Findegil turns and powers towards the exit.
Should an obstacle bar the group's way, he will smash it aside!
Should a foe try to intercept his companions, his sword will slash them open!
To glory or ruin!
Cereidh's dark hair streams behind her as she dashes forward, headless of any opportunity to attack or defend, grabbing passingly for Gylwinth's shoulder as her tired compatriot stumbles.
"The last of us out!" she gulps breathlessly. "The last of us - to light a second bonfire?"
She thinks wistfully of the enchanted lights the Greenwood sometimes shows to unwary intruders, and how appropriate it would be to use now - but she is too tired to grasp that delicate magic.
Just as she was starting to feel relief as Wulfgith manages to free and start leading Swiftkiss back to the river, Amalina sees one of the troll's eyes grow wide as it spots the moving horse.
With a quick curse she and Winter turn with the others, the hound easily outpacing them as he dashes ahead, alert for any danger that may be blocking their escape.
She manages to avoid the thin snagging top of a fallen tree sticking out into the pathway, easily leaping over the obstacle. Hearing a surprised shout and thump, she turns back to see Cereidh tangled in the dead branches. With her heart racing the woodswoman races back a few paces and helps pull the elf free and back on her feet again.
As they race for the vast pile of liquor, she looks back to make sure everyone is ahead of her. Wulfgith and Skiftkiss, Gylwinth, Findegil, Cereidh already at her side. She again helps the elf move ahead.
"Don't worry! I've got it." She shouts. "Just stick with the others...and if something goes wrong, make sure Winter gets back to Rivendell." She adds between gulping breathes and reaching for her flint, steel, and oil soaked cloth.
Cereidh is silent and grim, her discomfort with this command to be selfish likely concealed under the dark and the general panic.
"I don't know how I would convince him," she pants, thinking briefly of what else she would say if she had the time and breath to spare. "But of course."
Cereidh takes a terrible fall. Amalina helps her gather herself, but the Trolls get closer for the delay. When she stumbles again she turns an ankle.
Yes, if you want to be the one to roll Athletics.
Findegil rushes to the prone figure of Cereidh, sheathing his blade as he does so.
He then helps hoist her up...
Findegil struggles to help Cereidh onto Swiftkiss. With every precious second lost the trolls are three strides closer to overtaking the company.
A last push and the elf is strung over the horse and the flight is resumed. Amalina and Gylwinth have continued ahead while the others helped Cereidh, and with legs and lungs burning they are nearly to the barrels when Gylwinth goes down. Amalina helps to drag her friend, and then the rest of you catch up. You're nearly out, but the trolls are almost upon you!
Fear and the roar of hundreds of bellowing trolls are a powerful motivator. Seeing the barrels and the destructive potential that might hinder their pursuers, Amalina races for the fuse. Only to catch a glimpse of Gylwinth slipping on the snow covered ground.
Hoping there would still be time, she hurries back and with strength powered by the anger roars of the horde, lifts Gylwinth up over her shoulder and runs as fast as the extra weight will allow toward the mouth of the valley.
Amalina puts a shoulder under Gylwinth and they stagger towards the barrels. The sound of the trolls thunders in your ears and numbs your other senses. Amalina lunges past the barrels and lights the fuse while the others clamor through. She can see the whites of the trolls eyes in the moonlight - they are that close. It is only the narrowness of the valley entrance that slows their relentless advance and permits you the last moment to jump away from the cache of volatile liquid.
Trolls wrestle past each other, clawing between barrels, when the flame descends into the fuel.
The explosion of the first barrel ignites the next and the next and the next, and in a dramatic series of a hundred such blasts which take only a second, the entire corridor into the valley is engulfed in flame. The blast knocks all of you off your feet - even Swiftkiss is rolled over. The intensity of the heat cannot be described, but it washes over you, expending the very air from your lungs. You feel as if you have breathed fire.
Rockets of small containers burst in all directions like a fireworks display gone horribly wrong. No living thing is spared the flames, and each of you is pelted with shrapnel of wood or metal or rock, and as the fuel splashes your armor, you must tumble into the shallow snows to save yourselves from severe burns or worse.
While the company writhes and crawls toward the tree line, the shrieks from dozens of trolls scathes your fragile nerves. You cannot help but look back. A fireball devours itself as it climbs the chasm walls, and below, countless trolls flee blindly as the fire consumes them. It is as terrifying a sight as you will ever see. You scramble clear, but you are not safe.
