"Whatever we decide, we should be careful of food or drink here, as well as any unknown substances covering surfaces. There are many plants in this location which are harmless or beneficial, but also some that could be deadly if our foe is a skilled herbalist," warns Ingold, still worrying about the hobbits but recognizing the inhabitant of the hut was already alerted to their presence, so searching for the missing party members would have to wait.
A small panel in the door swings open and for a moment, a single red-rimmed eye peers out through the tiny opening.
"Not expecting any visitors today. Who're you and what d'you want?" A gruff, scratchy voice asks as the eye peers around. The roving ocular orb finally lands upon Cereidh and with a hiss the eye disappears.
"Elves and elf friends!" The grating voice says with a snarl. "Go away! I've nothing for you and your fiendish kin. Leave this place or discover your doom."
The little panel slams shut.
Cereidh looks around at her company. Shrugs.
"I can but try." Wulfgith said with a small shrug. "However, my mother is an elf..." She added with a mutter before she dismounted and moved to knock on the panel to be polite.
"Sir please, we're not here to hurt you." Wulfgith called, "just, set out and speak with us?"
Wary and restless, Ingold grows impatient with the cordial approach, though he maintains his peace for now, a speech of righteous indignation on the tip of his tongue, bit back for now.
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That is until just a couple of days ago when you encountered those three drovers driving their wagons back to Bree. Friendly enough and full of some story about Hillfolk from the hills coming down into the lowlands to trade. None of the Breelanders were happy about the deal. Apparently it had all been arranged in secret by some foolish, young merchants son named Tomas. Although an unusual tale since the Hillfolk are known more for their raids and looting rather than trading, there wasn't much to peak your interest. That is until the older man, Harold Sturmsson, mentioned the surprising fact the the goods were mostly weapons of dwarf make.
Your reaction about scarred the pants off the old boy, but he was more than eager to keep talking without any extra pressure. It seems another group of Free Folk came upon the trade and convinced young Tomas to take them to the people he got the weapons from. Some out of the way hideout in the South Downs. While old Harold and his partners brought the wagons back, the others took Tomas and went after the men they thought had been stealing dwarf works.
He was able to draw you a rough map based on what he'd heard Tomas describe to the others. It proved fairly accurate. You'd only had to double back a couple of times. Finally you came upon the tall rock spire and followed a narrow path from the northeast down into the fog and gloom of the barrows and this little valley with its odd dirt house back against the valley wall.
Standing outside the house you find several strangers barely noticeable in the heavy fog. Heavily armed. At least one elf, and oddly enough, a hobbit judging by the height of one of them. For the moment they seem to be huddled near the door and focused on getting inside.
For several seconds there is little response to Wulfgith's calls. Then the little panel in the door pops open and the eye appears for just a moment before disappearing into the darkness of the cabin's interior once again.
"I said leave me be and I meant it." As the grating voice speaks, some kind of wooden tube slides through the panel. This is followed by an odd hissing noise and then a moment later a spray of foul smelling, sticky liquid comes shooting out from the tube. The liquid hisses and burns as it hits flesh and the dry, barren ground in front of the door.
Doderic and Ingold are both caught in the blast along with Wulfgith as everyone tries to scramble back and away from the door.
The little panel then slams closed again.
1=Thorgrim
2=Wulfgith
3=Cereidh
4=Doderic
5=Ingold
6=Tomas
Cereidh jerks back reflexively, although in no danger herself. She reaches for her bow, but stills her hand.
"Loathe as I am to admit it, I am not so sure that breaking into that miserable hovel and reacting to such an insult would not be murder. It is likely, also, that he has other traps."
Mara curses to herself as she walks along the trail. A simple job, they sayd. Won't take long, they said. Well, three months or more and she's none the wiser as to who's been attacking her folk. And the elders don't like to hear I don't know. They like certainties. As does she.. She's slmost certain that this is a waste of her time, for instance. She growls as she feels the mist condense onto her skin and trikcle dwond the back of her neck, and as she crests the hill she wipes the sweat off her brow with the back of one hand.
