The cold grows drastically deeper as you approach both altar and lamp. It's unclear which is generating more of the deadly breath of winter, altar or lamp. Coming closer to the altar you can see it is made of black obsidian. Cold pours from the glass-like stone surface and although it is impossible to see clearly beneath the frost and ice, you do catch a glimpse of some script deeply etched into the top and sides of the great stone.
Peering closer at the body you find that is doesn't appear wounded or decayed at all. Not like those fallen souls hanging at the edges of the chamber. Instead it appears the creature has simply laid down to rest. Wrapped in silks from the far south its clawed hands lay folded across its chest while it canine jaw is open just enough to reveal the pointed teeth of a hunter. A belt of gold wraps around its waist, on one side a pair of scroll cases are attached. The other side of the belt holds a beaded scabbard and hilt of a long knife judging by the length. All are covered in a layer of ice, but with a little work might be removed.
The necklace is a true work of art. Made of over twenty bands of gold. Each band interweaves through the others creating an intricate and delicate pattern of knots and figures of wolves chasing a sun.
You reach out to pry the necklace free but find it frozen in place the back side buried in a thick layer of ice like most everything else. Perhaps that is the reason why only the disc sized amulet was removed by whoever reached this place before you. As your gloved fingers probe the chain and brush away some more of the frost, the scent of spices grows stronger. Your warm breath brushes across the furry face, melting the delicate strands of frost for just a moment before the cold starts to refreeze the moisture. The orbs of the lamp begin to move and whirl faster, as if excited, the light strobing more with their added intensity.
Don't be foolish, Hobwise! The hobbit steps away from the altar, touching nothing else. The cold continues to intensify, and if he's rash he'll likely become one of the trappings of this evil place.
Hobwise scrambles back the way he came, intent on rejoining the others and warming his frozen bones by Thorgrim's fire.
More time passes and finally the sound of soft foot steps can be heard coming from the tunnel. Moments later Hobwise emerges. Frost is slowly melting from the hobbit's hair and feet as he shivers his way back through the tunnel. The blanket wrapped around his shoulders is stiff with cold as is the handkerchief covering most of his face.
Hobwise bursts forth from the tunnel and hurries toward the nearest lit torch, huddling so close as to nearly singe off his eyebrows. It is several long minutes of shivering before he can compose himself to speak.
"C-c-cold!" he sputters, managing to state the thing that is most obvious.
"Th-there's a th-thing. Like a... la-lamp. But blue. Ev-v-v-vil."
Once he has warmed a but more he recounts the entire interlude, withholding no detail.
"That lamp, I believe it knew when I was there. It may be the reason for the cold. And it may fight back if we attempt to dislodge it. I have a feeling that those poor Dunedain may have some life left in them to be used against trespassers. But surely, there are some fine treasures down there. And yet a source of Shadow. If we truly intend to lift the veil of darkness which shrouds this land, then that chamber must be dealt with."
Cereidh glances between Hobwise and Giles. "Is there any way to guess if it will attract more roving evil to it, should we leave it to gather our strength before returning?"
Wulfgith took her cloak from her shoulders and moved to Hobwise, giving it to him to help him warm up faster. "That is a good question." Wulfgith agreed with a nod. "Not to mention that we already carry something with it's own shadow upon it... could it grow stronger or be used against us if get too close?"
"Didn't the amulet break when the other spirit was banished - well. Dismantled?"
"I know it broke." Wulfgith agreed with a nod. "But I'm still worried... that... thing... well lets just say I'm still nervous about it." She honestly admitted. "This whole place has put me on edge... I expect things to go wrong honestly...."
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Thorgrim greets the story with at first apprehension, then with disdain, but at the mention of the splayed-out bodies, his teeth grit in barely-controlled righteous rage.
Noctacide, which had been, almost audibly, contentedly purring in a light doze, now creeked one metaphorical eye open, and felt a rumbling for GLORIOUS COMBAT against such HERESY.
"Were it my druthers, I would charge in now and rend and hack and make a shambles of the place, disrupting whatever un-wordly power source they have set up.
But soft, Cereidh is full of wisdom, as she usually is." He favors her with a sideways look and a quick smirk. "Did I go on my own and, as the Legendary Tales say, the frozen corpses did rise and set upon me to eat my flesh, alone I might be overwhelmed.
But all of us together? What force of Shadow could stand against us?
You bring us wisdom, Hobwise," he says, extending another form of warmth in the way of his unempty wineskin. "We shall put on all the clothing we have when we sally forth, and we shall see if this lamp can bring cold when shattered into a thousand pieces!"
