Hobwise staggers when the monstrosity rakes him with it's spindly blood-claws, and is flat-footed when the acid sprays forth. His strength is nearly gone, and the light in his palm is almost extinguished. He feels the crushing weight of this final moment. With a desperate flurry, he dives toward the horror, slashing wildly at the evil thing which towers above.
Small Folk, one last time.
A ray of sunlight breaks through the gray cloud cover. Perhaps called forth by the ancient magic of Valinor. Raindrops sparkle as the summit appears for a moment to be shrouded in diamonds and brilliance greater than any crown of mortal or elven making. That light seems to imbue Cereidh's arrows and Thorgrim's blade as the two strike out a the spirit of blood and shadow. Hobwise, his skin still sizzling and smoking from the scalding acid of the blood beast makes one last desperate slash with his own blade. Giles and Wulfgith add their own feather shafts to the mix along with the Knight of Gondor's fierce steel.
The onslaught of light is too much for such evil to withstand and with an explosive burst that sprays everyone and everything in a bloody, burning, slimy mess the beast is vanquished. Whatever spirit that inhabited its form vanquished back to the land of the dead or the void from which it emerged.
A loud crack and shattering sound bursts forth from the pack carried by Giles extinguishing the red light that had been steadily surrounding the Breelander's supplies. And the menacing presence that had touched everyone at various points can no longer be felt.
The call of a blackbird echoes from somewhere below the summit. It's song greeting the return of the sun and light to the land as the low, dark gray clouds continue to break up and drift away following the storms passage.
Wulfgith took a breath she hadn't been aware she was holding when everything returned to light.
"Do you think that was it?" Wulfgith asked as she looked to Hobwise, Thorgrim, and Cereidh who had held the line no question. "The things that made this place so... tainted?"
Cereidh stands for a long moment in belated shock, shaking just slightly, before she takes in an explosive breath and straightens up.
"Well. Well."
"I won't be satisfied until I've seen the inside of this tower, all there is to see, and felt no eyes on me."
She gives Hobwise a concerned look, but is reluctant to ask the fiercely independent hobbit if he's ... alright.
Giles, walks back to his companions...wearily eyeing the bloody mess, looking for signs that it would reanimate again.
"Well...I'm a bit surprised we're alive, frankly. But grateful.
"If we're to follow Lady Cereid's advice, allow me to bandage everyone's wounds first."
Hobwise rests. With deep wounds and covered in gore for the second time in three days, he accepts whatever ministrations Giles can provide, given that half of his healing supplies were consumed just getting the Breelander upright before this last fight.
But no matter. It feels good just to sit in the sunlight. Let the others explore the tower - he no longer cares what might be found within.
Cereidh gives a fey little grin. "This gore comes from that thing, not from me." And brushes some blood off her cloak.
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Thorgrim laughs.
Long and loud. It's a deep chortle that relishes the feeling of being alive after a mighty struggle where death is listening, and will take the first one who screams.
He twists his sword once, quickly, to toss off the cheifest portions of grime and gore from the blade, then wipes most of the remaining blood on the ground. He washes it once with good, dry dirt, then wipes it clean with a rag he keeps on his sword belt for just such an occasion. Only then does he sheath the fearsome blade, that, almost, can be heard purring like a cat after a meal of fish and milk.
"Oh ho, that were some noble shots!" he declares coming to the elf Cereidh and clapping her solidly on the shoulder. "Do not think I missed the glow of thy Iron Will upon thy iron barbs! Do the arrows themselves have names, or does thy bow imbue them with a celestial force?" he inquires.
He knew the history of his own blade, but now that he was aware another possessed a Weapon of Lineage he was overcome by a curiosity to know of it.
"Ha, Wulfgith!" he says, fielding the question. "Unto that we can have the answer in but a trice!"
He kicks over the pile of tired wood that had produced little more than an oily black smoke, and re-builds it afresh. Some dry wool from his own pouch, a scrap of birchbark laying nearby, and a bug-eaten branch that his own iron-hard fingers crush into tinder--a practice that, if you said was reminiscent of Beorn's own habit, might lead to a fight--make a suitable tableau upon which to test the blight of the place.
His honor still felt umbrage at having failed at making a fire, and he could not take another step without taking another shot. That it tests the theory of Wulfgith's was but sauce for the goose.
But whatever, whether the tinder sparks to flame or sputters to inaction, he will not linger on it long, as his own curiosity at the inside of this ominous tower is great and un-resistible.
