"I met a Bouregard Took once, long ago. Before you could've even been a gleam in your mother's eye." He says, tapping the ash from his pipe. "Stout, level headed lad if I recall. But it's rare I see many folk outside of a few of my fellows who watch over the north lands."
"But you're right, we'd best catch up with your friends before rash actions are taken."
He knees crack and pop and a minor grunt escapes his lips when he gets up from the ground. But despite the signs of age, he sets off at a quick ground eating pace that forces the shorter legged hobbit to hurry to keep up.
Ingold, Thorgrim, and Cereidh continue to slowly walk along the road, waiting for some sign from Doderic. A sign that is delivered soon enough when a tall man starts making his way toward their position from the spot pointed out earlier by Ingold. The tall man's stride quickly covers the ground between and judging by the waving of the tall grass just behind, Doderic is with the stranger.
Minutes later the two escape the tall grass and join the fellowship on the open road. A dunedain toward the end of his years judging by the gray of what little hair remaining upon his wrinkled head. But the sword and bow he wears are both well maintained and his eyes give no sign of age or deterioration as they take in Doderic's companions.
After some quick introductions, Talandil smiles, and looks between Doderic and the rest of the fellowship. "As I mentioned to the young Took, I am what passes as a guardian of these lands and I'd be obliged to know what brings you up the Greenway to the outskirts of Fornost?"
"Greetings, Guardian Talandil, I am Ingold of Eriador. We travel towards Fornost Erain, the ancient fallen capital of Arthedain, on a mission of some import," Ingold offers, trying to get a sense of this man.
Of Talandil, you know nothing specific. But you recall tales from your youth of those who still watch over those places your people once called home. From ancient Weathertop to Annuminias and Fornost, there are stories of those stout, fearless kin who sleep under branch and stone to help keep the Shadow from falling completely across old Arthedain and her sister kingdoms.
As you look upon the elder warrior standing before you, you sense no evil within his heart. He is suspicious of you and your companions, unsurprising given your own experiences. But not openly hostile or aggressive in his stance. He clearly has confidence in either Doderic's words or his own skills having given up his better position to join you and your companions here on the road.
The old man's eyes nearly disappear within the layers of wrinkles as he squints at Ingold. "A mission...to Fornost, you say." He says pondering the scholar's statement. "Tis little to be found in that ancient city but ruin, lost dreams, and many sorrows. Who would send you on a mission to seek out such things?"
Indeed, my good hobbit. Your reasoning is much the same as my own." Glorfindel says, placing a gentle hand upon Bilbo's shoulder, "I fear such a journey may be more dangerous to undertake during these darkening time. There are even more worrisome reasons for someone visit that city of sorrows and lost dreams." The elf sighs heavily. The ages long weight of worldly matters clearly weighing heavily upon his mind and heart. "Rumors come to us that the enemy may be gathering among those ruins. Building strength. Slipping past the rangers and our own scouts. I don't know for what purpose, but no matter the reason, it will certainly be to the detriment of the Free Peoples."
Smiling and spreading his hands wide, Ingold steps forward and bows, saying, ”Ever do the Dunedain Rangers watch and protect the free peoples of Eriador. I thank you for your service. Yet rumors have reached the ears of the powerful in Rivendell that the shadow gathers its strength in Fornost, and Lord Glorfindel himself tasked us with determining the truth of the matter. Indeed, we have seen orcs moving at night, though they will never reach their destination, as we felled them at Weathertop.”
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"I was wondering when you get to the truth of the matter," Thorgrim mutters as Ingold at last takes the stranger into confidence. Bantering wordplay never held great interest for him, and it seemed evident the new stranger might very well know their own business better than they did.
"Aye. We've been told the orcs are gathering in strength, and we are here to see about the truth of it. Either way methinks we all of us are rowing in the same direction."
Talandil's suspicions ease at the mention of Glorfindel and the Last Homely House. Mention of orcs brings a grim nod of the head and knowing look to his elderly eyes.
