourselves out in good order."
Thankful that he kept his bedroll and blanket on him to guard against the cold, Hobwise suffers less than most from the cold. He awakens felling all of his vigor returned, and his mood is dramatically improves despite the loss of his beloved pots.
"May the sun favor us during our travels," he says with a cheeriness he has not felt in many, many months. Over the course of the journey, he allows Giles to study the knife as he wishes, returning it tightly to his belt after each session. When his mind wanders toward some glorious battle, he thinks of home instead, enjoying a glass of house red by the roaring hearth.
Onward to Rivendell.
Cereidh continues on in a fair and fine, if a little fey, mood.
With little left to do here at the ruins of Harnalda, the fellowship begins the trek back to Rivendell. For the first half of the day the weather holds, but then clouds begin to roll in from the west and by evening there's a light wind and drizzle falling upon the rolling hills of southern Rhudaur. Travel is a bit easier for the lack of extra gear and packs, but soon enough the loss of equipment is felt.