Findegil smiles.
"Such fire in the heart befits a warrior! Luckily for you, there is much in Shadow in the dark corners of the Middle Earth yet. Myself and my companions have helped push back a little of it. Has Anar spoken of the goblins at the ring fort?"
Amalina listens quietly to the conversation lost somewhat in her own thoughts. When it turns to goblins, both she and the wolfhound at her side suddenly become tense and alert.
"Where is this ring fort?" She asks the knight in a soft spoken voice. "Were you able to track the foul creatures back to their lair or find out their business in these parts?"
"It sounds like victory to be proud of and a solid blow against the forces of evil." Amalina says with a bow of her head to the dwarf.
"It always gladdens my heart to hear tales of others who are able and willing to strike back against the Foe." A bit of sadness fills her eyes and her expression becomes more somber. "For all to often it is a lonely and desolate road that those who fight the Dark One and his minions must travel."
Amalina looks at the bold warrior, her eyes weighing the man's words and obvious strength and courage with his eager attitude. She had grown up with many of a similar nature among the rowdy woodmen of western Mirkwood. But her own experiences stalking the deep paths of the dark forest these lasts years, both hunting and being hunted by the shadow, had given her a much stronger sense of caution and weariness.
Still...perhaps these warriors could help in her fight...but no...no need to bring the notice of the shadow onto these brave souls as well. It is her fight, and she must brave it until the end.
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Thorgrim's eyes turn down, as if remembering some far-off detail, or a thing best forgotten.
"So too, like a lodestone, I can feel this blade upon my back," he touches the pommel stone that rides at his shoulder like a watchful spirit. "Besides strength and vigor, all that was left to me by my father was this. The blade is called 'Noctiscide' and the elders tell me that name means 'Shadow Slayer'. I know the darkness is not gone from this world, and, I feel I shall not rest easy until I have come to grips with it and fed a full measure to its blade.
It wants to hunt the Shadows, and so I shall."
Cereidh stumbles downstairs, haggard from a poor night's sleep haunted by the Shadow's nightmares.
"Ah, Findegil. Have you told our new friends who slew Dread Urbhuz?"
She pulls out a chair and drops into it heavily - a chair next to Findegil if there's one available - and proceeds to steal bits of food from his plate.
So, when the snows melt and farmers begin to prepare the thawed fields, Mal bids you farewell. After a winter of riddling with the wild hobbit, he offers for you to ask for him if you reach the Gladden Fields. Dody and his wife pack him a backpack full of food, and he heads south.
A couple weeks later while fishing with her hound, Amalina discovers tracks of a pack of orcs heading south on the east side of the Anduin River. She returns to the Easterly Inn to collect you. With finally a sign and purpose, you depart the Easterly Inn within an hour well-provisioned to hunt orc traveling in two canoes.
With the sun starting to set over the Misty Mountains, you first spot carrion crows circling overhead a spot down river. You continue to float down the great river in the shadowing light, deathly silent. Eventually, you hear a thumping sound like that of a drum. Then, the company’s look-out spots another boat that has run aground in the thick rushes and weeds on the east side of the stream. Flies buzz around two slumped shapes that lie over the edge of the boat, and a limp arm beats against the hull of the boat as the current buffets it. As the company come closer, you can see the black shafts of arrows sticking out of both corpses and the frame of the boat.
The two bodies are both those of male Beornings. From their weapons and clothing, they were warriors of good standing and both of them have silver cloakpins in the shape of a bear’s head.
Searching the boat lets the companions find several lengths of rope cut jaggedly with a blade.
Alternatively, they can bury the bodies, mark the graves, and just bring the bear-pins as tokens to Beorn.
Amalina's eyes watch the wood elf sit down next to the knight of Gondor and blushes slightly at the easy intimacy between the two. It had been many long months since she had shared that kind of ease and companionship with anyone.
Sensing her unease Winter bumps her leg with his nose, demanding his usual rub behind the ears which does the job of distracting Amalina from the encroaching sense of loneliness.
"Aye. He and Sir Broadanvil have been describing the battle near the old ring fort." She says, still patting the big hound. Which is why she could feel more than hear Winter's deep grumble, as a rather skinny, but well dressed hobbit joins the group in the common room.
"Easy boy." She says quietly to the dog. While glancing around with a worried smile. "You'll get us tossed out if you grumble at every guest that walks down the stairs."
Yet despite her attempts to calm the animal, Winter continues to grumble in the hobbit's direction, ears back and dark brown eyes watching. Finally, she shrugs an apology, "It's my fault really." She says somewhat sheepishly. "I got him riled when I thought I had seen someone or something climbing up the outside of the inn into the rooms above. It was just my imagination. Too much time spent under the eaves of Mirkwood most likely."
