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Thorgrim scowls at the lack of refreshment. 'Typical. We've met a brace of nobles now, and not a one has so much as a horn of beer to clear the dust from the throat! I've got to find better paying work.'
As the eagle agrees with the elf to take them distance enough to sate their current charge, Thorgrim nods in at least appreciation. "Hmmm. That is good. If anyone were indeed taking a long, arduous, dangerous task, especially to do something of great import, I can see how keeping in the eagles' good graces would be important. Since walking a great distance would be most dangerous indeed, and flight could circumvent many perils.
Although, I can see how that might cut out what some could consider a great adventure.
Of course, if someone did walk instead of flying, that would be funny, because it's so very far."
Thorgrim settles into silence and brooding.
"Thank you, Lady Cereidh," musters Hobwise.
Tending to Winter's wounds as well as her own, Amalina welcomes the aid from the eagles as well as honoring their request to investigate the potential orc fortress.
Once the company is ready to leave, Irimë bids farewell to the Lord of the Eagles, and you embark on a new flight. The journey down the mountain is more pleasant than the flight up, assuming one equates ‘pleasant’ with ‘being able to see instead of flying blindly in the dark’. You can see all of Wilderland laid out beneath you, like an astoundingly detailed map. In the distance, there is the shadow of Mirkwood, then there is the silver ribbon of the Anduin, its green vales, and then the towering wall of the Misty Mountains. The Eagles drop you off half-way along the road leading to the High Pass at the ruins of an old town.
Irimë explains, “I have been here before. This was Haycombe, the trader’s town leading to the Cirith Forn en Andrath. It was built by Middle-Men with golden hair who traded over the Mountains. They were a kind folk. They held a market here, and my kin from Lindon would come sometimes, and we would dance in the snow. The Men would laugh to see us run.”
“They are gone, now. Some went South, with a brave chieftain called Eorl. Others stayed, until the shadow in the forest reached out and destroyed them. Treachery brought the enemy into the town, his horrors took the people here as slaves, and then there was no more laughter in the pass.”
Irimë explains that this is where she is to meet emissaries from Rivendell. She suggests that you make camp here and rest.
When Bilbo had shared the tale of the Battle of Five Armies, he painted a glorious portrait of heroic eagles, tearing through the ranks of foul orcs. And perhaps in that rare employment of war-waging that seems to visit the land of Men on a semi-regular basis, having an army of birds the size of trees descending on the battlefield is a tally on the plus side of the ledger. And perhaps being plucked from certain death falls into the same category. With nothing left in his system to throw up, Hobwise gives in to the horror of another flight in the clutches of some monstrous land-averse creature.
Hobwise vows, as long as he shall live, to never be carried off the ground by any winged creature again after this. And he would advise any other self-respecting Hobbit to follow suit. Walking, no matter how far, is certainly the surest, most predictable, and least dramatic way to travel. ;)
There is a spark of recognition in Findegil's eyes.
"Long your memory is, past very many generations even of the more long-lived men. But the Shadow keeps claiming blood, that story changes little.", he finishes, thinking of the slow ruin of his own house.
He looks out onto the land, hoping to see something of import to take his mind off gloomier thoughts and memories.
Again, the evening draws in. Irimë does not sleep; instead, she wanders the hillside, following the unseen path of streets that were buried centuries ago. She steps lightly over snowfalls, remembering her vanished kin, and the lights of the market. As the stars come out overhead, she raises her voice in a song to Elbereth Starkindler.
You awake on the mountainside with all of your equipment and weapons at hand. The mountainside, though, has changed. Where once there was an old and ill-maintained track, there is now a well-traveled road. Where once there were ruined walls and fallen stones, there is a town called Haycombe. While it is but a small town compared to the great cities of the South, it is a far larger settlement than any that exist in Wilderland today, save perhaps Esgaroth or Dale. It is protected by high walls of timber.
You can hear the sound of laughter and the bustle of a market from inside the town, and it is clear that many travelers have gathered here. Entering the town, you are greeted by a crowd of tow-headed children, who swirl around you and start pestering you with questions: who are you? Where do you come from?
