Wulfgith looked at Giles with great worry as he spoke. The fact of what the other had said about this tower mixed with this worried her even more.
"Taking this into a place tainted like this tower surely will be... I'm not sure... but it couldn't be good." Wulfgith said with a gravely worried sigh. "Maybe we should rethink this. We already put Giles at great risk leaving this item of evil be his to carry, and the further we delay getting into proper hands the worst it will be for him. Are we really willing to risk that?" She asked them.
Cereidh's lips thin, tamping down a look of knowing agreement with Wulfgith as she waits in silence for the rest of the group's answer.
Willing? Likely. But not enthusiastic about the prospect.
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"So the item is not with you now, but is under a rock?" Thorgrim asks Giles. "Is that...wise?
If this thing is so powerful as you say, might it now be calling out to someone else to come and find it?
It still seems that it seems safest with us. If not in one person's care, then mayhap we might all share the burden?
Or, if not, then shouldn't we bury it more severely? Perhaps in a hole underwater?"
He stops talking to look upward and ponder the sky.
"All this warm whether gives me an unease. Betimes a hot day can be met by a cold wind and it brings the mother of all storms.
We best make good time and take shelter where we find it."
"If we all carry it then it could reach out to all of our minds and have us fighting each other for it." Wulfgith warned, though her words where the worst case scenario.
"What we need is a better solution... and I'm sorry to say I do not have it." Wulfgith sighed. "Please tell me that Thorgrim misunderstood you and that you do still have it on your person? He is right to worry about it calling out to another..."
Hobwise shakes his head. No, he had not always been this way. A hobbit of action is surely a foolhardy creature. But he had spoiled during the long march to Dol Guldur in a world that did not even exist except for inside the mind of the evil one. Now he just wanted to be in the mix, dealing another blow against darkness.
But this petty squabbling persisted among the Men and Elves. Who was the righter? The solution seemed obvious.
"Lest we choose to allow Nocticide a fair shot at the cursed thing, Giles may keep it, and stand far from the Tower, which no doubt contains a residue of great menace that would prey on his inquisitive mind. Wulfgith and Cereidh should stay as well, to keep him form succumbing to a darker nature. Findegil, Thorgrim, and I will purge the fetid stench of the Witch-King from this place."
"That would split us up." Wulfgith commented. "Which would allow for a divide and concur. We do not know what awaits within that tower, and going in at half strength could mean death. This isn't like the hamlet where we could get to each other and hear what was happened. We wouldn't be unable to help you three should something go wrong, nor you all if we are attacked above. Ask Findegil and Cereidh how wrong it can go when you don't know what is around the corner. Us and another friend almost lost our lives when we searched an area recklessly. Findegil almost fell for good in that fight..." Wulfgith shook her head slightly while remembering the battle.
"If we're going to split up and weaken ourselves so much, then it would likely be better for us to head back to Elrond. For at the very least it would help put that evil thing into the proper hands sooner rather than later." Wulfgith said. "Though I'm still not comfortable with splitting up on something this dangerous..."
"You speak as though we were cajoled into this task for lack of alternatives except to flee to Rivendell." But Hobwise knew there was no point in arguing with Wulfgith. Despite the facts that he had single-handedly warded away the ancient spectral warriors, dealt the lion's share of death against the cursed wolf, and exposed the foolish tragedy perpetrated by the weak-willed and easily agitated Lord Walduccus, she had not once accepted his advice and was unlikely to be swayed now. Perhaps if he were taller...
"We are here now. I will enter alone if need be, and take it as a good omen if I am not struck down upon crossing the threshold."
Hobwise continues to the tower.
Cereidh rolls her eyes openly, and glances a question at Wulfgith, although she turns her shoulders to the Tower in resolve.
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"Peace, friends. Peace. Let us all go into the tower, and if one is turned toward The Enemy, then it is best if we are all there so we may cut them down all the easier."
He nods his head, gravely. The logic seems obvious to him.
