|
"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."
"Oh confound, woman. If it'll save you the trip..." Thorgrim rumbles. He bends to where his handsome traveling pack rests comfortably on the floor. He opens a side pouch and brings up a bulging skin. It's healthy color and flawless stitching bespeak of new construction. Indeed, so new is it that one might think given enough time and care the animal might get better.
He cracks the fresh stopper and, producing a shiny tin mess-cup, pours in a healthy measure. The sweet honey aroma kisses the air bringing to mind sun-drenched fields of happy clover.
In truth he had little to do with the actual work of making it, but he gave direction on ingredients and adjustments to the time-table, and the resulting product evoked a strong, heady mead-wine that was more suited to his roadman's palette.
Still he was anxious to hear what others thought of it, and wordlessly extended the full mug at Mirkwood Elf.
"This can't be some animal or even an orc. Not if food is left on the animals. Even with an abundance of food around they wouldn't waist food. Too often is it hard to come by. You said it attacked two guards that had set up to watch over horses right? Did is just kill them and move to the horses or did it eat on them as well?"
"If what he speaks of is what we're after," Wulfgith began as she motioned to Giles, "Then these attacks will not slow down... I'd also expect to see more people targeted than animals very soon."
Cereidh's eyebrows lift in thankful surprise at the offering of mead, and she cradles the mug under her nose as her eyes go between Giles and Wulfgith. Her expression seems fairly decided; for her, the enemy is already undead.
She takes several long sips from the cup before elbowing her nearest companion and saying in a hissed undertone, "Try this!"
Elrond nods grimly at Giles' assessment. "I'm afraid you and the lady Wulfgith may be right. This is something that must be dealt with before it gets too strong."
"I thank you my friends for your willingness to help in this endeavor. It is yet early for travel and the road will be hard, but I think the need for haste outweighs that of comfort."
"Gondril will see you have whatever supplies you need for the journey." He gestures to the elf many of your journeyed with in the previous season. "Meanwhile my daughter and I will see if we can find something that might assist you in bringing down a creature caught between our world and that of the dead."
Wistan starts to get up, but is wracked by a fit of coughing and shaking. Arwen looks upon him with concern and asking Gondril to get more hot water. Wistan tries to wave her away, but she simply ignores his weak protests.
"I'm afraid Wistan will need to formalize his directions. He's in no shape to travel and will need several days in bed and warmth if he wishes to recover."
Clearly frustrated and embarrassed by his weakness, Wistan tries to argue again, but it is clear the old warrior would be more of a hindrance than help on this journey.
Findegil's countenance grows grimmer at the talk of undead.
Dire memories...
He snaps out of his reverie when Cereidh elbows him.
"My thanks, Thorgrim.", he says, before sipping the honey mead.
When the container of mead finally reaches Hobwise, seated opposite from Thorgrim, he smells it but then politely returns it down the line. A bit shallow for my taste, the hobbit thinks to himself. If asked, he would tell the Beorning that he preferred something on the drier side, with a bit more heft. A delicate balance, to be sure, as a lower honey ratio gives the yeast less to feed on, potentially yielding less alcohol, and a product that had few desirable characteristics. And of course, yeast can only survive, at best, an 18% alcohol concentration, and that was attainable only with perfect conditions: stable temperature and humidity, absolutely clean hardware, air-tight seals, the absolute minimum of contaminants, and perfect timing on the fermentation. He would remind himself to invite Thorgrim out to the Shire in the fall for the harvest, crush, and fermentation, so that they could compare techniques, mead being a type of wine, afterall.
Giles raises his eyebrow at Cereidh and Thorgrim's exchange. I'm clearly missing SOMETHING between those two. Well, best not to send the discussion down another path entirely.
When the mead comes around, Giles takes a healthy drink, tasting it slowly.
"Lovely. We get wine, mead, and ales from near and far at the Prancing Pony, but I don't think I've had a mead quite like this one."
When Wistan struggles, Giles reflectively rises to his feet.