"Aye, Giles. See to Hobwise. I'm a-feared that he will need, O, some potent ministrations.
Wulfgith, see to thy horse, and find mine own if you can. He had my good wineskin and crushing the shadow always works up a powerful thirst.
I'm sure the two of us will be sufficient to see the inside of this defanged tower."
"There are other teeth than the fangs in a wolf's mouth," Cereidh says mildly, hoisting her bow over her shoulder. "But I will indeed rest better after seeing the cut to the thing's throat."
She stops and considers for a moment. "And if we must retreat to the rest of our companions." She grins impishly. "I'll already be some paces behind, given Bregghar's long arm." She taps her bow.
"Swiftkiss is just raddled, but she is unharmed. I'll see about finding your steed." Wulfgith said.
Scanning the slope and grasslands for any sign of Thorgrim's horse, it takes a few minutes before you spot the sad sight. Giving quick thanks that you were able to keep Swiftkiss under control, you ride down the trail to where the remains of Thorgrim's big horse lie sprawled upon the ground. It's side and neck torn by tooth and claw, it's leg broken in a fall. A warg also lies dead not far away. It's big canine skull caved in from a hoof blow that shows at least the horse did not go down without a fight. Something you know the big Beorning would appreciate.
The sunlight continues to shine as Thorgrim rebuilds his fire. This time the flames are not so hesitant and sickly. Soon enough a warm blaze burns upon the summit, bringing more warmth than that lonely place has seen in more than a thousand years. Giles works his way among the fellowship, binding and stitching wounds, applying what poultices he has remaining. While Hobwise simply allows himself to rest against a solid stone his gaze lingering upon the ruin as the light of day shines upon rock, shrub, and new spring grass. After wielding the light of an age long, long past against an enemy of dark and shadow, the sunlight of present day brings a welcome warmth and comfort.
Indeed whether the sun lights upon a peaceful lake, warms an ancient forgotten stone, provides light to guide a needle stitching wounds, or adding to a fires golden heat; all feel and bask in the suns embrace knowing that once, long, long ago all light had been driven from the world upon the fall of the ancient trees of Valinor. For a brief moment on this day that light graced the land once again. Once again aiding in the defeat of darkness and paving the way for sunlight's happy return.
Happy to be able to take his time, Giles binds Hobwise's wounds, then Wulfgith's, and finally his own. As he does, he sings a melody that Estel had taught him, that somehow seems to help keep the wounds heal faster.
When he was satisfied with his work, he leaned back on a broken stone and lit his Pipe of the Prancing Pony.
Ahhhhh. Surely there's no sweeter taste than the taste of something I'd feared I'd never live to have again.
Upon the finding the steed Wulfgith shed a tear, before she dismounted. She knelt next to the majestic mount's body, and placed her hand against it's cheek. "Run with your herd in a better place now." She said, her voice full of sorrow.
She then went about collecting all of Thorgrim's thing and placing them on her own steed, before lastly removing the reins and saddle from the horse.
She returned to the group, walking next to Swiftkiss instead of astride her. As in her place was another saddle and reins. When she reached them she took the saddle and reins and made her way right up to Thorgirm. She knelt on one knee before him and placed his steed's saddle and reins at his feet. Looking up with sad eyes she told him. "I am sorry. A warg found your steed... But know that warg paid with it's life. Your mighty steed did not let it get away alive. They fought till the bitter end." She told him.
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"Bregghar...Bregghar," Thorgrim repeats, rolling the sound on his tongue and tasting the name. "Hmm. Sounds like a kingly name. Has it a meaning?
And how did you come by it?" he asks Cereidh. "As for my own blade, I paid a scholar good coin, and he said it's name is two parts.
'Nocta' is some old tongue for 'night' or 'darkness' and '-cide' means to kill, or to slay. Seems fitting.
Did I ever tell you I found it when I fell into a--" he pauses in his story as the remains of his mount is put before him. He grunts and says, "Get up, woman. There is no great loss here. That is why I do not name them. A stout blade might ride with a man all of his days, but horses will fall before him as snow falling on warm ground.
Still, 'twill be a pain carrying his tackle until I can find another--ahHA!" he cries in victory, relieving his wineskin from Swiftkiss's thong.
He raises it to his lips and tosses his head back, taking a long, healthy pull. "Ah! Now that's better. Glory unto you, Horse, for you did as well as any can hope! You died with honor!"
Taking one more pull he loops the skin around his shoulder and motions onward.