Wait, now. What is this? Mayhap not scuhc a dead end, after all. She stays back in the fog for a few moments as she looks over the group and the position. It seems unlikely that this assssortred collection of oddfolk is reasponsible for stealing dwarf weapons from traders. She looks at the dirt house, trying to get more information on it.
Eventually, she calls out to the group, keeping a reasonable distance in case they aren't waht they seem. "Well-met, I hope? And if we're not well-met, can we skip the insults and just get to fighting? I could do with a good scrap. But truthtfully, I don't think you're the foes I'm looking for."
Coated in a thin spray of acid, Ingold exclaims, " Ta-Fa-Nilch I name you, corrupter of men and follower of the shadow. Your influence here is at an end. Surrender or die!"
Looking at the others, Ingold says, "We have to get in there now before he has any time to prepare any more nasty surprises."
Cereidh looks between Ingold and Mara, bow already in hand. "Well met indeed, my Lady dwarf. It is a relief to have aid from the people who have been so gravely insulted by that petty dwarf in there." She nods towards the cairn.
"I hope I'm not your foe! I'm no foe of dwarves. We are the foes of that cowardly little murderer in there. Would you like to help us? Bring some justice to your countrymen? And my friend Ingold's nose."
MAra holds a hand up palm out, fingers spread as the elf talks. "Peace, Pixie. I've no quarrel with you and yours. I've never been to the stronghold of River & Dell but I know where it can be foudn and I've bumped into a few of you out on business over the years. We have the same eneemies, after all."
"Anyway. I'm Mara. Stonehaned. I'm the idiot that the elders send out when there's work to be done over hill and under sky." She looks at the house once more. "Hm. Petty-dwarf, you say? Never known one of them come to good." She unslings her mattock from behind her back and grasps it with both hands.
Doderic hears the hissing just in time and instinctively starts to duck away as the liquid is shot out at him.
The destruction of his fine traveling cloak seems to have awoken something withing the small hobbit and ended any lingering effects of the flower he used in his tea.
That sir, is incredibly rude! Not only did you ruin my cloak, but you've just angered a traveling magician! I'm sure even you have heard rumors of Doderic the Dexterous! You have one final chance to exit your hut and converse civilly before force is used! Doderic Stamps his foot and crosses his arms to add emphasis
He only then notices Mara with a small jump.
Oh, good evening! I'd offer some tea, but we have a bit of trouble here.
You also glance about the cliff and spot a few other oddities. Areas of what might be worked stone but that time and the elements have hidden almost completely. Could it be that a barrow was once built here? Possibly. The valley itself clearly didn't occur from river erosion. Much more likely to be the result of an earth tremor or other event in the past, but not so far back as to predate the earliest burials.
A muffled voice can be heard laughing behind the still shuttered door. "The words of elves and elf friends do not hinder or sway me. Be gone I say. You've nothing I want." It shouts although the thickness of the door turns shouted protests into foggy whispers. "You trespass upon my home. Leave I say or a tattered old cloak will be the least of your losses."
MAra gives a short barking laugh as Doderic addresses her. "Ha! You got that right, Fuzzfoot. Trouble to spare. Looks like a barrow was once built here, if I'm reading the rocks right. Plus that building leads to a cave or tunnel, unless I miss my guess copmpletely."
Here eyes narrow as the voice inside reaches her. Marching forward, she stands to one side of the door (she saw what happend to the others) and knocks on it hard with the pointed end of her mattock.
But to hear that term named to a living being is a surprise beyond imagining. It was believed the Petty Dwarves has all died out in ages long past. Hunted to extinction by elves, dwarves and men. And for good reason. The creatures were known to be treacherous. Deadly treacherous.
"Neither head of mine or spike will you have O' burly stone-witted cousin." The voice calls echoing about the confines of the valley, seemingly coming from several places at once. "It shall be your own thick skulls which shall adorn my shelf of fine ivory mugs while your souls toil for my humble benefit."
A rattling sound comes from the sloped roof, like a set of marbles or stones trundling along a track. Seconds later a little hidden flap opens and out shoot a half dozen glass globes. They arc through the fog-gray air and burst upon hard packed ground. As they do each releases a stifling, toxic cloud that causes sears eyes and lungs in equally painful fashion.