"Arwen, before we leave for Burhscilda, if I may be of any help..."
|
|
"You haven't," Thorgrim chuckles, washing the now empty cup with a bit of lye before putting it away. He acknowledges with silent nods those that enjoyed it. Alas he could not please the halfling but you can't please everyone and he was the last who would be troubled by that. That he had pleased Cereidh was the heart of the matter. It was good to see her again.
"This is my own recipe. I find the normal vintage too weak and too sweet, so I torqued it a bit until it's more akin to something a man can drink.
So are we agreed then? Let us have a good sleep and set off at first light?"
Gondril is able to supply Giles with a small supply of each of the herbs needed to fill out his healing kit. The elf offers an embarrassed shrug at the meager offerings.
"It's been a hard winter and spring is running late yet again. Our stores are low." He says. "And with the coming foray into the north, we've had to keep most of what remains for that endeavor. But we offer all that we can spare."
The next morning dawns cool and damp as a chill spring rain continues to fall from low gray clouds. As all prepare, gathering gear, supplies, and a map from the sickly looking Wistan, the Lady Arwen calls to Hobwise.
"Master Hobwise, it is good to see you again." She says offering the hobbit a smile and handing him an intricately carved wooden box no larger than his own fist. "My father regrets not being able to see you all off, but other matters demand his time today. Yet we both hope this is the gift will offer some compensation for his absence and provide some aide in fighting the evil you may encounter." She places a hand gently upon the box. "It is precious for inside are two stones, each containing one drop of Light from ancient Silpion of the West and ages long, long ago. If touched to something of the Shadow it will flare to life for but a moment, causing anything that dwells in darkness and evil much harm. With the strength and courage you all share, I hope this small contribution will be enough for you to prevail over whatever evil lurks to our south."
To everyone she smiles and offers a quick blessing for a safe and successful journey and then retires back indoors and out of the weather.
Hobwise accepts the gift with reverence, bowing to the Lady. "We shall use it in our darkest hour."
He wonders whether he should be the one to carry such powerful artifacts. He looks about, silently seeking either affirmation or another volunteer to be the stone-bearer.
Findegil nods when he realises what the elf has given Hobwise.
"A gracious gift, held by one with deep wells of courage."
The knight of Gondor has not forgotten how Hobwise launched himself at orc and undead troll.
Cereidh shallowly mirrors Hobwise's bow to the Lady Arwen.
Wulfgith simply smiled and nodded with respect to Lady Arwen. "Make sure you have everything you need." Wulfgith told the group. "We've little idea what we're dealing with. So be ready for anything."
When Gondril gifts him with the herbs, Giles rolls each between his fingers and smells them reverently. "This is extremely generous. Thank you."
He's even more delighted--and has a hard time keeping from craning his neck too obviously--at the gift of the enchanted stones. Oooooh the things I could learn, if it were my fate to stay here just a little longer...but there are Men in need.
As they prepare to leave, Giles says, "I have no real gift for route-finding, but I pride myself on a sharp eye and a keen ear. I'll happily keep a look out for beasts, or worse."
"I'd offer my service as scout as well...but when Hobwise kindly escorted me here I saw how softly he's able to step, and I doubt I could compare to that.
"I am gladdened by your words Wulfgith and even more heartened that you wish to deepen these friendships. May you draw upon each others strength, courage, hope and friendship to find success in the tasks ahead of you."
|
|
Thorgrim gave a bare nod of gratitude at the odd gifts. He was not one to long ponder on the effect of such things, and they were not given to him directly, so any more would seem as abasement to his senses, and he longed to be on the road again, now that the direction was fixed.
As the group makes their final preparations, Thorgrim bades the hobbit to one side and questions him, lowly. "Now that we are united again, I have a question that hath been burning upon me for some time. Normally I am not a man to ask after such a thing, but I find the curiosity to be too great.
So too, I notice one of our number no longer with us, and the reasoning behind that makes the fire burn all the hotter.