Cereidh dips the children a courtly bow, perhaps oddly - to her companions - calm at this sea-change in their surroundings. "I am Lady Cereidh, good citizens, and we come from - a land that we traveled from very shortly, but well hidden to you - but this is the fairer land for our travels, oh yes! Or. Fairer to our eyes - shall you take us to see more of it?"
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Thorgrim accepts the flight with a nonplussed grimness. The wonder of flight and the bird's-eye view of the landscape whizzing by greatly overshadowed that not a whit of this action was by -his- choosing. Too greatly does this reek of continued charity from those that look down upon him as his "betters".
All the more does it sting that he is fully unable to take action to prove such a notion as false.
He listens with but have an ear as the blue-blood dandelion-eater drones on about how some pile of rocks was once a town. What of it? How is his life enhanced by knowing the entire family tree of every tree branch they pass by?
His deep brooding even steals from him the joy of building a fire, though the half-man seems to have seen to it with a fine eye, so no harm. He seeks his blankets early.
Upon waking to the odd sight of a bustling town so near to hand, he questions it not at all--he has been flown by eagles twice in so near a span, and this star-crossed sojourn has seen many odd things befall, so what of it if the she-witch transposed them to some bustling burb? Let her be useful once!
At the sound of laughter and the smell of a market Thorgrim claps Hobwise soundly on the back and laughs lustfully. "YES! Yes, at last we have joined a real city of civilization! Come, my friend, the ability of the hobbits to enjoy the pleasures of the table are well known, so come let us see if this well-salted town knows how to lay a table and crush a grape!"
At the rush of children he wades into them with relish, grinning and laughing that, at least for now, these young ones are not the chattel of some lofty noble. He tussles golden heads and playfully swoops them up in lofty bear hugs.
"HaHA! I am Thorgrim of the Red Shield! I am come from the land of Beorn, but I will not bore you of the details of such a humble land. At least, not on an empty stomach with a dry throat!"
"Thorgrim, are we dead?" asks Hobwise. Surely, this was beyond even the gifts of Elf-magic, and Bilbo never made any such claims about the fairer folk and witchcraft.
Every Hobbit knows the old tales of Elves wisping through the Shire in the dead of night, unsensed even by the keenest hounds, on their way to the Gray Havens and the Sea. For what purpose, no Hobbit truly knew but every one had an opinion. His father, ever the straight-and-narrow, refused to acknowledge such notions, but his mother had a very strong belief that the tales were true, and that Elves crossed the sea when they were preparing to rejoin with the earth, preferring not to eternally slumber in the same ground where Men and Dwarves and Orcs may someday tread.
Hobwise considered that the Eagles had carried them on a great journey - across the sea! He was sick and out of his right mind during the flight, so how could he have guessed? Time and distance meant nothing in such a state. He almost certainly dreamt that he had prepared a fire at camp the night before. How could he have managed it?
Or, he had, in fact, succumbed, and this was the hereafter. That might make some sense but then did all his comrades also fall? Did his mind trick him into believing he was rescued by eagles, when in reality the black blade of a Uruk was plunging though his heart? Honestly, that seemed the more likely outcome of that impossible engagement on the rocky outcropping.
He could not figure it, and so he did what any hobbit would surely do in his position: grinning at his good fortune, he carried on. And Thorgrim was right - Hobwise was very, very, very hungry, and with a thirst to match.
"Yes, my friend. Dead or otherwise, we must eat and we must drink!"
Being prepared for the flight, Amalina rather enjoyed this experience verses her previous trip in the claws of the eagles. The wind rushing past, flowing through her air, the sense of freedom and leaving behind of problems, darkness, sorrows, and loss. All of that seemed to vanish as they drifted high above the mountains and forests of the world.
Winter on the otherhand could have skipped the entire episode and she would swear the big hound actually hugged the ground when the landed in the abandoned town.
She watched the mighty birds slowly disappear back to their eerie before turning to the details of camp and settling in for the night.
Surprised to wake the next morning to find the village alive, vibrant and filled with people, she was at first delighted but confused.
"Did the eagles come again in the middle of the night and move our camp?" She asks the others partially in jest, partially serious. "And where is the Lady Ireme? Surely I did not sleep through the arrival and departure of the folk from Rivendell?"