The company staggers south, retracing the path along which they had arrived hours earlier. Exhausted and freezing as the cold turns your sweat against you, there is no recourse but to march into the black, barren landscape. You reach the South branch of the Hoarwell headwaters shortly before dawn, and with first light you collapse together in a shivering heap, desperate for the nourishing rays of sun.
Findegil does not speak. He has been rattled to his core and wishes only to warm himself by dawn's light.
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Cereidh sits and shivers, before pitching forward onto her knees, pressing her hands to her temples. She then reaches for Winter, not to gather the hound who is Amalina's companion to her, but just to touch another living thing for a moment.
She sets her heel into the sandy gravel by the riverbank, but cannot quite bring herself to lever herself up and go about clearing out the bastard step-sibling of a proper campsite.
Wulfgith walked silently next to Swiftkiss. She was limping slightly, possibly from the roll that she took while on Swiftkiss. She had thrown Cereidh from her steed the moment she felt Swiftkiss turning, but that time has meant she went down with Swiftkiss, though it hadn't been the first time she'd taken a fall on a horse.
Finally she broke the silence. "I hope Estel got out of there... I didn't see him as we ran but to be honest, I was more worried about you all. I also owe you all a thank you. You helped me find Swiftkiss, and have treated me well. I am honored to have met each of you." She smiled weakly.
Alright everyone, it's a three-week journey back to Rivendell. I'd like each of you to post how you'll be helping the company survive that trip - whatever rations you had are surely exhausted. This is a great opportunity for player to player dialog and good roleplaying, which will be rewarded. This can continue for as long as it seems like you're engaged and having fun.
Bonus points if you collaborate on some way to observe the Winter Solstice, as is appropriate for your background. You'll be in the Trollshaws when that happens.
I will not have any more encounters for this module.
Collapsing on the ground in a heap, Amalina simply lays there staring up and the fading stars and dim purple-gray of early morning. For several moments she does nothing but breathe deeply as Winter pants furiously next to her. A small giggle bursts forth from her lips. Quiet, soft at first, but soon enough it becomes a full-throated laugh. The thrill and feeling of simply being alive running through her body like a wild mare on the open plains.
Wiping tears from her eyes, she ruffles Winter and throws her arms around the big dog, who returns the affection by running his tongue across her face and barking several times.
After the release of energy runs its course and she helps the others by finding fuel for a fire and setting up a camp to help everyone recover enough to begin the journey home.
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Despite the bleak country and cold weather, Amalina's spirits seem unexpectedly high. After all they may not have killed Mormog, but they certainly bloodied his armies nose. And once they reached Rivendell, the Council could figure out what to do about the remnants of his attempts to restore the dark land of Angmar.
With many of the trolls gathered under Mormog's banner and not lurking in their usual haunts, game was actually easier to come by. The Losrandir making their winter migrations back into the Trollshaws, provide good hunting and indeed she and Winter are able to bring down two of the creatures while on their journey. The hunt providing not only meat, but excellent hides to be cured, antlers for carving, and marrow for a healthy, warming soup on those cold nights.
Using her knowledge of woodcrafting, she uses one of the antlers to craft a flute and soon enough her melodies accompany some of Gylwinth's tales or just echo out across the highlands during the dark hours of the night. Much to everyone's laughter, Winter often joins in with his own drawn out howls and yips whenever she plays, and most agree, he's often better able to hold a note than Amalina.
Findegil's spirits rise with the warmth of the sun, the laughter of Amalina, and the ministrations of Gylwinth.
The knight puts his back into work as needed. To gather firewood, or clear obstructions from their path. Uncomplainingly, he offers his considerable strength to any task to which it can be applied.
As the winter solstice draws near, Findegil says:
"Midwinter draws near. From that day, warmth will return to these lands. Lands that we have made safer by our efforts."
Wulfgith first finds the songs and music from the instruments, uplifting. However after a bit the reminder of home hits, and after everything it hits hard. Tears stream down under the helm of the rider of the Rohirrim... no. Not that any longer. Simply a rider.
Yet not every tear is one of hurt, the friends beside her and the return of her faithful steed brought as much joy as the sorrowful reminder of home.