"Glad to hear some might be taking notice." He says chewing the end of his pipe. "I'd passed word to a few others among my kin, but as you say the shadow lurks every more openly and I did not know if they'd lived to pass my warnings along."
"The foul night lurkers have certainly been on the move. There are tracks and sign scattered about. But I've not been able to rightly determine numbers or where exactly their lair might be." He waves a hand out across the rolling hills and wide open country. "Simply too much ground to cover and too many potential holes to hide in for my old bones to cover quickly. Still with a little help, perhaps we can finally drive them off or at least see what danger is building against us if they are using the old city as a den. What say you to a joining or our swords and resources?"
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"Aye, that seems a fine idea, Talandil. We've had surprises enough in this fell land, and another pair of eyes, indeed eyes that have been in this land apace and can tell one rock from another, that would be welcome indeed.
Still, the orc is not known for his stealth. If they gather in any number I can not imagine they would be too hard to find."
"You speak true of most orcs. Most are loud, filthy, and stink enough to detect from miles away in the right wind." He shakes his head a sucks a bit of air through his teeth. "But self preservation is a harsh teacher. After years of being hunted by those such as yourselves and my fellow rangers, a few have turned clever. Learned to leave little trace of their passing. Or to move in smaller groups so as not to raise suspicions."
He looks out across the wide open land with its shoulder high grasses, rolling hills, and occasional mound or outcrop of stone indicating some ruin of the far past.
"But I know they are out there. Lurking. Gathering their strength for some dark purpose. It's just a matter of time before I track them to whichever hole they've decided to crawl into."
It is impossible to say whether the old ranger chases the truth or ghosts of years past, but his determination and devotion to his duty are both clear and plain to see.
The journey north continues. With the sun dropping low on the horizon your fellowship reaches the summit of a long grass covered ridge. Looking into the valley below and the rising hill beyond that Talandil gestures throwing his hand wide across the scene.
"Behold! And welcome to Fornost Erain. Once sit of kings. Mighty gem of the north." Sadness fills his voice and demeanor. "City of ghosts and broken dreams."
"We stand upon the outer dike that protected the city for centuries. Across the way is the older inner dike." He says as the breeze ruffles the edges of his worn cloak.
He goes on to name the valley as the Vale of Senthur. Fertile farmland now covered in the same wild grasses and wind blown soil as what you've passed for many miles. The difference being the number of mounds or broken, weather worn piles of stone that would indicate some sort of former structure crafted by the hands of those ancient Dunedain. The inner dike is nothing more than another grass covered ridge circling the eastern face of the hill ahead. The ancient defense encloses the heart of the fallen city. There hundreds of stone ruins reach out of the rippled ground like scattered sets of gnarled, broken fingers grasping for survival. Their long shadows stretch across the land in the setting western sun.
To the northwest, rising above it all upon a thousand foot limestone bluff is the summit of the city and seat of the royal citadel. Like the rest of the city, little remains but tumbled stones and dry scrub grasses growing in dirt filled cracks and open ground. Near the southern end of that summit rises the remains of Elbarad Ohtarion, the Warriors' Star Tower. Once the home the seeing stones of Fornost and Amon Sul. Treasures long disappeared to the ravages of war and time. Their home collapsed into shadow filled ruin.
After allowing a moment for everyone to take in the city, the old ranger points to an area near the base of the base of the ridge where you stand. There the ground has been somewhat recently cleared. "We should camp there for the night. I've stores and water hidden nearby. And journeying within the city after dark can be dangerous."
Cereidh points the trail out to Talandil. "That trail there - deer, or something larger and more concerning?"
(Elven Specialty if it applies)
Pointing at a series of forts and barracks at the summit of Fornost, Ingold says, ”In the morning we should check up there too, as there may be artifacts of import from the ancient battle there.”
"Eh...what?" The old ranger says, squinting in the direction pointed out by Cereidh. "Not likely to be deer around here. Not many creatures wander this place or live long if they do. Can't make it out from here, but sure as not, it's another sign of orcs. There've been other trails like that, but they always lead...nowhere." He shakes his head, clearly puzzled by such discoveries.