Before she had the chance to think on the puzzle further, the children surround her and Winter, mostly Winter if one was truly honest. The big dog drew the children like bees to a field of clover and he seemed perfectly happy to take in the numerous pets, scruffs, and games of tug offered by the young ones. Amalina simply laughs along, enjoying the innocence and free domesticity of the moment, forgetting the puzzle behind this sudden change.
Findegil waves to the children with a smile, but the smile barely reaches his eyes.
"I am Findegil of...far away. Tell me, have you seen any of the eldar folk here? Elves?"
He whispers to the others when he gets a chance:
"I saw Lady Irime before waking. The shadow had snuffed out her light.", he says, chilled at the memory.
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"Dead? No, friend Hobwise. Where are our ancestoers, come to welcome us? Where are a chorus of skalds to sing of the deeds we had done in life? Surely this is no...." Thorgrim trails off, realizing that he has no sense of what the after-life might be, since he had never been there.
Deciding to put the question to the purest test he can think of, he lifts his head above the crowd of bairns and gazes off toward the market, attempting to seek the lithe form and curvaceous saunter of a member of the softer sex, to see if such a boon might bring up lusty thoughts.
Surely in the afterlife they had no need of such sport?
And if they did, well, a man could spend eternity in worse business!
"Oh, I see, we need a test!" says Hobwise, unable to hear Findegil over the din of the children. "I have it. In the afterlife, there would be no want of coin. We should be able to approach that vendor of cured meats over there and request whatever we desire and have no need of payment."
Hobwise ducks the children, and approaches the Market stall where a man in a bloodied smock tends to salted and cured cuts of beef and pork, venison and chicken. The hobbit eyes the largest pork shank, hanging tantalizingly out of reach. There seems to be an impasse as the merchant waits for something to happen.
"That looks absolutely delicious. I'll have that one," says Hobwise, pointing. His stomach growls approval.
The merchant seems confused by the halfling's overreaching selection; the pork shank is two-thirds Hobwise' height. Nevertheless, he cannot resist the hobbit's earnestness, and with two hands, releases the massive shank from its hook and hands it to the small fellow.
It is all Hobwise can do to hold the thing, but his hunger is relentless, and he immediately bites into it, heedless to the merchant's expectation of payment, should it be required.
"Yesh, delishush!" he says between mouthfuls. The trauma of the battle and the Eagle flights melts away as his entire soul embraces the act of consumption. Half the shank disappears into his expanding belly in mere minutes, and he shows no sign of slowing down. Hobwise feels his happy self again.
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A warning cry dies on Thorgrim's tongue as the half-man charges at the meat vendor with all the lust of a blood-drunk berserker crashing into the front lines.
He shakes his head and continues with his own, safer and internal, test, again wondering at halfling hunger that would compel such an act.
Still, he keeps one eye on Hobwise, confident that there is coin enough should the merchant be motivated by more than altruism.
To answer the questions about elves, the children respond that you can find Rodwen in the alehouse.
After entertaining the children and sating a hungry hobbit's appetite, you begin to explore the town. You realize that every sight and sound feels familiar to them, as though you belong to this place and time. Addressing any villager, you discover that you not only perfectly comprehend their language, but you speak it fluently too.
One of the older children from the crowd outside attaches himself to Findegil. “Have you a squire, sir? I could be your squire. I’d polish your armour and keep your sword sharp. My father is the captain of the Master’s guards, and he’s gone away South, but when he comes back I’m sure he’ll tell you how
brave I am.”
You are greeted warmly by the locals, who appear to be of the same stock as the Woodmen, although most seem to travel on horseback or else delight in feats of horsemanship; they are clearly horse-tamers and riders, and even refer to themselves as the Éothéod, the horse people. In the center of town is a large square, where the market is held. The square is crowded with merchants, traders and travelers from across the North.
A building stands out from other houses for the signboard swinging over its door, showing a scrawny goat falling down a cliff. The Falling Goat is a alehouse and inn, and offers the companions a good place to rest and consider what is happening. The place is not especially crowded when you arrive, as most people are at the market in the main square. It has a large common-room on the ground floor, with a half-dozen tables, benches and a blazing log-fire. Next to the common-room is a kitchen; off to the side are two private parlors. Upstairs, there are small sleeping rooms for guests.