This is of course made more so that my own attempt to break those walls was so early and so thoroughly crushed and sent to route. So tell me true...did you end up bedding Amalina? Does she not walk with us because she is a-bed giving life to your bairns?" Thorgrim's face splits into a wide, white grin as a deep chuckle escapes his throat. "Ever have I thought that the height of the half-folk must be made up for, and now I see it was ever needed in the space of the codpiece! Honor to you, Knot-Slayer! And if ever I aim my spear at game you have deemed as thine own, you must needs let me know so I do not waste effort at futile sport!"
Seemingly to have been satisfied with Hobwise's answers (though he waits for none) Thorgrim goes to play the van of the fellowship.
Hobwise is dumbstruck by Thorgrim's assertion, and it is not until the warrior has turned away that the hobbit finds his voice. "No, it's not like that at all..." He smolders, embarrassed at the exchange.
Findegil makes his preparations, blissfully unaware of the one-side conversation about Amalaina.
Cereidh tugs her fingers through her hair absently, starting to braid it one-handed as she goes through the packs on the ponies, checking and double-checking their stores, a map pinched between thumb and little finger as she checks that as well.
"I hope you all like venison," she says. "I don't have Amalina's gift for tricksy snares. I imagine you won't complain, Thorgrim! But Hobwise - I am but a strong bow arm, I bow to your greater expertise when it comes to the enlightened drudgery of preparing a meal from the downed prey." She smiles absently, obviously bothered by something - likely Amalina's absence.
Before departing for the stables, Hobwise seeks out Rivendell's senechal. "Master Lindir," he begins with reverence, "might I trouble your incomparable kitchens for a stock of cooking herbs? They are so difficult to come by in the spring. Rosemary, marjoram, sage, and thyme would do us well. I have salt and pepper enough for the journey, but little else, I'm embarrassed to say."
d12+3+1-4
Yikes!
For my own edification, the guide says:
"This roll is
modified as follows: the Guide’s Survival proficiency bonus
plus half their Wisdom bonus, minus the Peril Rating of the
journey"
I think Thorgrim's Survival is +6 (3 WIS, 3 Prof). Doesn't that mean his final result is 3 higher?
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
"I've not much to spare Master Hobwise." Lindir says with a bit of a frown as he ponders his stores. "But since you are traveling at the behest of Lord Elrond, I've got a few extras tucked away for just such an occasion." He disappears into the large pantry used to store many of the dried goods for Imladris. Returning a few minutes later he hands Hobwise a small leather pouch with a half dozen separate compartments, each containing small wooden box. Inside each box is a separate measure of herb or spice. Included are mint, rosemary, sage, thyme, marjoram, and oregano. "It isn't much, but if you're careful, it should see you well enough for a week or two."
With all of the final arrangements completed, it is soon time to set forth. The absence of Gylwinth and Amalina is felt by some. The Dunedain having returned to warn her kindred of Mormog's threat. The woodwoman acting as scout and guide for the elves to keep watch and track the big orc captain and his army of trolls while forces to deal with the threat are gathered and readied.
Under gray skies and a constant drizzle, the fellowship finally departs. Soon enough the road climbs out of the valley and the Last Homely House slips behind the curtain of rain and low drifting clouds.
The first leg of the journey is easy enough. Heading west along the Great East Road the mounted party is able to travel quickly enough despite the mud and rain. But the weather doesn't break as expected. The chill, damp, dreariness continues throughout the night and into the next day. By now every bit of gear is soaked through, or feels damp and soaked to the touch. The morning fire offers little more than smoke and the barest amount of heat because of wet wood causing more than a little grumbling and cursing of the weather.
Making matters worse, a thick fog settles in making it difficult for Thorgrim to find the correct path heading south into the wilds of the Angle. Wistan's rough map, marked an ancient road the winds its way through the wild lands tucked in between the Bruinen and Mitheithel rivers, but it proves elusive. Finally after two dead end deer trails, much bickering, and a slow backtracking search along the east road, the big warrior finds the overgrown remnants of a few ancient paving stones leading south into the low hills and scattered woods to the south. Unfortunately much of the day's light is lost in discovering the little used path and evening rapidly approaches.