"- A lead to follow in the light?"
"Perhaps..." Talandil says, his thoughts trailing off into nowhere, much like the trails he mentions.
The ranger leads you down the slope of the ridge to the area he pointed out. A small clearing where the grass has been kept relatively short and a few thorny rose shrubs along with the slope of the ridge provide a bit of protection from two directions.
Talandil spends a few minutes digging beneath the larger shrub and emerges with a jug of fresh water and a second large clay jug of fortified wine.
"One for a bit of washing up, the other for keeping warm at night." He says with smile and proceeds to take a long drink from the second jug. "There's plenty to go around, so help yourselves." He adds, taking a second long pull before handing it off.
The summer heat only dips a little as the sun dives behind the western hills. Twilight brings little comfort to this forlorn land. A few mosquitoes buzz annoyingly, but even those are few and hardly seem truly interested in attaining a meal. No crickets chirp, no night birds sing. All is as quiet and empty with only the rustle of the grass in the feeble breeze breaking the silence.
Despite the silence, sleep is elusive. When it does come, your dreams are troubled and restless. Filled with sorrow, fears, and hope slipping away into the darkness.
Ingold gratefully accepts Talandil's hospitality and adds his own blend of herbs and spices he has found to the menu for the evening.
That night he sits at the feet of the wise Dunedain, learning all he can of his mission and the goings-on in the area. He treats the ranger with great respect due his noble cause, and takes his turn keeping watch that evening.
The morning dawns weakly, but Ingold brews up and invigorating blend of tea leaves to ward away the chill and depression of the surrounding areas, providing all a warm brew to ease any aches from last night's restless sleep.
After breakfast, he asks, "So, the unusual game trail first? Or perhaps the buildings on the summit that might hold ancient clues?"
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Thorgrim helps himself to a fortifying swig from the second pitcher. After nodding in appreciation of its flavor, he takes another sip. "Your shrubberies bear strange fruit in these parts."
"If the city fell, then methinks there would have been fighting about that series of forts you point out, Ingold. Hence, 'twould be meat to start searching there, methinks."
Having said as much, Thorgrim sees no reason to wait and trudges off toward the nearest fort in the indicated mounds of rubble and grass-strewn rock piles.
When he arrives at one he finds no reason to be cautious with it and start heaving the stones about, looking for something concealed in its cooling middle.
Ingold steers clear of the raucous searching method employed by Thorgrim and instead attempts to absorb the mood of the ruins, letting his intuition guide him to any useful clues. His eyes and ears absorb the subtle cues around him as he attempts to focus on anything that seems unusual or out of place, then he moves to those likely locations and investigates more closely.
Cereidh does not disappear, but in her way, she almost does - ducking around and behind trees and bluffs, collecting burrs and wildflower petals on her clothing. Her eyes gleam keen in the low light.
The sun starts to sink toward the west when you finally give up and decide to return to camp. Stepping around what used to be the foundation of a tower you suddenly hear the sounds of battle. Swords clashing, men screaming, dying. Horns blare as fire flickers against the smoke blackened sky. Orcish battle drums and the skirling of Angmarim pipes carry across the air.
Spinning around, more cries echo.
"Fall back! Fall back! They've breached the wall. Agathar! Fall back."
"Get the others out! I'll hold here for as long as we can."
"No! You can't. There are too many."
"Dorin, go! The city is lost. Go to the Rock. Help get King and the stones out."
A pause as the sound of a bellowing troll rumbles through the air.
"Farewell my friend. May the Valar shine upon your soul."
"And you. Now go!"
The vision clears but the smell of smoke, blood, and death linger with you for the remainder of the day and into the night.
Now it is empty. Barren of all but haunts and shadows.