"And, perchance, I see the wisdom in Giles carrying it alone. For if he falls to madness, he is the one the would be most easily overpowered, wrapped up, and tied to the back of a saddle for transport back.
So let us put purpose to our footsteps and see this thing done all the sooner."
Giles listens as his new companions speak.
"Thorgrim, you misunderstand. I don't intend to release the relic to ought but the Lord of Rivendell, or one he counsels me to release it to. I was experimenting to see if I could weaken it by keeping it further from my person. It's back in my pack now."
For a moment, Giles flinches, looking into his companions' eyes. Am I a fool to speak its exact location? Do any of their eyes light up with greed at the mention?
He shakes his head. Enough!
"I won't lie. I mislike the thought of entering that tower with this disc in my possession...but it is my burden now, and I intend to carry it with courage. (Not because I'm easily overpowered, mind you, but because I have studied the Shadow and know the ways it will try to lure me.). Wulfgith, perhaps bringing this relic to Rivendell first would be the wisest course of action...but they, we're here right now, aren't we? And an extra journey through the wilds carries it's own danger, doesn't it?
"No, I agree with Masters Hornblower, Findegil, and Thorgrim. Let us proceed." For, as nervous as I am...this is my first opportunity to examine a mystery such as this up close.
"I have made no intent of hiding my opinion of this fact." Wulfgith replied to Hobwise. "Thus in a way I have no other choice but to follow the group, as I will not abandon you any of you, to such a task."
"Giles, the burden of the disc is yours, but we can support and carry you." Wulfgith told him with a kind nod. "You are apart of this group, and we can support you."
"Remember even after we deal with this tower, we still have to go back through the wilds." She reminds Giles. "It may have been a better idea to first drop the disc off then return to deal with this tower. However I am out voted, have voice my concern, and we can continue. You have heard my objects, and still wish to carry this through. Which seems that there is no other choice but to continue." Wulfgith said very simply.
The debate on what to do with the disc and the exploration of the tower goes back and forth as the fellowship makes it way across the open plain. The distant peaks of the Misty Mountains always marking the easterly course set by Thorgrim. Yet it is to the south where attention and eyes so turn. Mighty clouds of white and gray slowly billow high into the sky. Their tops taking on shapes like the great dwarven anvils in Erebor. The wind picks up throughout the day, going from a pleasant comfortable breeze to a more blustery and fierce force that sends cloaks flapping and snapping. The heat of the day continues until late in the afternoon when the sun disappears behind the barrier of clouds and with that disappearance there is a growing tingle in the air as a few distant rumbles of thunder echo across the grassland.
The fellowship finds itself at the height of a small rise. From this vantage point it is easy to see another hill rising to the east. Three times the higher than where you find yourself now. And still far off. A half day's hard march at the very least. But even from this distance the ruin of the toppled fort and tower is visible. The jagged remains of the old collapsed outer wall circle the summit of the hill. The occasional hardy scrub tree growing in, around, or over the fallen stones. Behind the wall, leaning to one side is the lower third of the old tower, the upper portion having long ago fallen and scattered its stones across the the hill's steep slope.
The sight of the tower is quickly overshadowed as the wind continues to pick up, the air growing cooler, and those distant rumbles closer. Each cascading crackle initiated by a flashing bolt of lightning that flashes through the sky or occasionally zigzagging its way down into the plain. It seems the beorning's warning of a bad storm has proven true.
As the storm comes in, Giles tries to help look for shelter...but finds that he's too weary to offer much assistance.
Ugghh, how do these people keep a pace like this? Oh, what I wouldn't give to be in a booth at the Prancing Pony, sitting by a warm fire with a mug of cool ale...
Cereidh's eyes brighten slightly at the electrical zing in the air, greedily drinking in the satin-green of the grass, its thin golden crown under the oceanic blue of the building clouds. Still, she turns her energy to searching about for shelter, be it just a stand of tumbled and gnarled trees or a shallow cave in the hills.
And meets with no success.