"Well, Cereidh, let's not stand here jabbering. I'll not rest well at night until I've seen the inside of that tower as restful as the lands around it. Let's give it a once-over before we show this place our heels."
That said he marches into the tower to see the look of the interior.
“That is -.” She pauses. “A little hard to be sure of.” She traces the upper arm of the bow, along the shallow steely silver filigree. “The name these letters form, ravaged by time as it is I can still make a guess … in my language, it sounds something like shadow. But it has no reticence at all to hunt the shadow. Sometimes we are named for the things we hunt.”
“I challenged my lord and cousin to a bet on one of our long hunts. … I lost. But he was gracious, and instead of carrying in the stag, I took the unsought prize from roaming the Greenwood. The better trade, although less enjoyable at the time. I like to think it would not bend so well for another master, for all I took it by chance.”
Cereidh considers the dead horse with wary, almost shame-faced discomfort. She gives Wulfgith a slight, awkward nod, attempting to acknowledge what this might mean to a rider of Rohan.
However, she follows Thorgrim without hesitation, a spring to her step and a hungry slope to her shoulders.
Stepping thru the arch so recently held by the stout Hobwise, Thorgrim and Cereidh find little to bring to light the origins of the spirit. They do find the foul smell and detritus of a warg lair. Numerous old bones, some clearly of human or elf origin, litter the area mixed with leaves, fur, and the occasional rotted piece of cloth or blanket. Several shallow holes have been dug along the circular wall of the old ruin. Filled with the softest materials these are obviously where the wargs bedded down.
Poking through the debris, elf and beorning discover a few coins scattered about, a gold bracelet with a trio of garnets, a battered tin of snuff stamped with the Featherfoot Logo of the south Shire.
Cereidh picks through, more repulsed than respectful.
Hobwise joins Giles near the fire, packing and lighting his pipe and drawing deep, then exhaling a series of perfect smoke rings.
"Longbottom is acclaimed and for sure, it is a fine leaf, but there is a farm at the south of the Shire that gets more sun than any place I have ever been, and the tobacco there grows wide and is allowed to dry on the stalks before harvest. It has a sweetness that is like a drop of honey from the heavens."
The hobbit offers to share his pouch with the Breelander.
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Unwilling to go outside again for fear he might be roped into something, Thorgrim bends knee and scoopes a great armful of the fuzzy things into the deepest hole. He strikes flint to steel and at the first touch a spark springs to life, chasing away the murky darkness with a lively if doomed flame.
"That's better," he rumbles.
The some few coins he perfunctorily drops into an empty pouch at his belt, to be sorted, and probably cleaned, later.
The box follows, but he makes a mental note to show to the halfling--either one--later and to get their take on it. He was never one for the leaf, taking the fruit of the vine for his diversion, but the half-men would surely have some interest in seeing the thing's vintage.
The bracelet now...that was a rare find. The stones were semiprecious, but so much gold in so fine a thing was not often seen. That was about to follow the other finds into the pouch, but a kind of madness took over him at once and he was but a feather caught in the wind of it.
"I would see you wear this," he states, coming over to Cereidh. "A gold bracelet amongst this barrow is about as rare as, well, finding an elf amongst it. Beseems the twain should meet and get to know each other."
Coming close to offer her the jewelry with one hand in the confined space, his other hand falls gently through the perimeter of her hair to land upon her back.
Ever had he been curious how it felt, and it seemed like if he did not find out now, he simply never would.
Stepping thru the arch so recently held by the stout Hobwise,
Cereidh watches Thorgrim approach with dark, unreadable eyes; her expression doesn’t change much, one eyebrow twitching upward, lips thinning but turning up slightly at the corners. Her hair is soft and thick to the touch as it looks, and she shifts only to look up at him.
”Tell me, is it the light of the stones that inspired this gallantry? We’ve seen many fine things together, and frankly, a warg’s nest is not where I would have expected you to try out a new part! But perhaps we should not count our luck when it comes to courtliness.”
Her eyebrow inches higher at her own allusion to how well a courtly meeting went last. Her voice is light, surprised, and curious.
”I have no need of gold, and less need to be weighed down for many years and travels. But - that doesn’t count for a gift from a friend, one he earned.”
Wulfgith, letting the horse's gear remain where it was. After all it was Thorgrim's choice on what he would do with it after all. However inside she would remember this. He did not deserve a steed if that is how he felt.
She then moved to join Hobwise and Gales. "Thank you for your help." She told them. "That was quite a feat you performed Hobwise. Holding those doors closed as long as you did."
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Thorgrim smiles.