Your visioning leads your gaze to what must have once been a central square. Here you discover an dark opening leading into a structure long since sunk into the ground. Slipping into the dimly lit darkness you come across the partial ruin of a mosaic map of the city. Many of the glass pieces have long since fallen away or were destroyed in the sack. But a portion of the map is intact and you note the location marked as the 'Star-Watchers Hall' in old Westron.
In your studies back in Rivendell prior to departing you recall that the stories speak of how King Arvedui used tunnels beneath the Royal Palace in Fornost to join his army on the North Downs as well as to flee during the final fall of the city. You also recall that during the time of Arvedui, the kings now resided in what was once just the summer residence, Mard Tirelenion or Star Watchers Hall.
Enough other landmarks can still be made out upon the ancient map that with only a little bit of work, you should be able to pinpoint which of the ruined sunken mounds once housed the Royal family and many of his closest advisors.
You duck into a narrow cave created by a multitude of stone swallowed by a sink hole long, long ago. Sliding down into the dimly lit chamber you come across the tattered remnants of a banner. The cloth has long since rotted away. Only a few scraps of dark green linger amongst the clutter. Interestingly, the pole which once carried the standard is only six feet long. Close by you find scattered among the rubble, a pair of large knives or very short, short swords. You even discover and undersized short bow, perhaps something that might belong to a child.
While climbing back out of the sunken cavern, you hear voices singing. They are distant voices and slightly higher of pitch than elves or most men you've heard sing. You pause in your climb to try and make out the words.
...
The Enemy shall feel our sting
The Shire! The Shire!
Yet we long to turn away
We know the cause to which we stay!
Sing one last song...
As quickly as they came, the voices depart and once again you hear nothing but the wind whispering through the ruins and your own breathing as you labor back up to the sunlight.
You all fan out into the ruins to search for potential clues. As the day comes to an end, you heed Talandil's warnings not to wander the area after dark and return to camp to share what, if anything, may have been discovered.
"In my searching today, I was able to find a portion of a map surviving that denoted the location of the 'Star-Watchers Hall', where King Arvedui kept his summer residence," says Ingold. "With some study, I should be able to isolate the proper section of ruins to search for clues to the royal family's fate--as well as any close advisors who may have been of hobbitish persuasion," he adds with a smile.
After listening to the others, Ingold tries to transfer what he has learned (and what they might add) to a paper map, spending much of the remaining daylight penning his work.
Cereidh returns to the group with an oddly shaped bundle in her hands, which she sets on the dusty ground between them - weapons sized for hobbits. "I may have found those advisor's contributions, if they were of a warlike persuasion," she said. "I found these in an old cave, and while there, I heard - across the winds of time - an echo of their song. I can't carry that back to the Last Homely House for Master Bilbo, but we may be able to carry at least one of these."
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"I found but little," grunts Thorgrim, idly fiddling with a broken arrowhead that he had not yet put down, "Though, Cereidh, I also was visited by a visage of the past, of the sounds of steel on steel, and a call for one named Agathar to fall back, saving what he could.
Does that name have a significance?"
Still, there are plenty of other prospective areas of inquiry and it is while scrambling through the broken remains of one such place that you come across something of interest. There is little left of what you guess was once a majestic manor of marble and granite. Perched near the edge of the terrace where this section of the city sat, the view in its day must have been quite impressive. Overlooking the city below and the surrounding fields and rolling hills. Only the great towers and royal palace likely had a better scenic spot.
But it is not the view that captures your attention. First, it is the smell. Most of the ruined city you've seen smells of little more than dust, dirt, and dry grass. Occasionally the feint hint of stagnant water might drift up from some pool buried beneath the jumbled ruins.
It pokes you like a thorn caught in your boot. Making your nose wrinkle and the hair on your neck rise. The scent of death and rot. Instincts kick in and you cautiously circle around a series of half columns partially buried in dirt and overgrown rubble. Peeking around the final column, you spot the remains of a red-tailed hawk. The poor animal is partially eaten and decayed in the dry summer heat. A broken shaft of an arrow sits nearby, the black and red fletching still intact.