She turns to the hobbit and bows her head slightly. "I do apologize Mr. Blackbuster. Please ignore him and enjoy your meal." She then tilts her head to the side, suddenly puzzled. "Although I must ask. I know that hobbits are rather fond of food. But did you not enjoy the tray Agatha prepared for you? I only dropped it off to your room a little while ago."
Amalina enjoyed the colorful red and oranges that were starting to show as the sun dipped further behind the mountains. Feeling content to be back on the hunt again. The open air and wild country allowed her to relax and be more at ease compared to the friendly, but confining walls of the Inn. Winter obviously felt the same way as he sat, panting in the front of the canoe, nose working back and forth in the steady breeze as she gently paddled down the river.
When the look-outs noticed the crows and then shortly after the wrecked boat she could feel they had finally started to catch up with the quarry they had been seeking. Guiding the canoe ashore, she and Winter quickly join the others to examine the remains.
"Those are certainly orc arrows." She says, holding a cloth over her face. She kneels closer to the victims, eyes scanning the scene for further clues as to what happened.
Findegil looks upon the grisly sight with sorrow on his face.
"Beornings, riddled with orc-arrows. There lies Merovech the Mighty, trusted bringer of justice to Beorn. We met him but once, but he was clearly a fine man. It is only right that we bring him back to Beorn's House, and that boat would make a ready bier."
He moves to begin the preparations.
While Anar and Findegil prepare the boat and the bodies, Amalina checks the nearby area for any sign of where the ambushers went. Not finding anything on the east side of the river, she takes Winter and a canoe across the river to search the west bank. A short while later the big wolfhound barks a few times and draws her to a spot where two orcs lie impaled on the same long spear. Not wanting to leave such a mighty weapon for other Orcs to find, she pulls it from the bodies and takes it with her. After finding the dead Orcs, the two spend a bit more time searching the west bank for the orc trail and then return to the rest of the party.
"These men didn't perish without taking a few of the enemy with them." She says. "Someone cast a long spear across the river killing two Orcs with the single blow." She points to the bloody spear now resting in the canoe. "I thought the weapon should be returned or buried with the warrior who used it so well." She adds bowing her head toward the dead men.
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"Aye, Findegil, you have the right of it. 'Tis the only right thing to do for so legendary a warrior." Thorgrim aids Findegil in preparing the corpses for movement.
When Amalina comes back with her tail, Thorgrim is impressed. "Ho HO! That 'twas a mighty spear cast indeed! A fitting end, then, that he paid the butcher's bill before he was taken. And across the water at that. Indeed, let us bury the spear with him, so he might be armed with a mighty weapon evermore."
Back at the Inn, Cereidh made sure to visit Gombedo periodically while he languished in the Lockhole. Perhaps not the most comforting presence with her usual acerbic manner, but after the goblins she has a hard time thinking of the tragicomedy she witnessed the tail end of as signifier of a real threat.
She has also carefully attempted to befriend Winter:
At the site of the slaughter, to Amalina: "Could you tell from their tracks if the orcs are well away by now?"
"Well spotted! And aye, the spear must be returned also."
Everything happened so fast that it actually took Amalina several moments to figure out exactly what had taken place. All at once the common room had erupted into chaos with hobbits shouting, hobbits running, and finally before she knew it, a hobbit tackled and held by Winter.
The wolfhound now considered a hero by Agatha and Dody, seemed to relish the extra attention and juicy tidbits Agatha set aside after each meal, as well as the friendly outreach from Cereidh over the next weeks.
At first Amalina was angry with herself for not trusting her initial intuition and instinct, but then she heard Gom’s sad tale of capture and ordeal with the Shadow and understood his desperate and frightened manor. All to well did she know and easily relate to how evil could ruin and disrupt lives, turning them in a direction they never would have gone otherwise.
So, she spoke for leniency when others would have seen Gom thrown into the Wild, wounded and hungry. Not a healer herself, she asked the scholar Krogen to at least see the poor hobbit’s wounds healed properly and didn’t get infected. And she teamed with Cereidh to see to it that a bit of soup, meat, and bread was set aside and brought it to him each day despite Agatha’s shakes of her head and constant “Tsk..tsks…nothing good will come of helping a thief. Mark my words.”
Perhaps, most importantly for Amalina, she talked to him and whether he listened or not, it was the first time in months that she’d spent so much time in the company of anyone outside of Winter. And for whatever reason it helped relieve the clouds and shadows in her own mind that had existed since her own escape from the Shadows grip and her corrupted clan.