When Findegil speaks of Midwinter drawing closer to them, Wulfgith removes her helm and cleans her eyes upon her sleeve. "We should take that day." She told them. "Time to celebrate the fact we made it through all of this." Taking a moment she looked around. "I do not know these lands as well as the rolling hills of my home, but I can help with the hunt and finding some winter items like roots such as garlic, radishes, and the like. We could make a nice meal out here. After all, Amalina has show her great hunting skills."
As they travel, the party finds Cereidh ranging far afield - never so far as to risk being outside the sight of the others. Still, she prefers the morning watches when the light is weak and clear and honeyed. She doesn't turn from Gylwinth's efforts to reach out to her, and listens to her stories, usually offering some wry genial quip on the actions of the heroes depicted instead of trying to raise her voice in song.
She offers Wulfgith her aid as the Woodswoman goes out on her hunts - less of Cereidh's seeking of solitude, her bringing back sustenance for their small company. She might not have been responsible for filling Thranduil's larders, but she is quiet and her bow and bow-arm strong.
"Far be it for me to turn down someone else's cooking," she says in reply to Wulfgith. "Sadly, I do not think you nor Amalina will be able to find a wine-bottle on your foraging."
With Midwinter fast approaching Amalina is sure to secure the best fat from her most recent hunts. During the evening while on watch she renders down the fat over the low coals of the fire, removing the impurities. As the fat slowly cooks, the woodwoman braids seven long wicks from thread taken from one of her more worn and travel stained tunics. One for each of her companions, herself, Winter and Swiftkiss.
Carefully she ties a small coin to the bottom of each wick giving it weight and then dips them multiple times into the tallow. It takes a bit of time but eventually she creates seven rough looking but functional candles.
"Among the wood folk it is always a part of the celebration of the longest day to light candles to last through the dark of the night. A blessing for friends and family and a reminder that even in the deepest night, the light will soon return." She says to her companions. Noting the puzzled looks at the two extra candles, Amalina simply smiles. "I always light one for Winter and knowing how much the the riders of the south value their horse companions, I thought Wulfgith might wish one for Swiftkiss."
For a few moments, her eyes stare off over the wild dark landscape of these forsaken lands. Finally she breathes deeply and smiles again. "The tradition seemed even more important and worthy, given that I hope it helps symbolize the small bit of light we've brought to this land through our recent efforts."
"A light in the darkness - how could it not be worthy? I'd add my own bit of light, through magical means if need be ... but witch-lights are oft treacherous, and I suppose if you wanted to be abruptly sent to sleep, you would have asked!"
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Wulfgith offered a kind a thankful smile. "That is greatly thoughtful Amalina." She said. "I wish there was something I could do for each of you as such. But in Rohan we celebrate with mead, song, and stories." Wulfgith explained as she fed the fire a but more wood. Then she paused as a thought came to her. "I guess I could tell a story before we all turn in for the evening. I know a few of them. One of the best I know is the story of the great Shadowfax, Lord of all horses and Chief of the Mearas."
Swiftkiss seemed to understand the the words of her rider, as the mare gave a whinny and a toss of her mane.
Wulfgith gave a small chuckle. "Yes I know it is your favorite." She said as she reached up and ran a hand down Swiftkiss's nose. "A great deal of our own horses have Mearas blood, but few can claim to be full Mearas."
"But I know other stories, that is just one of the most loved among my father's people."
Your Midwinter celebration is joyous but bittersweet. As you rouse deep into the night with tales of adventure and shared experience, you feel a great weight jostle on your shoulders. Though the troll army is diminished, and Mormog's plans are surely delayed, the mastermind was not defeated, and many trolls survived. Confidence that this area, at least, is free from such terrible monsters grants you a night of respite, and frivolity. But tomorrow the journey continues.
At first light of the next day, Gylwinth takes her leave of the company. She heads south, to the Angle, to home, to warn her fellows there of the threat and make ready should Mormog return and attempt to carry out his master's evil plans.
The rest of you return to Imladris on the eve of the new year. While the trip back to Rivendell seemed easier, and game was surprisingly plentiful, you are no less weary for the experience; two months in the Coldfells will cause even the stout-hearted to pine for the comforts of home. Lindir makes the arrival pleasant enough, with warm stews, fresh butter, and beer and wine, and then warm baths, clean clothes, scented linens and soft beds, and discreet attendants throughout the first day and the next.