Most of the tracks from the archer have long since disappeared, but you manage to spot a few signs of passage leading north toward the summit of the city.
After a full day of exploring, you each return to camp to share your experiences and discoveries as well as fill your hungry bodies with a bit of food and water. Ingold spends the remainder of the day drawing out a rough map depicting the possible location of the king's residence and palace. Cereidh's findings and experience would certainly suggest the possibility of a band of hobbits being in Fornost during or around the time of the cities fall.
Talandil glances at Thorgrim and nods thoughtfully when the Beorning mentions the name Agathar. "Visions and hauntings abound here." He says, his eyes drifting over the ruins. "The name you mention is one I've seen before. Once in a ledger of soldiery at the time of Arvedui's rein. It is believed he was among the few who fled with the king from the city and died somewhere in the far north."
He shrugs and shakes his head in uncertainty. "I cannot be sure what relevance that has to your tasks. But could have been nothing but a memory seeping up from the land as so often happens. We must take care for some tell tales of folk being caught within those memories and being lost forever."
Cereidh steeples her fingers and leans towards the fire, as it lent an eerie cast to her features. "Yes - I do remember how deep and yielding those nightmares can be."
Talandil once again passes a jug of his own personal brew around while you wait for the hobbit to return from his own foray into the broken city. Ingold completes his map. Based on his observations and general measurements of the hill where the citadel and palace used to stand, the scholar has a reasonable guess and understanding of where the royal palace once stood.
Doderic returns just as the sun sets. The old ranger looks warily into the twilight and the ruins of the city while taking another long drink from the nearly empty jug.
As night sets in, a fog begins to cling to the land. One by one the stars above disappear, replaced by a warm gray mist that leaves little damp in its wake. The whiny of a horse breaks the quiet solitude of the shrouded night. Followed by a sorrowful cry. An angry shout. A mother calls to a child. A war horn blares in the distance and is answered.
"Spirits stir." Talandil whispers. His eyes flick back and forth while a weathered hand keeps a tight grip on the handle of his sword. "I've not heard such restlessness before. Beware!" He adds with a final hissing warning and a flinch as the sound of swordplay suddenly clatters only a few dozen paces away. Moments later it is gone.
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Thogrim gratefully accepts the jug and takes a generous taste before handing it back. He considered himself a bit of a connoisseur of fermented beverages, and new experiences were always highly appreciated.
At the ring of steel on ethereal steel he perks up and looks about, thinking that a bit of spiritual sword play _would_ be something interesting to see. Of course he is disappointed when the sounds die out after just a moment. Still, such a thing puts him of a mind that of he went looking for these spirits, he might at least see a few, living out moments gone by.
He starts walking a perimeter of their little camp, slowly circling out, eyes watching for a certain hobbit, and for spirits not yet gone from this world, wondering what energies could hold them still.
Walking the perimeter of the camp, Thorgrim watches the slow swirl of the fog as it shrouds everything in its blanket. More sounds and cries from the past echo forth in the dark. Turning toward the cacophony, Thorgrim is the first to spot the glimmering ghostly figures. Two fair haired women of youthful years dash along an open patch of grass. Horror is plaster upon their faces. Close upon their heels are a band of grinning barbaric warriors dressed in primitive leathers carrying blood stained curved iron blades.
The smell of smoke suddenly fills the entire clearing of the camp. Smoke scented of burning wood and flesh.
One of the woman trips over some unseen obstacle. Falls sliding to the ground a mere ten paces from where Thorgrim stands. Her companion stops, but is waved onward. Still the momentary delay is enough for the pursuers to catch up.
The largest one wears a belt of skulls at his waist as a leering, anticipating grin upon his bloody and filthy face. As his laughing fellows quickly surround the two women, he steps forward raising his heavy axe that glitters for a moment in long lost sunlight.
Ingold starts moving towards the scene, trying to make sense of it and decide if anything he does in the here and now can affect the memory being replayed before him.
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Thorgrim does not hesitate.