On the day she found the orc’s trail, she spoke with Gom again. ”Thorgrim and I found an Orc trail heading south and some of us are going to hunt the creatures.” She says. ”I have found that striking back at evil can help cure the fears and other foul things it leaves in our minds.” Taking a deep breath she pushes on. ”I do not think your fate lies in stealing and rotting away in a closet. If you wish, you can strike back at the powers that brought you to this state or perhaps find a bit of redemption by helping others who may be in need. I think Agatha and the innkeepers would accept your parole if you were to join us.”
Ranging out from the Inn one day before Thorgrim, Amalina and Thorgrim’s respective arrivals, Cereidh returns to the Inn to find a small contingent of Greenwood elves making merry, disproportionate to the size of their party. One of them - the quietest, a stern, dark-haired elf - takes her aside when she returns; they retire to her room for a conversation, him carrying a large bundle that might conceal a walking stick.
The elves depart soon after. Cereidh’s in an oddly glum mood but brightens up when she hands her old warbow to Anar with a joke about adding some reach to those stubby dwarven limbs. (She doesn’t care if he actually keeps it).
Thereafter they see her with a fearsome-looking new warbow, stained obsidian and inlaid with filigree that somehow calls to mind glittering frost on a window at night.
At the site of the slaughter, to Amalina: "Could you tell from their tracks if the orcs are well away by now?"
"It has been difficult to find their main trail. They must have milled around a lot, perhaps waiting to spring their ambush or they've done a reasonable job of covering their tracks. I think they have moved on, but deciphering the signs...is challenging. Especially since we are losing the light." Amalina says to Cereidh while looking up to the darkening sky. " I do not think they are still nearby, but it would be wise to maintain a strong watch tonight."
Then a puzzled look comes across her face as she lays the long spear across the shrouded warrior laid out in the boat turned bier.
"These bits of rope are puzzling." She says, picking up the strewn pieces and giving them a closer look. "They appear to have been cut." Biting her lower lip in thought she turns to those who have visited Beorn before. "Do any of you recognize these men from your past visits to Beorn's house?"
"There lies Merovech the Mighty, as Findegil said. One of Beorn's most trusted men, and not foolhardy in his bravery, either." With a quick sardonic look at Thorgrim, although her mouth's turned down in wary grief - or wariness of others' grief.
Findegil nods.
"Aye, we will stand watches. I volunteer for the second watch."
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Thorgrim nods, but it's less communication and more like a bear shaking off a bee-sting. "Aye, brother-warrior, that seems like wisdom, but with so much death, and with naught to vent my rage against, I am not for sleep. I shall take the first, and WOE betide any agent of the shadow that would seek to disturb our rest in this sacred place, consecrated it is by the blood of battle."
"Ah yes, now I recall. Merovech, a trusted ally of Beorn. It must be hunger overtaking my mind." Amalina says shyly after both Anar and Cereidh remind her of Findegil's previous identification.
"Since we are staying, I'll volunteer for the early morning watch after Findegal." She says with a nod to the Gondoran. "But for now, I'll help get a fire started for tea and a meal." She then goes to gather enough wood for a small cook fire, Winter by her side constantly sniffing the air for any sign of Orcs or other unexpected visitors.
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When Amalina mentions a fire, Thorgrim nods his head and starts murmuring that here would be good, pointing to the edge of the water and other things that make no sense when building a fire, and his inanities fade out as she and Winter enter the woods.
By the time she returns, Thorgrim has a happy fire crackling in what looks like a bed of grass, and a veritable feast of strange vegetables roasting on the ends of sticks.
"The roots of this swamp-grass is akin to peat moss," he begins to mention by way of explanation. "It'll burn twice as long and hot as dry wood, if you know where to dig. And these tubers, found at the water's edge, taste as good as potatoes, if you cook 'em long enough."
Amalina shakes her head and laughs lightly at Thorgrim's shenanigans and is happy enough to set the wood down near the kindled fire. "Just is case we run out of swamp-grass." She says with a chuckle. She then begins to prepare a cup of mint tea from a supply of dried leaves kept tucked away in a small pouch.
Sitting back against her pack as the kettle warms, her thoughts turn back to those severed ropes. "The more I think about it the more it looks like those ropes would have been used to hold a prisoner. Merovech's sword is missing is it not? My guess is this prisoner...either in the confusion of the attack, or perhaps with the aid of the Orcs, severed his bonds and escaped off into the Wilderness. The question is, who was this person and how dangerous might they be?" She continues to think out loud, while staring into the fire. "Certainly a man of Merovech's status would be tasked with handling the more dangerous or serious problems, not just common scoundrels and thieves." Suddenly wincing at that last remark, she blushes and looks apologetically toward Gom.