Findegil trudges ever-onward, his eyes and ears open for signs of anything awry.
At least, as best as they can be, given the dreadful weather.
|
|
| 2 people marked this as a favorite. |
The muttering under his breath first grows from mumbled words lost in the wind, to stronger curses directed at the wet, the fog, and the thrice-cursed "road" that is harder to follow than a deer in thick woods. At last his speech just becomes a torrent of swearing in half-a-dozen languages, and as a second dead-end is found, his claymore, Nocticide, is gripped and swung with violence at a nearby tree of good health. Though wood is by habit resistant to blades, this tree is cut down in one swing and it's death seems to appease the warrior's scorn for a pace, or at least enough to a path true enough to be followed.
"Apologies, all," he rumbles. "Beseems that the air and land are in league together to confound our journey before 'twas begun!
I'm of a mind to call a camp here. Given time I'm certain I can erect a lean-to enough to dry some wood and give us a good fire. I'm soaked to the bone and mayhap a breath of warmth would see good weather and good fortune on the morrow."
Cereidh's eyes gleam as the light starts to fail. "It does seem as good a time as any to rest - as fair or foul as the weather is, we would soon best do so regardless."
Findegil trudges ever-onward, his eyes and ears open for signs of anything awry.
At least, as best as they can be, given the dreadful weather.
"Giles, do you see aught?", he asks.
The knight then turns to Thorgrim and replies:
"Aye, we should cease our wanderings and make camp. The weather is not with us this day."
"Ill-omen indeed." Wulfgith said with a sigh. "I won't lie, this makes me nervous. Poor weather, on our way to a worrisome situation.... not looking too good." She stated as she dismounted and moved to help set up camp. "I would go far, and no one should go anywhere alone." Wulfgith called to the group. "Keep to camp as much as possible."
|
|
Thorgrim grunted a nod as a consensus to halt and hope for better fortune tomorrow was made.
True to his word he foraged and culled broad branches a-plenty and leaned them against a common maple, rapidly creating a spot of dry in all the wet.
Then he sought and found a tree with the white bark. He drew his sword and gave it a slight salute, for he called upon it to make the ultimate sacrifice.
One-two, one-two, his blade goes snicker snack and fells the tree. The bark he strips fully, and then drags the carcas inside his fortress of dryness.
With the alabaster bark and many fistfulls of brown needles, a hungry flame leaps to life, eagerly dancing in the breeze in defiance of the day's ill-luck. He goes to work on the tree, cutting into lengths with more ease than she sharpest axe. For the wet can not penetrate the heart, and it is with this a good fire is made.
Hobwise thanks the senechal profusely, knowing full well the value of such a bounty of herbs, no matter the quantity. With that gift well placed, he rejoins the company at the stable and they are soon underway. His first departure from Rivendell had been a miserable affair, his mind constantly straying into the abyss of Dol Guldur. Only hobbit resilience kept him from madness, and only just. This time, however, his spirit was full; he was with good friends, and there was adventure ahead. He was confident this time, for nothing on this world could truly frighten him after what he had endured in the living nightmare of The Enemy.
With Thorgrim tending the fire on the first night out of Imladris, Hobwise assembles his majestic dwarven cook pots, utensils, and spices. As soon as Cereidh returns with the result of the evening hunt, he sets to work, carefully dressing it, harvesting the major organs and, considering the dreariness and need for maximum sustenance, drains the blood into a small pot and then cleans out the offel. The meat stew is ready within the hour, and includes the liver and kidney. WHile this cooks, the hobbit carefully scrapes the fat from the underside of the skin and separates it from the red meat. AT the same time he parboils the heart and lungs, continuously adding in fresh water to the rolling boil. Following the first course, the heart and lung are served with a cut of winter turnip freshly thawed.