Charging at the axe-raider, he draws Noctocide. In the span between Here and There, he has time to dwell on the conundrum before him. His blade is legendary, none deny that. This is a length of STEEL that has cut through toughest wood and metal and flesh with equal parts ease and longing. Many are the corpses of fighters of renown and power that lay in the sword's wake. It is a thing of beauty and power.
These are but phantoms that he now rushes toward. Everyone knows that. They are not real. Most likely, they are but memories long gone that merely play out for the amusement of powers beyond his ken. So, yes, his sword can cut through bone and sinew and shields.
But can it cut through time?
He's about to find out.
He angles Noctocide in a flawless arcing blow, cutting across in a horizontal so perfect scientists could calibrate their instruments by it. Even if Noctocide can't cut through these phantoms...it really wants to.
Cereidh knows that the victims they see are long dead. She knows. She knows that she cannot save them, but also, that the Shadow would weigh her down with helplessness, and even in dreams that valor and courage can come to her aid. She shoots at the nearest raiders.
Worst case scenario, she's scuffing through grass for her arrows later.
Is it possible to change the outcome? Unlikely, you think. At least not the larger outcome of the fall of Fornost, or the death of these two long fallen souls. However, is their demise at the hands of these foul scions of shadow something that can be altered? Perhaps. But to engage in the ghostly scene would be to potentially put yourself into this spiritual remnant of the past. Something easily done. It is the getting back out that might be harder.
Thorgrim rushes forward. For a moment the entire scene is shrouded by a band of fog, then it opens up before the Beorning in even greater vividness and horror. For now his running boots stamp on blood soaked cobbles. The embers of a burning city tumble through the air and the sting of smoke fills his nose and chest. Undeterred by the change of scenery, Thorgrim charges the Angmarim.
Noctocide strikes clean upon the unsuspecting foe. It's head tumbles from its shoulders, a look of surprise locked upon its features. Twisting to follow up his assault, Thorgrim slices the mighty blade across the leg of another northman warrior. The man's knee starts to buckle. He staggers back attempting to right himself, when two arrows, the fletching so familiar erupt in the man's chest and send him falling backward into a pile of long abandoned apples.
Forgetting the women, the remaining three warriors turn upon this new foe. They move with quick, efficient strides. No strangers to war and fighting are these men. The hafts of their short blades are well worn, but the steel is finely honed and deadly. They swarm the big warrior, ducking in and around Noctocide's reach. Steel clashes upon steel and Thorgrim is unable to parry or deflect all of the slashing, jabbing blades. A cut here, and jab there. Two hits get through his defenses. But it is the third warrior who finds an unobstructed opening and slides his blade deep between Thorgrim's ribs.
Cereidh coolly allows her partner in battle to draw the ire of these phantoms while she attempts to pick them off.
Ingold sets his feet firmly in the real, present-day camp and gets out a rope, securing it to the nearest immovable object. He looks into the mists where the fighting is taking on more substantial form, and winces when he sees his heroic companions dive in bravely.
Talandil steps next to Ingold as the scholar watches the unfolding scene while loosening his rope. Shaking his head the old ranger clears his throat and spits. "Fools. They'll get lost in the past." He says. "Best to get back quick, while you still can. I'll build up the fire."
The scholar is pretty sure the rope will help, but only so far as its length. And nothing is certain when it comes to phenomena such as this.
Meanwhile, inside the past. Cereidh sinks two more feathered shafts into another one of the warriors. Knocked back by the powerful impacts, he is down for the moment but not out of the fight completely as he lurches back to his feet.
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"AAAAAAARRRGH!" Thorgrim yells as the three warriors surround and hack at him to dire effect. The blood runs in rivers and his recently shiny mail is more crimson than silver.
Of course not all the blood on it is his.
"Curs! Dogs! Foul yellow-bellied slugs! Not only do you take your sport with women but you hunt like low-skulking hyenas around a true warrior! So be it! On this spot let this be your resting place!"
With that out of the way Thorgrim looks behind him and sees the nimble form of the elf still there, alone, supporting his efforts.