"Whoever this prisoner was, they seem not to have cared much for the Beornings' funerals," Cereidh says. "It puts me of mind that they were either working for the Shadow to begin with, or soured by captivity to the point of ruthless cowardice, and fled with Merovech's sword."
"Either way I'm not inclined to lose sleep over them, not any more than being about orcs is already going to."
After a meal of crisped potatoes, venison and biscuits, Amalina once again settles her back against her pack, blanket wrapped around her shoulders and Winter curled up by her side. As the fire burns low and the Sickle rides high in the sky, she begins to hum softly to herself, her eyes drifting up into the dark night sky. The dwindling light of the flames dance across her eyes when she pushes a strand of dark hair behind her ear starts to softly sing.
Long was the way that fate them bore,
O'er stony mountains cold and grey,
Through halls of iron and darkling door,
And woods of nightshade morrowless.
The Sundering Seas between them lay,
And yet at last they met once more,
And long ago they passed away
In the forest singing sorrowless...
Her singing is not as polished and full bodied as that of an elf, but not unpleasant to hear on a lonely spring night around a fire in the wilderness. The last notes drift off into the night and she turns toward the fallen warriors laid out just beyond the edges of the camp.
"You walked the mountains, forests, and plains of Wilderland. Fought the shadow to protect those you love, may your souls rest easy, find peace, and join those you've loved and lost under the bright stars." She says quietly before finishing the last sips of her tea.
Findegil, after warming himself, seems to reach a conclusion.
He speaks up.
"If Merovech was bringing a prisoner, and they fled, they must surely been of ill nature. And after stealing the man's blade also. We should track them down and finish Merovech's task."
Findegil, perhaps to the surprise of those around, adds his own round of verse from an old tale, in a firm voice:
"Mourn not overmuch - mighty was the fallen, and war now calls us!"
Cereidh softly hums along with the singing.
"We have many enemies to pursue it is true." Amalina says to Findegil. "Orcs and now this mysterious prisoner. And I agree, this felon needs to be brought to justice...for his initial crimes as well as those he may have committed as part of this ambush." Then she sighs heavily and rubs her eyes wearily. "But we've no idea what this person looks like or who they might be. Plus, I would not wish to dispense justice on Beorn's lands without his permission." She pauses to think some more, then looks back to the bodies. "We should do as you, Anar and Thorgrim initially counseled and take the bodies to Beorn. It is not far, by my reckoning. Once there we can seek his counsel and dispensation to act in his name against whoever this prisoner might be and these warriors will get a proper burial and honor that is their due."
"Those are fair words with just intent, Amalina. As much as I would see justice done, it must be done in the right way."
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Thorgrim shakes his head, like a buffalo trying to loose a gnat. "I can not council to that. We know naught of the prisoner, save that he escaped. And his crimes could not have been too egregious, else he would have been killed on the spot.
It seems simple to me: The orcs attacked, and he escaped in the chaos. Such things happen in battle.
Beseems to me that the fault lies in the orcs. 'Twill be easier to track a heavy-footed warband of orcs than a single man. I would hunt and slay the orcs, and thereby decrease the shadow by many, rather than hunting a single man, who may have simply stolen a head of cattle, for all we know.
If the bodies had personal effects, we can take those to Beorn. No amount of care for a corpse will bring it back to life."
"Certainly Amalina's proven herself eminently sensible, not only for her excellent choice in companions," Cereidh says, reaching over to scritch Winter behind an ear. "But of all of us, doesn't the Beorning Thorgrim have the most claim to speak for Melovech's wishes?"
"As for me, wetting my arrows in orc blood or my mug with Beorn's excellent mead - well, is it already too noble a company to admit a preference for the latter?" she says with a certain forced lightness, although she's comfortable within the circle of their camp.
Findegil turns to Thorgrim.
"Thorgrim, you surely knew the man better than any of us. What would Merovech have wished, were he able to speak?"
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Thorgrim sighs deeply, resigning himself to the inevitable. "Hmmmph. -I- would see Merovech left to the wolves that he seemed to so love spending time with, and that shared so much in ideals.
We...did not get along. I saw him as a usurper, taking in men that did not deserve the treatment he brought. O! he was fine with a sword, sure, but by the time I left it beseemed that he was as much a bureaucrat as the rest of the tribe was turning in to.
_HE_ would want his remains brought before his master. And, indeed, now that I think upon it, that is what we should do, for no amount of orc hides would bring us succor did Beorn ever find that we were here and left him to nature.
But do not think that I will love it, for I thought many more moons to pass before I saw that man again.