It's a rare thing, kept in reserve for special occasions when the hard, stoic pragmatism of everyday life will simply not do.
"As we have ended the life of the foul thing that haunted the star-crossed medallion, I think of the young man that found it first."
He keeps his hand on her back.
"I think of what he was looking for, and what he found in its stead. He sought finery, much like this here."
The bracelet he places against her wrist, judging its size. His hand, of course, rests against hers.
The sublime delicacy of the hair had far surpassed his expectations, and now he must know how such butter-cream skin felt. Again, this seemed the opportune moment. Faint hearts and all that.
"He sought wealth. And love. He found murder. And death.
What other dreams did he have? What visions danced in his head as a youth? Did he imagine himself a great king as he pranced on his mother's porch? Did he imagine himself a warrior of renown, fencing with sticks with other boys? But all those moments poured themselves into this place, and that artifact took all those dreams and cast them aside like chaff before the maelstrom.
For his memory, to respect the past, I would see the finery that -has- been found here put to it's proper use. I would know that for all the death wrought here, there is now a spark of kindness."
He gently guides her ivory hand up, and kisses it.
"So too, as that...-thing-...spoke in my head and sought to give me a future of the same type, I see now that life is short. And when I bleed my last upon the ground, I do not want my last vision to be of all my regrets of the things left undone."
He is surprised as his head moves, mouth seeking hers, a quest for a kiss.
But not surprised a lot.
Hobwise nods to Wulfgith and offers her space to rest beside the fire.
Cereidh tracks the lift of Thorgrim’s mouth with the curiosity of a youth happening upon a butterfly lingering almost within reach.
”I agree the bracelet is better carried away than left here,” she says quietly.
As his mouth seeks hers, she brings her hand up to his jaw in a tentative caress, which quickly firms to hold him where he is, breath tickling her cheek and stirring a stray curl near her ear. She smiles, abrupt and impish, thumb resting near his mouth before she swipes it along his cheekbone to examine a bit of spirit-thing blood had that landed there.
”You, my characteristically brash champion, are badly in need of a bath.”
She sighs, once, deeper and shakier than her wont, talking half a step back to smile full up at him. ”Although the same must be said for myself.” She drops her hand from his cheek, brushing down his upper arm briefly, and bends her head to arrange the bracelet on her wrist to her liking, trying to smudge any gore or grime away from where it rests.
She turns to head back out - but then glances back up at him, just the tips of her ears pink. ”Thank you. For this. … And for standing between me and that thing. Really, I think you spared me a bit of that blood-shower.”
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Thorgrim smiles. His face splits into a great, white-toothed grin and he laughs. "Aye, a bath. You have the right of it, naturally."
Still chuckling he turns and exits the hovel. Seeing Hobwise at leisure, he tosses the tin of Featherfoot at him. "We have had little enough to tickle our hearts in this bleak place, but I thought this might amuse you. I know not of the leaf, but a bottle of fine whiskey is nigh immortal, so we might have hope this is not yet dust.
Giles! How goes the treatments? Is our company hale and hearty? We have yet to cleave unto the heart of this place, and I would not leave it any less than fully explored, for I fear we shall never see this place again 'ere we die.
So let us see all that can be seen, afore we strike out for softer climes.
And we all can have a bath. Ha!"
Chuckling at his joke, he unsheathes Noctacide with a great *SHING* and cuts a direct swath toward the center.
"I won't say I fear not to see this place again," Cereidh says, a little dryly, but in evident high spirits none the less. "Master Giles. Is anything further needed for our tending? More water? More wood for the fire?" She squints around at the rain-washed grassland dubiously.
The way toward the center of the fallen fortress winds around, over, and occasionally under the chaotic jumble of long collapsed walls and fortifications. After more than a thousand years since the towers fall to the forces of darkness, the land has reclaimed much as scraggly shrubs, grasses, vines, and small trees grow over and around much of the ruin. Yet there is a reasonably recent path that makes its way to the interior. Like a drunkard staggering home it is not a direct route, but avoids the thickest and most unstable parts of the ruin.
Finally, the path ends at what must have been the interior of the main hall. The sun still shines above, illuminating the old ruin and another set of warg dugouts tucked in a sheltered area to the north. The smelly dens take advantage of a 'cave' created by collapsed stones to create a shelter safe from the elements and the light of day. But the simple path leads not to the lair of the wargs. Instead is ends near what would have been the southeast corner of the old hall and a dugout area that has revealed a set of ancient stone steps leading down into the interior of the hill.