Earlier...
Findegil turns to face Giles with a faint smile.
"I listened to many old tales in my youth in the White City. Those I recall at will are far fewer. As for that cursed piece, I trust that you will do your utmost, as will we."
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"There!", calls Findegil, his eye seizing upon something.
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"Eh what?" Thorgrim says, unable to make out much. So greatly is his mind on the grey thunderheads above that he had spared but litted heed to the concerns on the ground.
"Oh, I see it," when Findegil points it out. "Aye, I'll cut some shrub to shore it up, and some more for a good fire, but it should be alright."
Findegil is the first to spot the overhang running along the short rise you are currently descending. It's about a hundred or so horse lengths off the trail to the north. Forty paces long and between five and ten deep and four to eight feet high, it would provide solid, if not complete shelter from the onrushing storm. Tall stands of last years grass and dry thistle rattle and rustle in the blowing wind around the outer edge of the shelter while a patch of hardy, squat strawberry trees barricade the northern end. Their telltale red bark a bright contrast to the grays, browns and yellow of the lichen covered stone behind them.
Lightning flashes overhead followed a heartbeat later by a booming, tooth rattling crackle of thunder. Swiftkiss and Thorgrim's horse both express their discomfort in being out during such a storm, but their riders are able to calm the animals enough to move them toward the shelter.
Using branches from the nearby trees for firewood and a bit of extra protection, Thorgrim is able to get a fire going as yet another bolt of lightning flashes across the darkening sky followed by more rumbling thunder. Wind continues to lash the land and the fragile flames of the fire as they whip and whirl around in the confines of the narrow shelter.
Eventually rain starts to fall. At first it smacks the ground in great globs of cold water, each one landing with a resounding *splat* upon the rocks and ground. Soon enough the sporadic drops become a regular downpour as once again lightning flashes and thunder rumbles. Water falls from the sky in great cascading sheets. Soon water is rushing off the stone overhang in a temporary waterfall that occasionally the wind blows back into the shelter causing the fire to hiss and crackle and some among you to curse as there's simply no way to avoid the cold spray of the storm.
As it pauses, sniffing the air another wolf strides to its side. Moments later another and another. A fierce blast of wind blows out of the south that seems to bring two more of the fearsome predators. More rain falls with another blast of lightning and thunder. That seems to move the creatures on as they lope off to the east. Moving in the same direction as the tower.
You open your eyes, shaking the thought and vision from your mind only to feel once again the pull of the golden disc. The desire to pull it free from its hidden binding. The desire to join the pack in the great wild hunt. Feel its exhilarating call. The wind rushing past your sleek form as you and your pack mates bring down yet another kill.
Findegil peers in the growing gloom, his sensee attuned for danger on this foul night, near such a place of dark legend.
The words fly from his mouth.
"Six fell beasts that appeared as wolves...that moved towards the tower from the west."
"Perhaps the storm was just as well, then," Cereidh whispers, although confident that the distance and drumming rain would silence her anyway. "Six - at least. And they'll be all together, close enough to hear battle joined with the one, once we arrived."
"I saw them too." Wulfgith said after Findegil spoke up. "I hope six is their pack size but seeing so many does worry me."
"Once the storm passes we'll have to be extra carry as we travel through the land."
Giles is so distracted by the call of the disc that he barely notices the real wolves nearby. As his companions name them, he nods, wincing.
In a strained whisper, he says, "There's a voice, calling to me. It says, 'The Master calls. The Hunt begins anew. It has been so long, but the pack is strong. The pack answers the Master's call.'
"I believe I know enough of the Shadow to resist its call...but I would be lying if I said it wasn't taking a toll on me. Hopefully we can rest tonight...."
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Thorgrim too saw the pack gather and move on, but felt no need to mention it as it seems everyone had as well.
What was more unsettling were the words of the scholarly hobbit that detail the pull of the artefact growing stronger.
"Beseems we have none better to carry it, but, Giles, would you consider a minor adjustment?