When you are eventually summoned to the Council chamber, you learn that Gandalf and Glorfindel are on an urgent errand. Elrond listens to your tales carefully, emoting little, but smiling almost imperceptibly when the travels of Estel are recounted. If he is deeply concerned for his son's well-being, he doesn't let on. With the end of the story comes Elrond's judgment, and he is almost fatherly in his praise of your efforts. That Mormog was not destroyed is no sleight against the company; you were sent to learn of the happenings in the Coldfells and you far exceeded that considerable goal.
Lindir makes a lavish feast for the New Year, with the company as guests of greatest honor. Elrond extends his hospitality to each of you indefinitely; you have earned his respect and admiration.
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Final XP for this last half of the adventure:
6400 for killing monsters
1000 to each player for roleplaying and consistent posting during a pandemic
That should get you close to level 8.
Clad in clean, white linen, Findegil walks the halls of Rivendell.
It is a wonder, this place. But the White City will need me again, even if I serve it indirectly.
The knight of Gondor seeks lord Elrond.
I will ask him if he knows what fate befall Estel.
The return to the Last Homely House is bittersweet for Amalina. Its welcoming warmth, dry clothes, and wonderful meals were reason for much joy within her heart. But the needed departure of Gylwinth to warn her people left a hole despite her understanding of she left. Usually Amalina was the one doing the leaving. Always forced to flee town or village to stay ahead of the shadow and its hunters, even as she did her best to hunt them. This time the tables were turned and she didn't like feeling that somehow she'd failed, by not defeating Mormog and his plans completely.
Yet, the shadow was always lurking, so if not this threat, then another would have drawn Gylwinth to aide her people. Such is the way of things. And brooding would do her no good at all, so she opened her heart and mind to the warmth, song, hot meals, new clothes, and a good long hot bath. All the comforts that Elrond's house had to offer and the did much to revive her spirits and heal wounds both physical and mental.
As usual she tried to avoid undo attention upon herself choosing instead to highlight the exploits of others when recounting the tale to the council. Being sure they knew of Findegil's standing firm against the goblin hoard and going toe-to-toe with the trolls and ettins, Estel by his side. The work of Cereidh's mighty bow and her stealthy exploration of the caves beneath the ruined keep. Wulgith's welcome blade and inspiring determination to save her own companion, the proud and daring Swiftkiss who was able to carry both Wulgith and a badly wounded Cereidh clear of the troll army. And of course, Gylwinth and her expert healing hands and fine stories that kept us all going during the long hard journey and the aftermath of such challenging battles.
"I am proud to have them as my companions and to have done what little I could to help achieve the success we did." It is at this point in her tale that she remembers one promise still left unfulfilled.
"My Lords of the council." She says a frown growing on her face. "We did discover beneath this ruined keep of Arnor, a chamber where a spirit had been imprisoned long ago. After we defeated Mormog's allies, this spirit revealed itself to us as one called Feredrun. This spirit claimed to have been a prisoner of the Shadow for many long ages and wishes to be freed, but cannot do so." Her eyes to turn those with more wisdom and learning than hers. "Had we the means, we would have released this spirit to return to the void, but we did not. Instead we promised to bring the creatures tale to you here, that you may have a means for either freeing or delivering this spirit from the bonds and influence of the dark one."
Findegil learns that Elrond has sent scouts into the Trollshaws, including Gondril, to find Estel. The Lord of Imladris appreciates your concern.
At the mention of Feredrun, Elrond straightens, but only slightly. His face remains impassive. "Indeed, you were wise not to commit yourselves to such a spirit," he replies. "When it is appropriate, I will send Glorfindel to decide the fate of Feredrun. But for now, my House will continue the efforts of this fine company. To each of you, my gratitude and respect."
The members of the company gain Elrond as a Patron and Rivendell as a Sanctuary.
Cereidh sits still and polite, but her eyes sharpen as Elron says Feredrun's name, and she makes a mental note to find a less public place to ask someone about the spirit Feredrun's past the moment an opportunity reveals itself.
"And to you as well," she says to Elrond. "For allowing us such a peace as this to rest in."
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His road had been different.
The journey home from Rivendell in the early autumn was not without perils, but the greater terrors came from within the young Hobbit. The many, many miles back to the Shire offered endless replay of his forced march in the nightmare world, where each step carried with it the weight of anguish of a thousand lost souls.