The steps are covered in mud and slick with the earlier rain, but a little caution and care while descending is enough to avoid any serious mishap. The stairs descend into what must have been the cellars beneath the fortress. Down here, mostly safe from the elements, a few bits and bobs of the ancient past still lie scattered about. A rusted sword. The burnt and weathered bands of ale or water barrels, the wood burnt in the original conflagration of the assault or rotted away over the years. Charred remains of shelves. Scattered bones, human, orc, goblin and wolf are testament to the fighting that took place so long ago.
From this large cellar at the base of the stairs, the underground ruin continues in two possible directions. Further east or through a cracked arch to the south.
Wulfgith looked around the area as they entered. Swiftkiss had to be left outside which she wasn't too happy about, but it was what it was.
"Cereidh, Findegil, are either of you getting the feeling we've been here before?" Wulfgith asked with a slightly raised eyebrow remembering their time down below when Findegil almost died.
"So, to the east or the south? I suggest East." Wulfgith said.
[ooc]Yay![/spoiler]
Cereidh eyes both paths for structural integrity.
"Somewhere horrible, dank, and possibly full of trapped spirits? Yes. And like a previous trapped spirit we dealt with, I hope - hello, any trapped spirits!" she projects her voice, " - that it will be amenable to being foisted off on Lord Elrond."
She bounces a little on the balls of her feet. "Although I'm fresh for another round."
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Thorgrim doggedly leads the way, feeling his sails again fill with wind. Though the fight upon the perimeter was a near, close thing, his primordial strength is soon back to its zenith.
He took some time to perform at least a perfunctory searching of the nests of the wargs, the former finds an indicator that not all was dross about here.
Upon preparing to enter the underground, he takes and lights a torch to have at least it's plucky, oily flame illuminating the way ahead. So too, with the wet ground beneath him, he will feel no compunction about dropping it the instant there is a whiff of new battle.
The remains of ale casks do not long hold his interest, once it's apparent that there will be no ale to be found.
"That is a fine idea, Wulfgith," he states, not one to idle overlong, and heads down the Eastern path.
Hobwise joins Giles near the fire, packing and lighting his pipe and drawing deep, then exhaling a series of perfect smoke rings.
"Longbottom is acclaimed and for sure, it is a fine leaf, but there is a farm at the south of the Shire that gets more sun than any place I have ever been, and the tobacco there grows wide and is allowed to dry on the stalks before harvest. It has a sweetness that is like a drop of honey from the heavens."
The hobbit offers to share his pouch with the Breelander.
Giles raises an eyebrow in interest. After smelling it, he carefully packs his pipe, lights it, and breathes in the rich smoke...before blowing it out in rings.
With a smile, he says, "Mmmmmm. That's a nice leaf indeed. Sweet, without being cloying. Thank you."
He smokes mostly in silence until the Cereidh and Thorgrim return. "What did you discover? Anything of note?" He asks eagerly.
When they inquire as to his readiness, Giles shakes his head and says, "I believe everyone is ready to carry on...and I'm quite curious what more we'll find.
"First though...I'd swear I heard a loud cracking sound come from my pack, when that Man of Blood and Shadow was vanquished. I'm inclined to take a look...but thought it wise to wait until we were all in good health first."
If there are no objections, he carefully opens his pack, and unties the bags around the disc.
Giles stands a bit back, and nods at the suggestion of the Eastern path. "I can't make a case against it."
Giles reaches into his pack and narrowly avoids cutting himself on the sharp broken pieces of the disc. The ruby crushed as if by a great hammer, while the disc is shattered into a half dozen wedged pieces.
When the Breelander touches one of the pieces he feels nothing but the cool metal and jagged edge. No vision, no malevolent voice, nothing supernatural at all seems to inhabit of speak through the disc.
The eastern passage continues past two more storage rooms then loops to the southwest where it ends in a series of cells. The iron bars and walls of two of the cells are still mostly intact, while the rest has been buried under stone and dirt. Neither prison cell contains anything of interest.
Thorgrim's torch lights up the very end of the passage to reveal a roughly dug tunnel. Very different from the smooth stonework of the Dunedain. The digging is certainly not fresh. In fact, it likely dates to the towers collapse, but it still appears passable with a little careful effort and a willingness to squeeze through the narrowest portions.
Cereidh winces openly at the small, ominous tunnel, although her eyes are still bright with curiosity. She switches from her bow to her sword.
"Yep... remembering a great deal..." Wulfgith said as she followed with her bow and an arrow at the ready.