What say we put the amulet in a sack, and tie that sack closed, and then put that in another sack, and tie that one closed as well?
As odd as that may sound, if the call becomes too strong and you seek to grab it nakedly, at least the movement can not be done subtly. You shall spend many moments gnawing and working at the fetters, and will be sure to be noticed, wherein the rest of us will have a chance to bind you and give you respite.
How is that?"
Giles raises an eyebrow. After a longish pause in the rain, he replies, "You know, there's some wisdom to that. If you all would be good enough to lend me a couple sacks and then back away for a moment, I'll see if I can't make the disc harder to reach in a hurry."
"Oh!" Wulfgith popped into the conversation. "We could even put it in Swiftkiss's saddlebags. That would give it three bags and in a ragged state getting a saddlebag open isn't east, but to mention the other two that Thorgrim spoke of, it would almost be impossible." Wulfgith pointed out. "At least not before one of us tackles him, no offense Giles....."
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"Done," Thorgrim rumbles curtly, tossing the two empty honey-cake sacks at the hobbit before returning his attention to the fire.
He takes a log as thick as his arm and sets it near the fire. He holds his sword in one hand and lays it across the wood.
Normally, chopping wood with a sword is folly. And even doing so with an axe requires a large swing to build up momentum.
But Noctacide is no normal blade, and it's edge surpasses any made by the hands of Man.
Holding the sword in one hand and the wood in the other, Thorgrim cuts arm-length logs as easy as one might slice a hard black bread.
He stokes the fire and builds it back up, crafting the warmth against the inexorable rain and the enemies it hides.
Giles nods and--slowly, careful not to touch or gaze upon the hateful relic--he begins to tie it inside one bad, and then another, and then another.
Cereidh sets her back to the back of their shelter and, while not yet sleeping, sets to dozing.
With the help of the others, Giles transfers the shadow-cursed disc into the sacks and finally Wulfgith's saddle bag. All the while his eyes glitter in the fire light deep in concentration as sweat brims across his brow. Eventually the task is done and sigh of relief whisper through the shelter. Overhead, the storm still blows and rages. Thunder, lightning boom and crackle and rain continues to pour for an hour or two into the night turning the overhang into numerous trickling waterfalls as the runoff flows from the rocks toward the lower land along the base of the hill.
Eventually the storm passes, drifting north is rumbles growing more and more distant. In its wake is cool chill air, that leaves the breath of the watch steaming in wispy clouds while the stars shine down from overhead.
The morning dawns frosty and cold, but clear skies greet the rising sun and soon enough the cold of morning is replaced with the comfort of a reasonably warm spring day. The trail undulates across the grassland toward the hill with the desolate ruin on top. The occasional track from the nights passersby are easy to spot in the still muddy ground. The overly large paw print a reminder that danger and fell beasts lurk somewhere nearby.
By early afternoon with the sun past its zenith but still high in the sky, Thorgrim calls a halt to the march. Here the overgrown trail begins its winding ascent of the hill side and into the ruins. The sound of water cascading into a pool echoes nearby a little further east and upslope of your current vantage point. To the south is a wood that stretches for a league of two east and a bit further south before giving way again to the grassy plain. A raven croaks and caws from somewhere within the nearer trees, its throaty *gronk gronk* drifting upon the otherwise silent afternoon air.
Thorgrim and Hobwise are the first to spot the splash of color on a flat patch of ground a bit further up the trail. A quick investigation reveals it to be the remains of a makeshift tent, although last nights storm left it fallen and tattered. An abandoned pack lies on the ground not far from the tent. A few utensils, a pot, a simple hunting knife and a few other odds and ends are scattered about of sticking out of the opened flap.
Giles follows along, curious. "I wonder: could this have been Othlaf's tent and possessions?"
He joins with the other in investigating the scene.
"Hm. My assumption was that he fell to mischance and curse after reaching the Tower, not before - or did he simply neglect his tools?"