Now at last, the blood and fat go into the pot with half his stash of winter wheat from the south of the Shire - a fortunate first harvest, given the severity of the season. This pot is covered and buried under medium coals and allowed to roast for an hour, producing a pan of blood pudding that is allowed to cool, after which he then laboriously fills the cleaned small intestine from the kill. The sausage is twisted into short links and saved for darker days. He then ritually cleans his cookware, utensils, and other items and stows them in his sack. The entire procession taking about four hours.
He is pleased with the feast, given the circumstances. And the blood sausage will provide both comfort and nourishment should the nights ahead offer greater challenges than poor weather.
He finds riding the pony to be a skill that he has not mastered, and the interminable spring rain and constant jostling sours his mood on the second day. It is almost a relief that the Beorning has trouble locating the path and the company is forced to halt for the night.
Almost.
Giles does his best to suffer the damp and cold without complaint...though he finds himself growing anxious at the many false starts at route-finding.
Please oh please don't get us all lost out here!, he manages to keep himself from saying.
The blood sausage and some hot tea--along with getting off his feet--give Giles a bit of solace. Waiving a chuck of meat on the end of his dagger, he says, "Master Hornblower, thank you for making a cold, wet day a bit more pleasant." Then, suddenly he freezes. "Hold on a moment."
He's still for nearly a minute and it seems he's about to relax, when a frown grows on his face.
"Do you hear that...humming? I doubted it myself at first but I swear it's like a handful of voices humming an old marching song. I can't say for certain but I'd lay money that it's getting closer."
With Giles whispered warning, there is time to ready yourselves. The horses grow restless, especially the ponies who begin to pull at the lines keeping them close to camp. Still a distance away, the swirl of fog parts for a moment revealing four cloaked and weather torn figures slowly walking west along the East Road. Clothing is torn and shabby but long spears are perched upon their shoulders and battered shields hang across their backs as they continue to trudge their way in the mist and drifting fog, still humming a tune that matches their steps.
One of the songs old Harry used to hum was a tune from ancient Cardolan. A marching song, he'd say, used by the Raggers of Ragh Crann-Sleagha. Warriors from the Ranks of Pikes. Once the heart of the ancient kingdom's military the Raggers were all but wiped out in the Battle of Tyrn Gorthad way back in 1409. But long before that, those warriors of old proved their worth at the Battle of Dagorlad, when they held the flank against a raging horde of the Dark One's mumakil. Old Harry used to say he was a descendant of those ancient warriors, but most folk thought it was just something the old storyteller conjured up to give his tales a bit more heft.
Yet, here you are in the misty, cold, open wild country. Night is falling and that ancient song is echoing in the fog. Growing ever closer.
Giles' eyes widen and he stifles a quiet chuckle. "By Butterbur's Barleybeer, I think I know that song!
"It's a marching song used by the Raggers of Ragh Crann-Sleagha. Warriors from the Ranks of Pikes. Once the heart of the ancient kingdom's military the Raggers were all but wiped out in the Battle of Tyrn Gorthad way back in 1409. But long before that, those warriors of old proved their worth at the Battle of Dagorlad, when they held the flank against a raging horde of the Dark One's mumakil.
"I tend to feel that hiding at night is the prudent plan...but this changes things. Shall we hail them? Perhaps they know something of what we're headed toward."
Cereidh crouches very still behind a snag of tree and bush, Bregghar held low and an arrow between her fingers. "Perhaps," she says, very lowly. "And perhaps they would be glad of a bit of recognition. But I am not certain - that the gap between what is alive, which I am grateful to be, and what may not be can be lightly crossed with friendly intention."
|
|
"So four armed men are singing an army song that is older than these hills," Thorgrim surmises, crouching low next to Cereidh.
"I like it not. My internal ward is screaming that these are bandits, cleaving to these hills like ticks on a long-haired wolf.
Think you that if we leave them be they will pass us by?" he asks, generally.
"If not, Findegil, you are ever of the honeyed tongue. Might you be able to persuade them to give this copse of wood a wide berth?