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Thorgrim frowns at the small opening. "I like this not. I'd council ignoring so perilous an opening. Unless...some hobbit burglar has curiosity enough to comfortably scout it out?" he asks, eyeing up the two hobbits.
"And what is this you remember so fondly, Wulfgith? Care to enlighten the rest of us?"
"One of our last sojourns under the earth, the one featuring the goblins, mayhaps. And I am very relieved to hear the suggestion for ignoring this slimy little hole, at least until we've explored in other directions."
"Yeah, that one." Wulfgith said as she nodded to Cereidh. "Almost got killed in that one..." She added.
"I agree with the choice of ignoring."
Having no idea what Cereidh and Wulfgith are afraid of - talking about goblins when the company just slew a dozen wargs and a great ancient horror - Hobwise calmly takes the lead and moves forward, easily navigating the dark and narrow passageway, his senses keen for danger.
Hobwise slips ahead and into the narrow tunnel, his small frame easily moving through the narrow passage. His companions watch from behind until he turns a corner disappearing from view.
Another corner, another descent. The darkness before you begins to take on a dim, pale ice blue. The light growing a bit stronger as you creep forward. With the growing light, so grows the cold. A cold that begins to seep deep into you very bones and being. An icy cloak that wraps your body in a chilling heart slowing embrace.
The cold is biting, and chills him to the core. He cannot escape its effect on him. Drawing his fur-lined cloak tightly, he hastily unspools his bedroll and wraps it about himself. Then he holds his pocket handkerchief against his face to mute the cold air penetrating his lungs.
A little further...
Discarding stealth for speed, he moves with greater urgency.
You round another corner and suddenly find yourself overlooking a much bigger chamber. The chamber is round, about sixty paces across and lined with worked stone walls. A twenty foot domed ceiling covers the area with huge icicles hanging down. Some as big around as Thorgrim heavy form. Thick ice and frost cover the entire chamber as any moisture quickly freezes. The area is lit by a single large iron lamp with a thick clear crystal globe protecting whatever fuels the pale blue light inside. Hanging from a thick, ice coated, iron chain, the lamp occasionally flickers, dims, and then returns to a steady soft glow that illuminates a black altar. Lying upon the altar is a half man, half wolf body. Its frozen form coated in a thick frost keeping it preserved from the usual ravages of time. Curiously, the body appears to be clothed in ornate robes and a sparkle of thick gold necklace adorning its neck catches your eye. Following the necklace you see a gap in the frost where something has been removed. Circular and about the same size as the now broken disc in Giles pack.
Surrounding the altar is a more gruesome sight. Space precisely to match the four cardinal directions and the middle points between each are eight more frozen bodies. Each is naked, chained to the wall of the chamber and has had their heart removed in an obviously sacrificial manner. It is difficult to tell from here, but each victim appears to be a Dunedain. Very possibly some of the original defenders of this doomed place.
Standing near the entrance, there is nothing to hear or see as the moments slip past. Nothing but a chill breath of air brushes the faces of the fellowship from the narrow tunnel as they await word from the stouthearted hobbit.
Now the cold is even more biting, but Hobwise steels himself against it; the sudden revelation of the underground chamber gives his heart a jolt.
Approaching the altar, he passes the strange blue orb, briefly wondering at its powers in this dark place. Having faced darker demons than this, he reaches out and grabs at the gold chain, pulling it free from the neck of the robed creature if it is not frozen fast.
For want of a torch, he can do nothing more. Surely, the Dunedain who bravely fought against the Shadow in this fortress tower deserve a better fate, but it is not for Hobwise to provide it.
He gives the rest of the chamber a look - are there any other ways in or out? Any other hidden treasures or traps, manifestations of evil or evidence of courage?
"At the very least we could give him a bit longer." Wulfgith said as they waited. "Hopefully everything will be alright."
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"Aye, aye. Still, curse this inaction."
Not one to remain motionless without need, he unslings the winesack and doses his hands, rubbing them together to rid them of offal and grime. Then he he unwraps the leather thong that binds his long hair, pours wine into his hands, and roughly combs out the worst of the ichor from his locks. The ritual is followed with arms and face, and a general de-gutsing of his overall form.
That done, he re-wraps his hair and continues eyeing up the tunnel.
"I'm of a mood for a debauch," he says to the air. "When we leave this place I'll see to it we have some good roisting done at first opportunity."
"A bit of sunshine and clear water wouldn't go amiss," Cereidh agrees.