"That sounds the most likely." Wulfgith said as she gave a nod of agreement to Thorgrim. "Found it while out hunting or out scavenging, thus there was no need for anything he might of left back at camp. Because, he was no longer of the world of men." She sighed, he may have been a someone Wulfgith would have likely hated, but even he didn't deserve that.
As you investigate the camp further, it is easy to see it's been abandoned for quite some time. Likely much of the winter. Some of the pots are partially covered with dirt and mud. Up close the tent is in much worse shape, its fabric tattered and torn, the frame broken in a number of places and really only held up by the thorn bush one side has become entangled with during the harsh winter.
What is recent are the large paw prints and strong musky animal scent. Based on the tracks, a large group of wolves, or larger beasts, also investigated the old camp before moving further up the hill.
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"What we do know, however, is this is a good place to make a camp before assaulting the ruins. So I would council we spend the rest of the day gathering strength. We can break camp an hour before dawn, hitting it at first light and thus giving us a full day to reduce it."
Thorgrim begins the opening moves of making camp by banking a firepit and getting a warm flame going.
"It would be best to strike out for the fallen tower with the rising sun.", says Findegil in agreement, keeping wary eyes out for the movements of wolves.
"Agreed, the light brings with is hope and warmth. It is our best chance against those of darkness." Wulfgith said. "If you believe the old stories... which at this point I do."
The fellowship sets up camp on the patch of clear, level ground at the base of the hill. As the sun dips below the horizon, so does the temperature. Fortunately there it is easy enough to forage fuel from the woods along the southeastern slope.
Evening turns to full night and a waxing moon rises out of the east, it's fat crescent crowning the far off snow capped peaks of the misty mountains. Whether gazing at the stars far above, out across the plain, or simply into the flickering flames of the fire, no one can shake a heavy sense of being watched. That a malevolent gaze looks upon the tidy camp and its heroic inhabitants with a cold, anger filled hatred.
The horses are restless and need a bit of soothing and reassurance throughout the dark hours. The occasional scent musky odor that was found around Othlaf's tent drifts upon the open air along with the rustle of grasses or shrubs, but nothing is ever seen by the wary lookouts. As the moon drifts higher on its journey across the sky there's an occasional low, howling cry the echos from the wood and answered from somewhere further up the hill and within the ruins. This is followed by another set of plaintive cries from the northeast and yet another from the west.
The master has called you into service. Once again offered you and your kin new lands and new hunting grounds. All you must do is defeat the hated ones cowering behind their stone walls. A task considered difficult by the misshapen ones and their smaller cousins. But not for you. Not when a weakness has already been found in those high walls.
Your eyes turn to the west and look upon a high tower surrounded by a thick wall and series of low defensive towers jutting out at regular intervals around the entire structure. Placed upon the summit of the highest hill for leagues, the wall was further protected by the steep slope along all sides except the southern approach where a narrow path zigzags its way up to a narrow, well guarded gate.
Upon first glance, a formidable place. But the towers are old, their stones shifted, in disrepair. They could be scaled by one with your strength and skill. Once inside, it would be easy enough to reach the small side gate where the water gatherers creep out at night thinking they are hidden by darkness to dip their buckets and scurry back within the wall like rats stealing food from their betters.
Your call echoes across the plain, war drums beat where the master's lieutenant leads the misshapen ones as a distraction. A clawed finger runs along the edge of the golden disc hanging from your neck. The red ruby stone glittering in the moonlight. A quick prayer to darkness crosses your lips and you set out, the thirst for blood and glory hot within your fanged jaws. Soon enough you would be lord of this land.
Cereidh straightens up, pulling her sword and bow flat across her lap, looking about warily.
Wulfgith swiftly sat up when she heard the first cry. She grabbed her helm and placed it upon her head before getting her quiver and bow.
While Cereidh remained sitting, Wulfgith stood and moved to make a look around.
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Thorgrim slept soundly.
Though his ever-sharp mind would wake him at the slightest sign of real danger, a few peals of night-howls were not deemed so dire as to disturb his slumber.