And if not. Well, I'll go with you, and with the others watching, if they have evil intent coming here, I wager they'll not leave with it."
He draws Noctiscide and waits for consensus.
"I think we should just avoid them." Wulfgith said simply with a shrug from her shoulders. "They could be what Giles believes or they could be what Thorgrim believes. We've no reason to find out either way. However if they find us, we'll be civil first unless they show otherwise." She said. "I believe that is the best choice, though I am just one of the group."
Findegil whispers:
"If they approach, I will attempt parley. Then steel should words fail."
The humming grows closer and closer even as the fog grows more dense. Finally after what seems like hours, but is really only a few minutes, four shapes emerge from the fog. With the look of road and battle weary soldiers, the four shuffle along toward Findegil and Thorgrim. The air grows cold and heavy as the four shuffle forward and come to a stop, well away from the warmth and light of Thorgrim's fire.
Able to get a closer look, Findegil and Thorgrim can easily see the tattered remnants of cloaks, rusted armor, and mud stained uniforms long devoid of any way of identification. Only shadows fill the heavy dark hoods while calloused and weather beaten hand reaches out from the lead traveler.
"The king isssss dead. The tower hasssss falllen. The day wassss lossssttt. The Witch-King sssstrong. Ssshadow rulesss the field." A quiet voice with a strange accent and hissing sibilance emerges from the hood of the one holding out its hand. "Almssss for thosssse who fight and die. Grant almssss for the kingssss guard."
Cereidh pales, but then nods minutely at Findegil, trying to communicate that she thinks he should go ahead and give them a gift.
It seems the safest, in an unsafe situation.
Giles watches from behind Findegil and Thorgrim.
Seeing the husks of men shuffling along, she wonders What ails these men? Is there aught I might do to grant them succor?...Or is the time for that long past now?
|
|
Thorgrim first instinct is to lunge into GLORIOUS COMBAT at these...shades of men. Allies of the enemy, at best! To slay them now is to do the world a kindness.
But out of the corner of his eye he sees the fair elf give the barest strength to the idea of succor, and he hesitates. Perhaps, were this even a year ago, he would pay no heed and rush in, shouting songs of the ancient kings.
But now he does pause, in both hand and tongue.
Findegil stands before the four former king's guard, for that is what they appear to be.
"I trust that ye fought to the end. What alms can best aid ye, king's guard? Coin or food?"
"Fought long...could not ssssave thossse who were lossst." Hisses the ancient warrior. The fog drifts around the four in wispy curls that swirl around and occasionally through a patch of cloak or an outstretched hand. A bitter, deep cold leaches the heat from your bodies, freezing the sweat from earlier exertions, as the four wait far back from the flickering flames of the fire.
"Almsss we assssk. Coin for passsage and sssshelter for familiessss. Almssss..."
Sensing the time for action is now, Hobwise steels himself. He reaches at the fire, plucking from the edge a stick burning at one end, and advances briskly on the four soldiers. He holds the torch high - as high as he can - so that the light pierces the choking darkness.
All of this seems too familiar to the hobbit. The Witch-King? Does he know that name? Did he see it in the nightmare between Holcombe and Dol Guldur?
Regardless, he stomps ahead, past Giles and past Findegil and past Thorgrim. "Begone! Travelers from another time, you'll find no alms in this world to aid you. What was lost is lost forever. Now be on your way and haunt us no longer!"
Wulfgith stopped when warriors from times past came forth. The very fact these... being, still walked the path cased her to rethink a great deal.
Giles shivers with the realization that these men are long dead, but he remains resolute.
I've ne'er heard a more impassioned plea as Master Hornblowers...now let's see if Lost Souls can be reasoned with.
Cereidh is pale and still as a statue as Hobwise's warm torchlight flickers into the den she and Thorgrim wait in, eerie herself.
Her reluctance to open battle has nothing to do with compassion for these lost souls.
Thorgrim of the Red Shield
rorek55