He had never known such exhaustion, and could not have imagined the torment of the people of Holcombe without experiencing it first-hand. The lash, the chains, the mud, the bleeding blisters, the cackles of the guards, the endless nights, and the thirst. Oh the thirst. He had taken to chewing his cheek until it bled just to wet his mouth. And then to be thrown into a hole and forced to labour, digging for what, no one knew.
But thin his friends returned. He almost didn't recognize them when they came, and it seemed a dream within a dream that he was fighting afor his freedom. But then everything went truly dark, though he did not die and he did not rest, and when his wits recovered he found himself in Rivendell.
Weeks under Elrond's care, with frequent ministrations from Lady Arwen, restored him to good extent, but not fully. No, Hobwise was changed - harrowed, despite his Hobbit resilience. And the miles stretched on and on and on.
Returning to his vineyard did him the most good, and he extinguished many demons working through the harvest. His brothers threw him a fine party and he was quite amused for one night, drinking more than his fill and feeling like the Hobwise of old. But it did not last. He slept rarely, and then poorly, always falling into some pit of endless blackness. His mood dour, he felt restless in his own home.
At the last color he set back out on the road, telling no one but leaving a short note: Forgot something back east. See you next year. He had good mind to add perhaps, but thought better of it.
And so Hobwise returned to Rivendell the last day of 2947. He avoided Lindir's gala, preferring the solice of his private room. And in the months to follow he rested, until his friends returned from their separate fellowships, and he once again felt his spirit moved for adventure.
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The year 2948 begins like so many others in the North. Cold winds, snow, ice, bone chilling rains. It is not as bad as the fell Winter of 1911 when the Brandywine froze and white wolves stalked the lands hungry for anything or anyone they could kill to fill their bellies. No, it was not as bad as that foul winter. Yet even still the months of Afteryule, Somath, and Rethe 2948 were yet another hardship for the peoples of Eriador. A people who are no strangers to the harsh realities of this land so often devastated by wars, disease, and sorrow.
The elves in Rivendell have spent the cold days training and continuing their watch upon the land. Offering aide where and when they can.
For those so recently returned from the dangers and wilds of the Trollshaws and regions further north or other more personal journies, the warmth and comfort of soft beds, quiet quarters, and the camaraderie of Hall of Fire all bring a sense of peace and healing despite the harsh weather outside the walls.
Finally, in the early days of Astron by the Shire Reckoning, the sun begins to provide actual warmth upon the land and snows begin to melt. Birds sing, nest, and swirl through the air in the never ending dance of spring. Travel is once again possible, although still a challenge as rivers run high and fast and mud upon the roads is thick and deep.
A buzz runs through Elrond's house. A half starved and storm beaten traveler has arrived at Imladris seeking aid. Rumors of orc raids, wolves, goblins, and other dark things run through the halls like a north wind along the Mitheirthel. Soon enough you who have harbored here over the winter months are called to the council chambers.
"Welcome!." Lord Elrond greets each of you as you enter the chamber. Also there are the Lady Arwen, the scout Gondril, and a weather-beaten man with long blonde hair and beard turning to gray. His worn boots speak of long, hard travel and he wears what are obviously new clothes gifted by the elves as they hang loose and heavy upon his thin frame. He holds a steaming cup of tea in shaking hands, that smells of Arwen's herbs.
"Thank you for coming my friends." Elrond says gesturing for everyone to sit. "This is Wistan son of Wulfram." The older man nods as Elrond continues. "He has traveled far in this harsh time. Coming to us from the small village of Burhscilda south of us along the great river Mitheirthel. Halfway to what was once the city of Tharbad along the Gwathlo." Elrond sighs and bows his head slightly. "As you might expect, this journey was made out of desperate need. A need that I think all of you may be suited to assist. Wulfram?"
The man nods with deep respect to Elrond. "I thank you my Lord. We didn't know where else to turn." His voice is rough as is his speech. A heavily accented form of Westron. His eyes, a pale blue, turn to each of those around the table. "Our village is small, but we're a proud people. Our ancestors fought in the ancient wars against Angmar and decided to settle here rather than return across the mountains. Some might say that was a fools decision, but it matters little now. This is our home and we've fought long and hard to make it that. We've fought off orc raids, raids from dunmen, poor harvests, and any number of sicknesses and sorrows." He shivers and pauses to take a long sip of the tea. "But now, something has come that we cannot seems to beat. It's killed off most of our horses and other stock. Its tracks look like those of a man, but it kills like a beast and it's clever. So far its evaded all of our hunting parties. In fact before I left over a fortnight ago, it'd killed a pair of warriors guarding horses in one of the outer pastures." He bows his head in quiet memory for a moment and then picks up the tale.