There is an old greybeard who greets you as he hurries around the crowded alehouse. “Welcome, welcome good folk. Here for the market, no doubt. Sit, have a drink, and rest here a while. Have you come from the south? Any word of the Master’s return? I’ve heard tell he’s on the road, but news is hard to come by of late.”
A dapper gentleman rises and politely closes on Amalina, “Noble travelers, you look like the sort who’d have acoin or two to spare. It’s good luck to pay a minstrel, you know. Give me a coin and I’ll sing you a song of Scatha the Worm, and brave Fram the Dragonslayer!”
Cereidh maneuvers closer to Findegil to whisper back, "I'm afraid I must ask commonly what you mean by what you said, about the Lady? This place of memory feels like no Shadow-trap that I'm familiar with, but I've heard that the Shadow had the means to be fair Ages ago."
"Goodsir," to the greybeard, "while it is no insult at all to share neighborliness with this fine town, I am from my own kingdom. Which Master do you speak of?"
Findegil replies to Cereidh:
"An unnatural chill at first. A shadow slithered in the night. And off in the distance, Irime, swiftly surrounded and buried beneath that shadow."
To the minstrel:
"Another coin! Speak your tale!"
We may learn something of note.
Some of Cereidh's ease melts under an urgency to return to Lady Irime - before it's too late. However, she maintains her pleasant expression, hoping to learn more before acting.
Amalina winds her way through the market enjoying the sights, smells and the general...happiness and lack of fear which she hasn't really ever experienced through her entire life.
Laughing at the continuing antics of Winter and the children, not too mention the hungry Hobwise and thirsty Thorgrim, she follows the others into the inn. Unused to the attention from such men as the obviously well off minstrel, she blushes shyly and adds her own bit of silver to those already given the performer.
"I'd be glad to hear your tale good sir." She says quietly. "Although what is this about a missing master of some sort? We saw no one coming or going since last evening."
The innkeeper Aldor replies to Cereidh's question about the Master, "The Alderman of Haycombe traveled south some weeks ago."
Haleth the older boy who asked to be Findegil's squire starts to help the inn's server's bring you your drinks and food.
As requested in exchange for coins, Geb the minstrel sings a ballad of Scatha the Worm, and brave Fram the Dragonslayer, which gets the whole inn going.
With the crowd warmed up, they share some stories with you:
* The lord of this people is named Heáfod.
* Many travelers have brought word of a new darkness in the great wood to the east. For many years, there had been a respite, and it was hoped that the shadow had departed Mirkwood. Recently, the tales claim, there has been smoke and foulness issuing from the Hill of Sorcery in Southern Mirkwood.
* Some months ago, the Alderman of Haycombe, one of Heáfod’s most trusted followers, went on a journey south to survey the Hill of Sorcery, and to see for himself if there is any truth to these tales of a new shadow.
* Despite these rumors, the mood in the town is merry. While little trade comes over the mountains these years, the town still attracts merchants from the South.
In Cereidh's discomfort, she stirs in her slumber and sees a malevalont spirit surrounding and attacking Irimë. Then, the Greenwood elf blinks again and finds herself back in the wraith-world inn.
Cereidh draws further inward and wonders if there's a way to force herself to wake up.
"Heáfod, hae-fod, haefodstol," Hobwise experiments with the word in his mouth as if it were a piece of gristle he was deciding whether to chew or spit out. There is a simultaneuos clawing in his brain, as if the name holds secondary meaning, and perhaps it does.
"The lord of the people is named Heáfod?" he repeats in a question to no one. "Does that seem redundant to anyone else? I believe I've heard that name before, in Michel Delving, although the context is lost." He belches loudly and absently picks at his teeth while watching the younger fellow clean the keg tap.
Finally, he approaches the bar. "A pint of the seasonal ale, if you would please." A frothy mug is soon presented, and the hobbit drains the large glass in one breath. "Oh my, that is refreshing!" he pats his swollen belly. "Another round, lad, and bring glasses enough for my friends as well!"
With the young man following close behind, Hobwise takes two pints and returns to where the group has gathered and offers one to Ceriedh, who is quite obviously not enjoying herself.