"Well, are we going to stay out here and converse until we are corroded to death, or is someone going to break through that door and put an end to the Petty Dwarf's evil manipulation?" asks Ingold irritably.
Cereidh nimbly rears back. "Blast it! Surely he has a chimney? An air shaft? Something we can pour boiling water down?" She retreats from the door, climbing a little ways away onto some hills.
Mara couvghs slightly as the gases pour down around her, but she is mostly unaffected. "So be it. You have brought this doom on yourself, you fool." Sjhe swings her mattock against the door, trying to breakt it down.
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For once Thorgrim thoughts it best to let others take the lead, and for him to cleave to prudence.
As he was not harmed by the first attack of acid, and since he had not judged it particularly lethal, he assumed that diplomacy could still be salvaged. For he knew little of such things.
As the new dwarf advanced, he too held his tongue, for she seemed a friend. And he did not know if 'Pixie' was a great insult to an Elf, or just a term of endearment. It seemed the latter. He made a mental note to call Cereidh a 'dandelion eater' later and see how she reacted. For scientific purposes, of course.
Now that he was caught in a caustic downpour (although mildly. It was as if the odd dwarf-thing wasn't trying to kill them, but to pester them until they just got tired and went away) he was still slow to action (for it was a mere wee scrape, to be honest). Though as the new dwarf goes a-knockin', he'd eat his sword before he got left out of -all- of the fun.
"Greetings to you," he rumbles at Mara as he approaches the door, drawing Noctocide. "A mattock? Ah, a warriors weapon! Or a miner's, though they can be one in the same, depending on who you call a foe.
I trust you do not mind if I share this dance? I do love breaking things."
The thick door, heavy built and reinforced, has never seen a legendary sword like Noctocide and it shatters asunder as the two-handed great blade is swung against it.
"My lady," Thorgrim bows, making a gesture to the she-dwarf through the open threshold.
MAra's about to smash the door down when the longshans gets in there first. She gives a grudging nod. "That'll do, manling." With the dor now out of the way, she mraches in. "I warned you. Ready or not, you can't hide now."
Doderic was prepared this time. When the clouds burst from the orbs he manages to wrap his cloak around his mouth and nose, keeping the worst of the stuff at bay. It was at this point the hobbit backed out of sight before attempting to take to the shadows and approach the house out of sight.
Cereidh honestly thinks that Doderic has the right idea. She'll try to slip in - a ways after Thorgrim and the others.
The broken door swings open on rusty hinges, squealing in protest before slamming back against the interior wall. The dim red glow of a smoking and smoldering brazier can be seen to the right along the northern wall, but it provides little light to see by. All else is in smoke filled shadow and darkness. A nauseating stench drifts through the door. The smell of unwashed bodies, strong preservatives, and sulfur mix together creating an eye burning and stomach churning stink.
The same gravely voice echoes from the far wall of the room. Sounding as if it was coming from another tunnel. "Intruders! Invaders! Defilers of hearth and home!" The voice calls growing more distant with each passing word. "Think you that Nilm is at your mercy. Think again o nasty elves, dwarves, and wretched menfolk. Nilmhome will mark your doom and your bones will decorate my hall. Ahahaha!" Laughter continues to echo as the scuffling sound of boots upon stone fades.
”Back away! There is poison in the air!” exclaims Ingold, already wracking his brain for a remedy that he could treat cloth with to block the effects.
Cereidh, yet to cross the threshold - quite yet - backs back away from the line of sight of the door again.
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Thorgrim was ready to CHARGE into the house and drag out the odd dwarf but the scruff of his neck--wherever he may be--but Ingold's warning makes him pause, and even retreat a few steps.
"Eh? What witchcraft is this that puts poison in the air?" He waits until some other plan of action is said--but he doesn't plan on waiting too long.
MArra is about to run in when the other longshanks warns of more poison. She relutctanly moves away, although it's clear she doesn't want to. "What now, then? Just wait for the air to clear?"
Thanks to Ingold's quick warning, no one runs into the foul, toxic air drifting out of the cave-like house. The door hangs open tapping quietly against the jam while the Dunedain works as quick as he can to find a remedy.