Cereidh raises an eyebrow just a little, surprised and pleased at Thorgrim's restraint. "I am - curious at how graceful your own entry will be when you are bundled up like a bear." She seems amused and a little endeared by the mental vision.
"I don't believe the lamp is going anywhere tonight. For myself, I am as full of vim and vigor as I was this morning ... but I see no reason not to rest further before joining battle should any of us need it."
"Perhaps unsettling dreams. But give us a cheery campfire, and we can combat that."
The fellowship retreats to rest and regroup following the hobbit's foray into the frozen chamber below the fallen tower. Thorgrim builds a blaze that finally warms Hobwise and his chilled, chattering bones.
The time passes uneventfully. The sunset fills the western sky with an artists palette of yellows, oranges, reds, and eventually pinks, purples, an deep blues. A few bats dart back and forth across the late evening sky. Their small dark shapes catching the eye as they seek out a quick meal. The occasional cry of a wolf echoes through the night, but they are distant and fewer in numbers than in previous nights. The howling is no longer filled with the same menace and danger.
Yet, all is not as peaceful and at ease as the quiet evening might seem. As each of you drift to sleep or fall into a nights meditative rest, you find your minds troubled. Dreams of darkness, death, fire, and blood run rampant in your minds. Until one dream in particular rises to the surface.
The sounds of battle surround you. The first wave is assaulting the walls. Arrows, stones, and boiling water rain down from the towers formidable defenses. Orcs die, but that is what they are there to do. Screams and the scent of blood fill the air as you and your pack slip through the dark night around the other side of the tower. There you come upon the small lake. The clear cold water reflecting the torches and fires upon the walls.
You slip into the water. It is cold but bearable. At least for a short time. Diving under the surface, the bubbles of air from your nose tickle the fur along your jaw as you swim forward toward the opening discovered the day before. Lungs start to ache. The desire to breathe growing stronger. Then you are through, bursting forth into a small, narrow pool. The others follow as you scrabble up the little beach and into the tunnel. Not much more than a large crack in the rocky hill. Never discovered by those who built the tower or forgotten over the years. It doesn't matter. A way in has been discovered. Not big enough for most to pass, but for those with your skills and talents...a way. An opening. Shifting your form just enough to slip through narrow spaces and worm your way up the dark pathway within the bones of the world you finally find yourself able to stand straight and shake off the dirt and mud of your journey.
The smell of food and other stores is heavy in the air. The sounds of battle muffled, barely perceptible in this underground cellar. The others start to emerge. Stretching and yawning their pleasure to be through with that part of the nights work. Soon now, the hunt would truly begin.
The dream stays with you. Scenes of battle and blood. Men taken by surprise as wolf beasts burst forth from the catacombs in a frenzy of furious death. The sudden onslaught from within draws defenders from the walls. Soon enough orcs and men from the north have a foothold upon the walls. More pour up the ladders while the beasts inside rip and tear with lightning quickness through the halls and courtyards.
The battle is over. Now the sappers work to collapse the foundations and render the place useless for years to come. You watch the Black Priests arrive and descend into the places beneath the tower. Readying their curses. Spreading their own form of darkness for the Great Master.
Surprisingly one of them comes for you. Gray eyes peering at the necklace and disc hanging around your neck. The same old argument. Loyalties to the past verses those of the present. You pay the priest little attention. You've served. Done your duty. If not for you this tower would still be in the hands of the hated men from the West.
Behind the priest, prisoners are being taken below. Likely sacrifices in one of their dark rituals. You start to turn away when another presence joins the priest. One you cannot ignore. One that makes your skin crawl and your mind shiver in fear. The one who leads this army of conquest. The one who called you and your pack from the far south to join this war in the far away north.
This one you must follow and obey when he calls you down below.
Each of you wake soaked in sweat and shivering from the cold early morning air. Trying to shake off the visions of the dream and scenes of a past more than a thousand years old. The first rays of the sun begin to light the mountain peaks to the east. Light that warms you before delving back into the cold depths and whatever it is that awaits below.
Cereidh wakes pale and shivering, lurching up out of her bedroll to pace, roll her shoulders, attempt to warm herself without the patience to set a fire.
"I was arrogant," she says stiffly, staring at the ruined tower instead of the rest of them. "We shouldn't have tried to rest here. Whatever this is, it wants another sacrifice."
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"GraaGHHH!" Thorgrim wakes up screaming, bolting out of his blankets. The saddle from his horse, now his pillow, stares silently out and already begins to lose the night heat.