"For what ails you, my Lady." He smiles stupidly, careless of any possibility of danger in this fantastic place.
She accepts and smiles abstractedly. "Thank you, Master Hobwise. Well - I should hope that this shadow clears soon. Until then - let us enjoy ourselves, but not become too careless or addled."
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Thorgrim sits nearby. From somewhere he has acquired a dark-haired beauty with lush, round curves descending like fertile meadows about her while whisp of a summer dress fights a losing battle to keep her best charms covered. They take turns drinking from a single cup that she keeps ever full and nibbling on a platter of fruit and meat before them.
"Why does the name Heafod trouble you so, halfling? Seems a solid enough name, if one is as food as another." He pauses to drink from the mug tilted in his face. "Methinks that this lordling got himself in a bit of a spell and we, heroic heroes that we are, might be...persuaded...to sojourn and rescue the forlorn bureaucrat. No doubt to be properly rewarded upon our return, of course." The sweetmeat at his side occupies his mouth against further speech, and perhaps in down payment for the dangerous undertaking aforementioned.
"Perhaps - perhaps. I am myself am well and tired of the Shadow squatting in my backyard, so visiting this Hill of Sorcery might be the most obvious thing to do."
"Aye. This Hill of Sorcery concerns me. And I doubt the lord would refuse aid freely given."
Amalina frowned atthe mention of sorcery and Mirkwood. It was common knowledge that a powerful necromancer once held power in the southern reaches of the forest. The council had driven the evil one out, could it be that evil had returned? Was it even really gone to begin with?
If this Heafod did fall afoul of some fell wizard there was likely little that could save him, but they should try no the less.
"Winter and I will accompany you as well. If we can save this Heafod, we will. If not, perhaps we can at least put an end to whatever evil befell him."
As you discuss, an Elf of the Mirkwood joins you. Her name is Rodwen and seems unusually fascinated by mortals. She has recently arrived to visit the market as an emissary of King Thranduil.
She offers, "The shadow never truly departed our forest, and I do not know if the present trouble is but a passing darkness, or if some power has once again inhabited Dol Guldur.”
Since Cereidh is close kin to King Thranduil, they strike up an easy conversation. Unfortunately, it ends oddly. Rodwen cannot believe Cereidh is who she says she is, because she just left the court of Thranduil. And, Cereidh realizes that Rodwen is talking as if about 500 years ago was the present.
"Could we have travelled in time?", Findegil says incredulously.
"Yes," Cereidh says a little flatly, strained by the necessity of pretending familiarity with someone who ought have been a familiar face - who still felt like a familiar face - but who Cereidh does not view as entirely real. "We are ... not in the real past, but in a remembered past. Whose memory - well, at least it is a fair one, and perhaps a memory held in faith by the land itself, I'm not much of a witch myself. Although our separation from our own world is not so innocent as the simple pleasures this memory offers ... But waking might be a real enough obstacle. And the key may be here - or in here's version of Mirkwood. Even if we can't really save anyone from the past."
"I see. Might it not have to do with this Hill of Sorcery?"
Hobwise senses the group will soon be moving on from this place. He has connected only casually to the conversation, but gathers that this Haefod needs help. He has no concept of a Hill of Sorcery, except from the modest cantrips of Gandalf as described by Bilbo.
He rubs his belly and finishes a fourth pint of ale. His head is not clear, but that sensation is as familiar as breathing for a Hobbit.
He rights himself and makes for the nearest private room to relieve his bowels. After dutifully cleaning his hands, he returns some minutes later, refreshed.
"Ready to head out then, are we?"
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Thorgrim pays but little heed to the obvious crazy-talk coming from the dandalion eater's mouth. 'Tis obvious that she see witchcraft behind every shrub and leaf, but with a town so real and...supple, beneath their feet, the words carry little meaning, washing over him as the tide upon the ever-living rock.
AS the hobbit excuses himself, by coincidence, so too does Thorgrim and his companion, disappearing into the interior of the inn.
Thorgrim emerges only a little after Hobwise, feeling replete in every sense of the word. "Indeed, let us away. After a good meal and good sport, I should think that a hearty red-roaring hunt is the only thing to fully complete the evening."