"If we can't stop it from killing our stock, there's no way we'll last another year. And what happens if it gets inside the village? So far it seems to stay clear of the palisade, but only the dark one knows what drives this thing. To make matters worse, there may be more than one. We've seen different sets of prints in the snow and mud, including some that look like orcs." He shakes his head clearly puzzled. "But again the killings are all more like a beast. Throats torn out, bellies ripped open. Meat partially eaten. Stock or men, it's all the same." He adds the last quietly just above a whisper as another shiver runs through his body.
Elrond places a hand on the man's shoulder. "With the threat of Mormog and his followers in the north, I have no warriors to spare for this new trouble in the south." He says. "I would ask of you to find what fell thing haunts Wulfram and his people and if it truly is an instrument of the shadow, do what you can to stop it."
Findegil steps forward.
"Greetings, Wistan son of Wulfram. I am Findegil, son of Durothil, knight of Minas Tirith, and I travel with companions of equal valour and skill. Is there aught else that you can tell us of your village and the lands around it that might aid us in tracking and slaying this peril?"
Findegil does not even consider that his companions would refuse. They have proven themselves in his eyes ten times over.
"From what is has attacked, can you tell what time it strikes? Is it more active at night or closer to sundown?" Wulfgith asked, trying think of something that may help the group as a whole. "Oh and, I am Wulfgith, daughter of Wulf."
Hobwise has a sudden flash of inspriation.
"Lord Elrond, we have witnessed the mighty Beorn himself in the height of battle change from a great man into a great bear! Could not this creature contain a similar ability, such that it may leave the footprints of a man and yet change into a beast when it suits him?"
Then he frowns. "But that does not explain the sets from the orcs, I suppose."
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Thorgrim returned home.
Unease had dogged his steps since being made Thane, and after seeing the word--and the unnerving dreamworld--some hole inside him demanded that he turn his steps to a more familiar clime and insure all was well.
'Twas well that he did for his sword was needed most sorely. The eternal enemy, goblins, had made too strong a forage into lush cropland, his own farmstead included, and Beorn was, as ever, entwined with dangers of a more terrible sort and unable to lend hand.
And so Thorgrim road at the head of a war party, to hunt down them which chaffed his home.
But glory was not to be his.
Instead of bringing the enemy to heel in some pitched battle, the foe insisted on a will-seeping tactic of striking and then disappearing into the woodland.
Many fell to the blades of he and his warriors, but none who stood upon the ground of the last battlefield felt themselves heroes of some epic.
Returning to his stead and seeing the crop in good hands, he gained some strength eating bread from his own lands and drinking mead of his own bees, but ease was not to come.
Again bidding farewell to his tenants and to those few that he felt kinship to, his footsteps lead him once more to a place that held eternal adventure.
And so unto Rivendell did Thorgrim of the Red Shield again come.
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"This is a fell thing that plagues you, Wistan son of Wulfram. To lose a man, even a friend, is bearable. Terrible, yes, but you fire his cairn and sing songs of his passing and the village may yet thrive. But a monster that slays the cattle? That is a threat to the town itself.
Still, I've yet to see the monster that looked so fearsome with a cloth-yard of steel in its guts. We'll run the thing to ground, I've no doubt.
Tell me, are all the victims eaten? If it is a thing of eternal hunger, we can bring it to us with a cow cut open, and ourselves concealed in bushes. But if it kills for sport...well, that is another thing entirely."
A somewhat frail looking young man of Bree steps forward to meet the visitor. At 4’ 11”, Giles stands a touch shorter than your average Bree-folk (a folk already known for their modest heights). His hair falls in loose brown curls. He wears a moss-colored vest over a linen shirt and brown trousers.
The companions have seen him several times over the winter, though often with his nose in a book, or deep in conversation with the loremasters of Rivendell.
Is it time to leave these halls so soon? Oh but these last few months in Elrond's libraries have been the sweetest of my life, and his library has opened my eyes to secrets I'd ne'er guessed at. His face betrays a touch of regret.
And yet, what is the point of knowledge if not...