Working some herbs furiously, Ingold says, "Get some thin cloth and wet it. I'll spread some herbs on it in a moment and it should protect us from the airborne poison if you hold it over your face."
Cereidh pauses, shrugs, and does so.
It takes several minutes, but eventually Ingold has enough antitoxin ready for everyone. The Dunedain thoroughly soaks each cloth in the herbal concoction and then helps tie it snugly over everyone's nose and mouth. The cloth smells of licorice and distilled grain alcohol and makes the eyes water just a bit, but is infinitely more pleasant that what was and still is flowing from the broken door. Finally Ingold is satisfied that everyone has sufficient protection to enter the toxic air of the sod and stone house.
"If she," Cereidh nods toward Mara, "is correct and there's a tunnel deeper in there - do we think the petty dwarf will retreat, and simply leave us traps? Or hide nearer us?"
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"Gah!" Thorgrim shirks at the odd stench of the mask. "Ingold this stinks like Khandian whiskey."
Then he breathes a moment and at last nods. "I approve.
Fear not, sweet Cereidh, we'll know soon enough in a moment!"
Like a wardog kept too long on the leash, Thorgrim barges in to the hovel, seeking whatever warren the odd dwarf-thing has scurried to.
However, the fair elf's warning has at least sharpened his attention, and he lets his preternatural instincts roam the ground ahead seeking traps.
Cereidh lingers near the door, waiting for more information before proceeding.
In response, Ingold replies, "I do not know for sure, Cereidh, but it seems rather clever. I would expect more traps, herb-based and otherwise, before we are able to corner the petty dwarf and end its threat to this region."
Thorgrim hunches down and steps forward into the foul smelling darkness that is the interior of the little being's home. The gray light of the fog shrouded day provides little light beyond the first few feet, but Thorgrim's eyes are keen enough to spot the first of what are likely several dangers and obstacles the petty dwarf called Nilm has left in waiting. In this case fortune smiles upon the Beorning and his height, for if he had been a little shorter and not forced to bend so much to enter he may have run straight into the razor like wire stretched across the room. Running just above the height of the door, the wire would catch anyone taller than a dwarf in the head of neck. As he shouts a warning back to the others, Thorgrim notes the liquid coating the wire.
With no other light besides that entering the door and the nearly spent coals of the brazier, there is little else to see in the house except a deeper blackness in the back wall. No doubt a hall or tunnel leading deeper into Nilm's twisted realm.
Doderic takes the cloth tentatively, giving eyes to Ingold before letting out a small sigh.
My eyes are adept at seeing in dark places. I can take the lead if you wish. I also pride myself in my dexterity, I may be able to remove impediments to our goal.. though I cannot say it would be swift.
He offers to the group.
"Does anyone have a light source?" asks Ingold, "I will carry it."
"Does anyone have a light source?" asks Ingold, "I will carry it."
Edit: Ingold pulls out the appropriate light source and illuminates the way for the group.
Doderic will move a small way ahead of the group if allowed and keep eyes open for any nasty surprises.
Ingold too is forced to enter the cabin hunched and duck his head to avoid both wire and rafters. His light reveals a ramshackle, ill kept hovel. A pair of shelves hold several small unlabeled jars, pots, and vials along with a few bunches of dried plants and roots. A small pile of broken, rusted, or otherwise useless weaponry lies tossed in a corner. Next to the pile is a bundle very similar to the ones Tomas gave to the Hillfolk. Inside are a set of a dozen fine steel knives. Each one is well balanced, sharp, oiled, and attached to a simple wooden handle. All are stamped with what appears to be a dwarven rune.
A small wooden table and toppled chair fill an area along the wall opposite the shelves. Some kind of plain looking stew congeals on the table while a mug lays toppled its contents dripping onto the dirt floor.
The passage exiting the far wall is five feet wide and only about five feet tall. Easy enough for Mara and Doderic to navigate, much more uncomfortable for the likes of Thorgrim and Ingold.
The air coming from the tunnel is quite warm and smells of coal smoke. The distant pounding of hammers on iron or steel can be heard. A slow, heavy, rhythmic sound. A sound familiar to Mara although she hasn't heard it for a very long time. Someone down that tunnel is working a forge.