He shall say that I have turned tail and come home.
And that is not so."
"He can say as he likes! We will tell him the truth.", Findegil says with determination burning in his eyes.
"I would not see any man wronged, but especially not one of character."
The hall of Beorn is a day’s easy walk from the river, even though the company is weighed down with the burden of the dead. In the middle of the afternoon, the companions find themselves walking across vast patches of clover of different colors; the air is fragrant with the flowers’ sweet scents and is droning with the sound of dozens of large bees. Several homesteads can be seen to the north and south, the residences of those who have come to live under Beorn’s protection.
By sunset, the company arrives in sight of an ancient belt of mighty oak trees; beyond it rises the high thorny hedge that surrounds Beorn’s Hall. A tall and wide wooden gate opens in the thorn-hedge to the north, beyond which a wide track leads south towards Beorn’s house and the surrounding outbuildings.
When you push open the heavy creaking gate and start making their way towards the house of Beorn, you feel as if they were returning home after a lengthy absence. Your spirits feel uplifted, and even the bodies of the Beornings seem suddenly easier to carry. You feel the bonds of mutual friendship that ties together your company reinforced by the experience:
The company is met along the track by dogs, who sniff them and bark excitedly at first, but then grow momentarily quiet as they notice the burden carried by the adventurers. These dogs knew and loved Merovech, and start howling mournfully once they realize he is dead. You are accompanied by the wailing dogs until you reach the courtyard outside Beorn’s hall – a long, low building with several wings and out-houses. Bees buzz sleepily as the dusk sets it. Beorn himself sits on the porch of his house, whittling a piece of wood.
Beorn brings the company into his hall and bids them sit down on benches on either side of the long table, while he settles his massive frame into an equally massive wooden chair. Beorn is a giant of a man, dressed in a woolen tunic tied with a simple belt. He wears no jewelry or silver to mark his high standing, and the axe at his side is a plain, unadorned weapon, notched and scraped with a lifetime of use. The only sign that he is a great leader of men and not a lone woodsman is the fact that his hair and flowing black beard are now combed.
Setting down the bodies in the hall, you are surprised by the expressions on the two corpses: their facial features are no longer twisted by pain and suffering, but composed and seemingly at peace, as if they were simply asleep.
After any introductions, Beorn asks for you to describe what they saw at the river and about Merovech’s purse of silver.
Cereidh hangs back and watches for Thorgrim or Findegil to explain the evil deed, assuming that Thorgrim will speak in anger, or Findegil will attempt to smooth the painful homecoming.
Although their task is a sad one, Amalina enjoys the smell of clover and the sun warming her face as the sounds of bees fill the air during the March to Beorn's. Winter seems to echo her light mood and spends much of the time racing up and down the trail and with several side treks to sniff rabbit burrows and chase the occasional squirrel.
By the time they arrive at Beorn's,the big dogs tongue hangs to the side as he pants and joins the other hounds in thier welcome and the subsequent mournful howls.
Hanging in the back of the group, Amalina is a bit awed at first by Beorn and his comfortable home. That impression is just enhanced when she notices the absence of an actual carving knife while the big man whittles.
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Thorgrim enters his homeland in a surely mood, forced unto a homecoming not of his choosing on an errand not his own. Though the soothing forces of Beorn's land are sublime, to one already inured to their effects through prior exposure, they do little but take the edge off. Always is he balanced on edge, waiting for some word inferring his own weakness.
Thorgrim keeps a civil tongue in his head, telling the details evenly, keeping in line with the rest, and staying silent on what he thought of Merovach's heavy-handed tactics.
Though Thorgrim is as hungry as the rest, and shovels his mouth full of food as much as any, and more than most, he chaffs under the rituals of his homeland. The sheep make poor substitutions for curvaceous tavern maidens, rolling and teasing in short shifts of cotton or silk. The meal entirely lacks the full taste of meat and though the mead is fine, he'd not miss a flagon of wine to chase the taste.
As his belly stand replete and the sun is long down, the urge to stand and pledge his STEEL to hunt down and eradicate the orcish threat is overwhelming. But Beorn's head is tougher than his wood-carving nails, and even suggesting a course of action, no matter how prudent, would only get the old man into an argument in which he may very well do the opposite of what good sense dictates, just so he can say that he under the thumb of no man.
Thorgrim seeks his blankets, resolved to suggest a martial course of action of Beorn is still undecided in the morning.
Aside from the relevant and immediate news of Orcs passing nearby, Amalina shares what little news she has to offer of happenings under the western eaves of Mirkwood, although it has been some time since she last wandered under the tall trees of the dark wood and her news is many weeks old.