In the characteristic brogue of the Bree-folk, he says, "Well met, Wistan, son of Wulfram. I am Giles Foxleaf. Your tale brings me sorrow, but by your bravery it has reached the ears of Elrond, Lord of Rivendell." He nods toward the elder elf. "Master Elrond believes we can be of aid. I would be a poor guest indeed were I not to offer my assistance as well, such as it is."
At Hobwise's suggestion, his eyes grow big, "You've met Beorn himself? Some day you must tell me in detail what it looks like, when he shifts his skin. My travels have yet to take me so far.
"As to other skinwalkers, it's an interesting idea. Let me reflect a moment."
Giles slowly retreads Wistan's words.
What in all my studies might this be?
Cereidh perhaps blends into Elrond's folk that attend the meeting; while she has favored spending these quiet days ranging out on hunts, she now wears a grey gown, dark hair loose and her posture of quiet watchfulness perhaps to be mistaken for decorum.
Her mouth twitches upwards in fondness as their new scholar successfully needles Thorgrim. - Their? Well, he'd already done the polite thing and offered to come along.
"Oh, we must go out of our way to visit again," she says lightly. "I'm sure they miss us. Anyway, I miss the mead. - But more pressingly. While I take it on faith that this beast is adept at hiding itself, Wulfram, how far afield have your people ranged in search of it? How much overlap is there between this beast's violence and its tracks, and that of the orcs?"
Wistan bows his head to each of you, then turns to Wulfgith.
"We don't know all that much about this creature or if there's even only one. But we do know it avoid daylight coming out mostly at night." He pauses for a moment, rubbing his lower lip. "There was one time, it took a pair of sheep seemingly during the day. But it was a dark gray, dreary day full of rain and snow. Not a ray of true sunlight to be seen."
He smiles grimly at Thorgrim. "A warrior after my own heart you are good sir. What you speak is why I am here. This threat if not stopped will certainly drive us away or starve us out."
He takes another sip of the tea and shakes his head. "It eat's, but as I said, not like any man or even orc. Maybe a heart, sometimes a liver or other portion of meat. But most of the good meat and portions are left behind. Even orcs don't waste meat like this in winter." He adds quietly.
Elrond leans back in his chair pondering the question from Hobwise. His brow furrowed in thought, the Lord of Rivendell breathes a heavy sigh. "Unfortunately, there are all too many possibilities my good hobbit." He says. "Angmar released many dark things upon this land during the wars, and of course the Dark One of Mordor and his ancient master created many evils that lurk in the deep and dark places of the world. Taking the form of a beast of other creature is certainly not unknown." He looks at Thorgrim with a sly smile. "Some are allies, like the good Beorn. Others...well, they are dark creatures who take the form of wolves or giant rats or other beasts of the night."
Wistan takes up the conversation again, turning to Findegil. Grabbing a pen and paper, he dips the quill in ink and begins to sketch out a very rough map. Drawing out the river running south to Tharbad he marks out a small hill surrounded by open grasslands. "My village is here." He taps the hill. "A small rise with the river at its back and good pasture and fields surrounding. There's not much else around, except off to the west and north are ruins. My grandsire says they date back to old Cardolan and one of the seven princes who ruled after the last king was killed."
He leans back, tapping the quill against his chin before answering Cereidh. "We've not ranged too far, my lady. We're few in number and there's always the threat of raids from dunland. As for the orcs, we can't tell if they're together or not. Storms have made tracking near impossible, but their trails have certainly overlapped more than once which seems to me more than mere coincidence."
Giles frowns as he considers the tales he's read.
"Lord Elrond, as you say, there are all too many evils upon the land. While in your libraries I've been reading more about the Witch-King's curse upon the barrows near Bree: The undead wights and other spirits that now haunt those lands. Those creatures are often little more than beasts killing with tooth and claw as often as with sword or axe.
"In addition they would be drawn to life like moths to a flame. The sages say that there is little that is more full of life than a creatures heart and inner vessels that carry the spirit. If the assailants are undead, that might explain only hungering for the heart and leaving aside the flesh."
He shudders at the image.
"I won't say I relish the thought of it, but I'm afraid we are duty-bound to go assist if we're able...and if we must, I want to come along. While I cannot boast of my skill at arms, I have learned a fair bit of how to mend men's wounds...and I fear that skill might be useful here, indeed."
At Giles' pronouncement of undead, Hobwise cringes. The memory of The Master is too fresh, even now. He clasps his hands and grits his teeth, trying to seem smaller than he is.