Only once did he groggily get awake, sensing worry shuddering through the group like electricity.
With a few quick sweeps of his sword he hews another serving of wood and heaps it onto the fire.
"Wild animals will not approach fire," he says, trying to sound reassuring. "They don't understand it and fear it. Even a well-trained warhorse will not leap through fire.
Wake me for my watch."
That done, he plops into his blankets as is quickly back asleep.
The howls in the night blend seemlessly with the howls in Giles' dreams.
In the early light of the sun, he wakes with a shudder that's more to do with the disc's call than it is to do with the cold night air.
Those Northern constellations? That tower?
He pulls out the Pipe of the Prancing Pony and puffs on it as he ruminates on his dream, silently, wondering what it all means.
Findegil peers out, his back to the fire.
"Do the wolves hear from their scouts? Or their reinforcements? No matter. We shall face them regardless."
The bellering of the wolves is not so different from the packs of coyotes back home, except its wolves and they rest in the shadow of some enormous evil presence. Hobwise sleeps fitfully, eager for the morning and the tower.
Although cries drift upon the chill night air, none of the beasts come close enough to be seen by any of the lookouts. Perhaps it is the fire, perhaps it is that formidable armor and deadly steel carried by the fellowship, or perhaps it is something else that keeps the creatures from approaching. Something more thoughtful, cautious and malevolent. Regardless night passes into day without incident.
Another brisk, frosty spring morning dawns as the sun sheds its light upon the land. It's light illuminating the hillside path and sparkling off the clear blue waters of the small pond fed by springs along the eastern slope.
"Your mighty fire," Cereidh tells Thorgrim, "kept us safe. To maybe perish soon from something else, but." She yawns.
"Today, we reach the tower.", Findegil says simply, as the fellowship enjoy a breakfast.
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Thorgrim relishes the rare praise from the fey and a small smile creeps across his face. "Aye. Until the wee beasties learn how to make it themselves, 'twill ever be a fast ally.
Indeed, Fin, indeed," Thorgrim retorts, sizzling up a fat slab of salted mutton on a pan over a stoked fire. "and with small luck we should clear it out of whatever darkness clings to it."
"I...I hope you're right, Thorgrim. I'm having dreams that feel like visions from the past. I'd swear I saw this hill as it was a thousand years ago, and then...and then I assaulted that the tower. Or whoever's memory I was reliving did. It was like this..."
Puffing on his pipe to sooth himself, he describes the details of the dream, as best he's able.
Hobwise listens to Giles words, but his thoughts stray to Dol Guldur and his own ordeal. In the near distance behind the Breelander, the Tower stands silently waiting for them. It gives the hobbit a heavy heart and a salty attitude. That he had spoken not a word to his colleagues in two days was no sleight, but merely the darkening cloud over his head he could not shake since... well, since the night on the High Pass and the impossible fight against the orc horde. Giles knew nothing of that. Nor did Wulfgith. Better now to let them experience for themselves the true nature of evil, as Giles describes what surely must be a faded yet still potent remnant. Hobwise was too caught up in his own thoughts to truly care.
He sighed and poked a stick at the fire while absently chewing the last of the smoke-cured blood sausages he had prepared half a fortnight ago. He considered that this would likely be his final adventure. He had lost the taste for it. Now was the last chance to strike forever from his being the haunting presence of the Evil One, to dismiss it utterly by vengeful action. Whatever persisted in that Tower was connected to Sauron in some intimate way; Hobwise was certain of it. Purging this countryside of that menace - not for the soon-to-be-forgotten-again town with the dying lord, and certainly not for Olthaf, whom nobody missed, and not even for Giles, although he was a kind and well-meaning person that was worthy of friendship, or at least severance from the thing that bedeviled him - but for himself alone. This was payback, pure and simple.
Once the others were ready, Hobwise mustered his full resolve. Today he would find either absolution or perdition.
"Now we finish this."