"I see I was not the only forced into a dark dream, eh?
'Twas not your fault, Cereidh. We underestimated the power here. By all the Valar this only re-affirms that we are on the right path to DESTROY whatever thrice-cursed work has been set up here, and see that it's power is BROKEN, never to bother the World of Men ever again.
Still, 'tis only a dream. This and nothing more. No harm done, eh?
I'll re-stoke these coals into a great conflagration and we'll burn away these foul visions and have a good feed and we'll put on all the clothing we have with us and invade this macabre cavern and see a strong part of the shadow broken and THEN we'll have a good sleep after."
Following his word, Thorgrim works at the coals of last night's fire and soon has a merry flame dancing about, with a happy stand of bacon and 'taters, sausage and tomatoes sizzling and frying to wake the others.
Wulfgith woke with a start, shivering from the cold and her own fearful dream.
"Our victory the day before left us with a sense of security." Wulfgith said as she ran the back of her head across her forehead to remove the sweat. "It won't be done till this place is taken care of."
Hobwise wakes up with a headache and in a mood to match. The relief from obliterating the demon yesterday is all but purged from his thoughts, replaced with the sinister secrets of the hidden lair beneath the tower.
He conserves his energy throughout the day, still recovering from the exhausting exposure to the cold.
At length, following lunch, he muses, "Suppose we could push some timbers down the hole and make a grand fire in that cavern? It would be dangerous work, but no more so than facing that evil on its terms. AT the very least, we need torches and fuel."
"Well. Should we try it, I suppose what dreams may follow - or not - would tell us if we had succeeded."
"There," points Hobwise. "That wood in the distance wood serve us well. Probably enough of the winter kill can be easily hacked from the lower branches. A day's work, no more, if Swiftkiss can be enlisted to drag the logs. Then we only need to figure the best way to get them down there. I propose turns, simple enough. Too bad we used up the Athelas. But there's nothing for it."
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Thorgrim rests a spell, gnawing the last of the sausage. He frowns into the distance.
While he's always up for fire-building, indeed it's almost second nature to him, he doesn't see it as the answer to every problem, and this doesn't seem to fit that hole.
"I like it not," he begins. "You said the cold bit into you all the way along the cramped tunnel. Hauling a load of wood would make the going slow, and a fire would be of no benefit on the way there, meaning a body could not stand, what? More than one trip a day? We can not line all the tunnel in flame.
So too, suppose we get a good fire going. Then what? To what end is it?
Beseems the cold is magical in nature, and, betimes, evil. Methinks the evil feeds off something, either the bodies or the lamp.
Mayhap a better plan would be to attack--disrupt the ritual. Remove, or at least bury, the bodies. Smash the lamp. Slice into the central figure and disturb his perfection. We can bring some small supply of wood, an armful each, if we need it to burn out some point.
But once the source of the cold is dealt with, the unnatural ice should fade, eh?"
"Yes but the cold may be waded off for a short time while we try and deal with what else it may throw at us." Wulfgith said as she got up and started gathering what they would need.
"Swiftkiss could pull the logs with no problem." She told Hobwise with a nod. "We'll need to get a rough idea of how much we'd need first, and how long they will last as we don't know how long it would take is to go through everything it could throw at us."
Wulfgith paused for a moment before snapping her fingers. "What if we use white coal?" She asked. "It burns hotter which means we'd need less. It would take a full day to make however." Wulfgith said. "It would make a small supply of wood pack more of a punch. We'd just have to spend time drying the wood out."
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Thorgrim nods in resignation. He would prefer to attack, fast and strong, and be done with a thing. But neither does he need great encouragement to burn a thing with fire, so this seems fine enough.
He taps his chin in ulfish thought, thinking on this 'white coal' that the warden has brought up.
At last he nods. "Aye, I know of this. Betimes my people do this thing, the making of white coal and charcoal, for use in blacksmithing. So too, herders or sojourners will make a form of it when they will be off a while and there will be no wood, like when we graze sheep in the plains, where there is good grass but no trees for fire.
Mostly there are masters that take days working with a chimney and a ceiling of soil. We have not these things. But methinks I can produce enough of a similar thing.
I will just make several small fires, and burn them down from it's initial stage until we see naught but black and white. Then, upon quenching it--probably by covering them with Fin's shield--we can take the dry product left and transport it. As it will be dry as the ancestors' bones, we'll be able to take more in a trip. And the thing will make almost no smoke, which I was worried about in a cramped cavern, so this will be of double goodness.