And that is all he needs.
He rejoins the battle as if given cool water and rest. Noctocide, like a puppy invited to play, jumps and leaps, eager to see what new targets will provide warm homes.
= 26
Wielding his mighty blade with precision and righteous fury, Thorgrim knocks aside one of his assailants blades and then with surprising ease removes the man's sword arm from the rest of his body. A fountain of blood erupts from the Angmarim's shoulder as he staggers backward with shock filled eyes. A few more moments pass before he collapses to the ground and expires atop the blood soaked soil.
The Beorning avoids a blow from his attackers as he pivots away for a moment only twist, crouch and bring Noctocide in low against the second assailant. Already staggered from Bregghar's two long shafts, the warrior has little chance against Thorgrim's blade. His legs are cut out from under him and he collapses to the ground with his comrades to bleed out.
The third Angmarim seizes the moment of his companions fall, to slip his own blade past Thorgrim's defenses. The wound is not deep, but adds to those already suffered by the Beorning.
Shouts are heard further down the street. A band of a dozen green and white clad hobbits cross an intersection. Armed with short bows and swords, they clear a path for several citizens trying to escape. One of the women see them and grabbing her companion they hurry toward the band after shouting their blessing and thanks to their mysterious rescuers.
One of the hobbits glances down the road and shouts to Cereidh and Thorgrim. "The outer wall has fallen. We're making way to the citadel and the king. Make haste, else get trapped between the walls and the Enemy."
The shouts or more Angmarim echo from only a few blocks away from the same direction as where the others first appeared.
Cereidh remains light on her feet, as she always is in battle and often is outside of battle, too. She catches Thorgrim's eye. "Shall we follow the logic of the dream to a doomed battle, or attempt to surface? Doing so, I fear ..." She plants her foot on a corpse to retrieve an arrow. "Risks us losing even that much direction and sinking into deeper water."
Ingold comes hustling into the vision, one hand holding the end of a rope and the other hand reaching out with a poultice to salve Thorgrim’s worst wound.
Ingold stares at the hobbits in green and white and tries to recall any scrap of lore he can about them!
”Follow me and this rope to get back to our own time, ere we lost forever in the past!” he shouts.
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'It's true?!?'
The sight of the hobbit sends a bolt of shock through Thorgrim's normally orderly if stoic head. He had been convinced convinced that this search for half-men at some epic battle was the greatest of lark-chasers there had ever been. He had known his share of halfling and thought they had their skills and gifts, aye, the very notion of imagining them in some gran vanguard storming the gates was...a thing that could only be understood in the throes of great drink.
But here? Now? To see it? Though the source must needs be some spirit fever-dream of whatever magicks, to see it in living, breathing life before him is like a ballista bolt to the chest.
His feet walk toward Cereidh, his hand reaches to Cereidh, but his head turns to the hobbit who addressed him.
"Hold! What is your name, man?" he shouts. He must needs know a name from history back to take to his time, upon which he might pour all the glory there is to come from this act.
And then he is gone.
Cereidh reaches out to grab Ingold's wrist as he reaches for Thorgrim, her free hand reaching for the Beorning as well - and then he is gone. She freezes. Balances on the tips of her feet. Stares at the bright fresh daylight of the past ... For a long moment she is silent.
"Are you sure?" she says lowly and deliberately, as if to not wake some great best. "Absolutely certain that to stray is to become truly lost - we have both been lost in dreams before."
"I, I..I cannot know for certain, Lady Cereidh, but the deeper into the past we go, the harder it will be to return," replies Ingold, the strain of the situation evident on his face.
Her jaw sets. "Well. If there's any chance, we must be equal to Thorgrim's bravery - if not his, well, decision-making." For the moment, she is all business. "Does this rope stretch any further?"
"Aye, we can risk a bit further, milady," says Ingold, a bit surprised at how much rope he had left.
Doderic will offer to take the rope to THorgrim.
And if the worst comes to worst, you can at least pull me along. He says with a small smile.