Cereidh pulls a face at their flippancy but nods agreement to Findegil. "As Thorgrim says - well, maybe not quite as he says it - hunting down the root of this problem may be the only thing to do."
A couple hours later of carousing, you hear a ruckus outside the inn. From the shouts and excited conversation, you hear that the Alderman of Haycombe has returned from his journey south! The crowd outside is too thick to easily push through, so Haleth (the boy who wants to be Findegil's squire) suggests you watch the procession from the upper level of the inn, which overlooks the main square.
You see the Alderman’s caravan approach. At the head of the procession is the Alderman’s golden wagon, accompanied by the guards he took South with him. He is followed then by a large number of men in strange red armor.
The procession stops in the middle of the market square. The crowd draws in close to hear the Alderman of the town. The Alderman – a tall man, wearing an exceptionally fine torc of gold and well-made armour – stands and raises his hands. “People of Haycombe! People of the North!” he announces. “Your true lord has returned!”
Seeing no point in fighting the crowd, Hobwise follows the young squire to the balcony. Upon seeing the returned soldiers he is instantly sober.
His bow is drawn, an arrow levied at the Alderman.
"Get back!" He cries at the crowd. "The Shadow consumes them!"
Not one for crowds, Amalina follows the boy up to the balcony to watch the unfolding events. It seems the journey south may not be needed after all. She thinks to herself upon hearing that the missing town leader has returned safe and sound.
As she stands on the balcony overlooking the crowd, she sees and hears the alderman's declaration. For some reason instead of projecting comfort and peace the words send a shiver down Amalina's spine. Standing by her side, Winter's nose works the air and he suddenly begins to grumble and growl. Running a hand over his back, the woman of Mirkwood nods in agreement. "I feel it to." She says eyes straining to see what could be causing her unease. "Something isn't right here."
Then Hobwise shouts his own warning while drawing his bow. Trusting her instinct and the hobbit's sharper eyes, she readies her own bow, drawing an arrow and setting her sights on the newly returned alderman.
Findegil steps into the path of the apparent alderman, sword and shield grasped tightly.
"Halt! Show your true faces!"
While Cereidh's tight-strung nerves don't ring out further at these strangers, and by inclination she'd hang back and watch for some sense in the strangeness, she trusts her companions, and quickly strings her bow, an arrow held loosely in her right hand although she does not knock it yet.
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Thorgrim greets the news of the alderman's return with agitation not quite reaching anger. "That would be just like a bureaucrat," he murmurs, "to take all the excitement out of a long-awaited return."
Confident that he can still make Amber reward him anyhow, he strides boldly to the street, staying near the inn and letting his his towering physique grant him a good enough view of the government agent's return.
By some preternatural instinct, his head whips about, searching for an enemy that he knows is about.
Hearing Hobwise's shout and seeing Fin brazenly march forward, Thorgrim draws Noctiscide and stalks closer, guarding Fin's back, not yet knowing who the foe was but certain that it would come to blows soon.
And then the killing begins.
The men in red armor are Easterling warriors. They are the first to strike: they attack with shocking speed, targeting any warriors within reach of their weapons. The guards of the Alderman are revealed for what they are: walking corpses, animated by dread sorcery. They attack the crowd, spreading panic like wildfire. Over the carnage, the companions can hear the insane laughter of the Alderman of the town.
Undead warriors stumble towards the inn; now is the time for arrows and swords! You call to fortify the inn by blocking windows and locking doors; the building’s walls are strong and this is a good place to hold out.
There is a host of foes, too many to overcome. The first wave of attackers consists of undead warriors that lumber clumsily towards the company. The undead are ungainly, but are possessed of fearsome strength. Worse, wounding them is not always enough – they keep coming even after taking blows that would kill a mortal man.
After you kill the undead assaulting the inn, then the Easterlings join the fray. These savage men fight with great axes, and speak in a foreign tongue that sounds like a harsh bark to Northmen ears.
After you drop some of the Easterlings, the others fall back and set the inn’s roof alight. You are forced to choose between surrender and burning to death – no victory is possible here — the town is doomed. But who knows what opportunities will come later...
Each of you during the battle momentarily wakes up and sees Irimë struggling with a dark spirit on the mountainside.