So too, I think I'll make some small sledges so we can pull a good load behind us, instead of just clutching it in hand."
Hobwise nods approvingly of his companions' teamwork. He continues to rest, but he will be ready for more intense activity before nightfall, should a hearty meal be called for.
Giles nods at the plan, both relieved not to have to go down there, and disappointed at the thought that he won't be able to investigate these relics.
Still, if they are as cursed at that disc was, this is likely the wisest form of action.
As they discuss, he lights his pipe again and considers what he might do to aid them, or what obstacles they should be aware of.
The day passes with the sounds of hand axes chopping away within the small wood south and east of the ancient ruin. With everyone except Hobwise chipping in there is soon a sizable stack of wood waiting to be dried upon Thorgrim's fires. By the time the hobbit calls a rest for the midday meal, the Beorning has cleared an area near the wood and dug out a handful of different fire pits. Following the hobbit-sized lunch, the pits are soon crackling away and the slow process of drying the wood for the chamber is underway.
The weather cooperates as only a few puffy white clouds drift along in the blue sky of spring. With no rain in sight, the burning will be quicker and easier for certain. Afternoon turns to evening and those gathering wood can feel the effects of a hard days labor. A short brutal struggle against orcs and bandits is nothing compared to the long day work chopping wood with short hand axes and hauling each load to Thorgrim's pits.
Afternoon turns to evening which turns to night and the watch over the fires to keep them burning and the wood drying. Sleep doesn't come easy nor is it entirely restful as dreams are troubled and fitful, but they do not bring the same dark visions as the previous night.
The following day is much the same as the previous but by the end of the day there is a sizable stockpile of white coal ready to take up the hill and down into the tunnels below.
It was a series of scenes depicting black robed priests making sacrifices to their dark god. Not unusual among those who promoted the Black Religion here and in the other regions of middle earth. But this particular sacrifice stuck in your mind because it depicted the victims souls being captured in a crystal and used to power even greater magics and evils.
It was one such document that you recall reading during your most recent stay in Imladris. Found by the purest of luck as you noticed the fallen vellum tucked behind a series of shelves. An accounting of the opening days of the Second Northern War when the dark forces of Angmar swept through the lands of the north once again. It tells of a great horde of wolves and wargs that ran with the Witch Kings army and led by a beast half man, half wolf.
The beast's origins are unknown to the writer of the scroll, but those few witnesses who survived those initial terrible days, say the creature dressed in bright red robes and adorned in golden chains and ornaments common among the people of the dry desert lands far to the south. That it could speak, although in a tongue not known to any in Arnor, and that it lived on the blood and fear of its enemies.
Often seen at the forefront of several battles and assaults during the earliest stages of the war, the beast and its hoard of kin was widely feared. Then it disappeared from the tales of battle. It was not seen at the fall of Amon Sul, nor Annuminas, nor Fornost Erain when it finally fell. In fact as far as the author was able to discover, it was never seen again in the north.
With plenty of time to think while he recovers from exhaustion, Hobwise' mind wanders incessantly back to the cavern under the tower. He recalls tales of evil priests and sacrifice and ancient vessels of evil.
And then he's struck with a terrifying thought.
When Thorgrim returns from his labors, the hobbit posits: "The orb I saw, the source of light in that cavern, I fear that destroying it may unleash something terrible upon us. What if it contains the slain souls of the Dunedain that were sacrificed? What if...
Hobwise steels himself and rouses to full height. "I am ready to battle at your side once more, my friend."
Cereidh tenses. "As am I, but - what if we fall? And there is nothing left to trap any spirits, or remnants of the past? I do not say it out of cowardice but I would not like to leave this corner of the world more imperiled than when we found it."
"That is a concern of my own." Wulfgith said as she got everything ready. "Things like this are never something to be taken lightly but we're here." She sighed as she made a count of how much white coal they had.
"We have white coal to fight the cold, and if we must we could return to Rivendell to speak with Lord Elrond on it. Or give it over to him if we just take it instead of breaking it... If we think we can get it back there safely." Wulfgith said.
[dice=Shadow Lore]1d20+4
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"Oh have done!" Thorgrim spits as he stands and roughly tosses the chunk of wood he was carefully working on into a firepit. "I know little of the Dunedain but they are not known to be servants of evil.
Even so, were -any- souls trapped and powering some un-earthly ice-beast terror machine, I would bet much that they would greatly wish they were literally anywhere else other than trapped within such a thing!
Give off this crazy talk of taking it to be studied or whatnot. It is a thing that has trapped souls and thusly can be of no good use. It should be slain and broken and those souls will be free to go where all souls go when released from a body--that is, to whatever after-land waits for us all.
There are other lands that beckon for our good works, so let us not waste the whole of the season on this one forlorn outpost."
Thorgrim had kept one large fire going, something good for cooking and keeping back the natural cold. It had burned down now, and at last was ready to give up what he needed.
He had tied together some green boughs into a kind of box, and had laid on the bottom a floor of mud. Using a pair of daggers he extracted from the heart of the flames several glowing red coals and deposited them in the box.
"Any fire needs that first flame. This should allow me to set alight anything, and keep it safe from whatever unnatural cold would seek to foul mere flint and steel.
Let us be about it."
"Well," Cereidh sighs, resigned, controlled and restless, "it would haunt more than one of us not to do so forthwith, I believe."
"Its cold - or its whispers." She glances a question at Hobwise over his experience.
"Its cold - or its whispers." She glances a question at Hobwise over his experience.
Cereidh has always flummoxed the hobbit, with her elf-ways, speaking around a topic that is otherwise squarely in sight. But for Thorgrim to be similarly afflicted is new, although perhaps not surprising.
"Yes, it must be destroyed. Now would be a good time."
Having moved the entire stock of white coal down into the catacombs and the entrance to the narrow tunnel leading further down to the chamber of ice and shadow, the fellowship is ready to carry out its plan.
Bundled in his heavy winter clothing, a nearly mummified looking Hobwise grabs a sling full of wood and begins the ungainly process of navigating tunnel with a bulky load of wood. He's soon followed by the much bulkier Thorgrim, then Cereidh, Wulfgith, Giles and Findegil.
The hobbit did not exaggerate the narrowness of the tunnel. Hobwise squeezes through the tightest spot where the ground must have shifted at some point over the intervening years and where the cold can really begin to be felt. It is Thorgrim and the others who find themselves having difficulty forcing their taller, thicker, bodies through the confines of the opening.
Cereidh tries to wriggle through.
... And gets stuck.
As Cereidh got stuck, Wulfgith sighed and tried to help the elven woman get herself unstuck, and hopefully through.
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Thorgrim finds himself well and truly held at one point, and only his iron-hard thews, pushing against the ever living dirt, forcing the tunnel to give way to his battle-hardened form are able to allow him to progress.
His walk onward is checked as he hears the sound of an elf maiden attempting to wriggle past the same chokepoint suddenly arrested and stopped cold.
Reversing his direction, he re-traces his steps and stops at Cereidh. "Having some trouble are we?" he quietly mumbles to her, a smirk on his lips and voice.
"Grab hold of whatever of mine you can reach and we'll see if we can't get you going again."
"I'll keep that offer in mind," she huffs, reddened by the cold and embarrassment, "you might come to regret it." Still she grabs for his hand and latches on, setting her heels against Wulfgith's hand as she helps to push her through.
Giles worries as he sees Cereid get stuck. Dear me, if she can't get through, how can I?
He watches as Thorgrim pulls her through, trying to map out how he can twist his shoulders to avoid the same fate...and somehow barely manages to get through on his own.
Thorgrim manages to squeeze his bulky frame through the narrow vice of the tunnel, but in the process the nearest support shifts causing dirt and smaller stones to rain down. There's an ominous groan of moving earth that everyone to momentarily hold their breath and contemplate the possibility of being buried in this dark, lonely place. Fortunately the shift doesn't turn into a full collapse. The tunnel holds the passage is just a bit smaller. Apparently by enough so that the thinner Cereidh finds herself caught as she tries to slip through.
Thorgrim and Wulfgith come to the elf's aide. The two work carefully to widen the gap without collapsing the tunnel. Digging and carefully working the side softest parts of the passage. A slow job that takes time. Time that becomes more acute as the cold starts to seep in despite the winter clothing.
Finally, the elf is able to slide free. Her load of wood dragging behind her. She's soon followed by Wulfgith, Giles, and then the stalwart Findegil. All make it through widened gap, but the delay comes at a cost. Hands, faces, and feet start to feel the icy cold of the chamber ahead. The cold air causing teeth to chatter and frost to form upon beards and eyebrows.
Cereidh gives up on brushing herself off halfway through to stick her hands under her arms.
It seems to help, if just a little.
Hobwise switches hands with the torch, extending it behind him to see if the heat from the flame will pass over him as he continues into the cavern.
"I have a very bad feeling about this," he says, almost inaudibly.