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Unable to help himself, Thorgrim starts laughing at the retreating orcs. "HAhahaha! Ha! You see that? No sooner do I start opining that the orcs might have one good attribute of fighting to the last, then they break and run. Ha! Have we learned something of our foe, or have I simply been granted the power to make all that I say suddenly come true. Oh, I wonder if it will begin raining gold dragons now?"
Thorgrim turns his face to the ceiling and waits for a moment, only mildly surprised when he is not deluged with coins.
"Well that answers that. Yes! My friends, let us away back down the hall we came in from. To make our stand in the hall would be quite fine, or even all the way to the initial room with the balcony."
Not really wanting to get out his bow to chase the fleeing orcs away, he instead takes the van and goes back, searching for a better bottleneck.
You follow after the retreating orcs, but eventually they break off down a side tunnel that looks to drop deeper into the ruins and tunnels below the fallen city. Finally you return to the sunken courtyard with it multiple exits. Horns still echo from nearly every direction, except the way you originally entered.
Talandil listens with a practiced ear and a calculating look in his eyes. Eventually he turns to each of you with a heavy sigh.
"I have failed in my duty to protect the city." He says darkly, clearly disturbed and upset at discovering so many of the enemy hidden within the ruins. "I had thought maybe a small band had moved in. A few dozen at most that could be easily driven off or put down." A shake of his head. "But there must be more than a few hundred down in these tunnels judging by the number of horns and the groups we've run into so far."
His eyes turn hard. "We thought the threat was further north with that Captain and so are few men and resources were mustered in old Rhuduar. But the enemy is ever deceiving. They used are focus to slip a force much closer than any of us ever imagined. Word must be taken to Bree and Rivendell."
He peers down the closest tunneling listening to the echoing blasts. "We've a chance if we take it. Flee back up to the surface. By my estimate, there should be an hour or two of daylight left. Enough time to escape Fornost. Pursuit will surely follow, but with a bit of luck and a lead I've know doubt all of you could slip away. Especially is I stay behind to lead them a merry chase to give you even more time."
His knuckles turn white as he grips bow and blade. "If all goes well, I will see you at the Pony in a few days time. If not..." He shrugs. "I'll not be the first nor last Dunedain to spill his blood in defense of this city."
Doderic will fire off a shot at the retreating orcs.
At Talandil's words, Doderic cocks his head.
And what is it you are planning on doing?... Just know, that whatever it is you do, remember always we win by surviving. A heroic death serves none. If you want to anger and frustrate the enemy, then live. At the end of the day, thats what we all fight for.
Taking his cue from Doderic, Ingold looses one final arrow as the orcs retreat.
To Talandil, he answers, ”If only I could command the magic of old and smite the bestial orcs with the wrath of the Valar…Yet still, through superior tactics we may wear them down if we are careful. One band at a time, striking down any who have a horn first. I would tarry a few days longer and take part in such an endeavor.”
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Seeing that pursuit is fruitless, Thorgrim tries to take a few parting shots at the fleeing orcs.
Seeing his arrows fly far and wide, Thorgrim frowns, lowers the bow and sighs. "And that is why I don't do that," he mumbles, un-stringing and stowing the bow.
Back at the entry hall, Thorgrim waggles a finger at the far-off horns, as if counting their number.
"I, um, I...uh...I agree with you, good Talandil," Thorgrim states as if ripping out unwilling words from his throat. "I have seen orcs in number, but never have I seen them in so great a pack as this.
Still, they are, alas, just orcs. As deadly as they are in massed formations, the narrow tunnels and warrens of this place play havok with their numbers, giving us at least equal footing with however many."
Thorgrim looks up at the high balcony which they had to descend to get here. "I can imagine that even we few could hold off a hundred orcs here, killing them as they came on. I could certainly keep them from gaining purchase above, and I would wager our archers could keep their archers well-harried, enough to keep them from playing a factor."
He's musing now, thinking out loud. Letting the words roll about his tongue, tasting them like a foreign wine.
"Such would be a hard slog, aye, but either they attack us, and die, or we strike and return and rest and strike, and they die.
If we could retake this glorious hall, even to die in the attempt would make a fine song to sing."
Cereidh hopes that greater experience will lend her arrows more luck than Thorgrim's had.
Cereidh narrows her eyes in bemusement at the rest of her party. "Of course your suggestions are brave, and come from a hatred of the Shadow and its servants. But this is not our home, although it was once a home of the light. We are not seasoned orc-hunters, not like Talandil." She nods towards the Dunedain. "And if should we die here, the stones might sing it, Nocticide might sing it to whatever hero recovers it - the light's recovery of this place will be sung far longer should anyone at all return alive to report the depth of its current tragedy to those of my people elder and wiser. I shall stay and fight if that is what we choose to do - but I think Talandil speaks with wisdom."
”Let us not be selfish, Thorgrim, there are more than enough orcs here to let many a warrior of Rivendell prove their mettle. We owe them that opportunity,” says Ingold with a wry smile, preparing to follow Talandil out of these forsaken caves.
Arrows from Doderic, Ingold and Cereidh manage to take down another pair of the fleeing orcs before you all reach the sunken courtyard.
As the horn calls continue to echo through the sunken ruins of the city, Talandil's suggestion is considered by eachg member of the Fellowship. Thoughts are shared, options debated.
The old ranger puts a weathered hand upon Doderic's shoulder. "You speak wise words Master Took. And truly, I do not wish to die a frivolous death among these ruins. Though I would happily shed my blood should it lead to Hope's triumph in the end." He smiles and a gleam sparkles in his eye. A fire burning deep within seeking to meet out a bit of revenge for sorrows brought upon his people so long ago. But all is not sorrow and revenge and death, for the Light of Life still shines as well. That light is proved as he calls forth a soft chuckle, a stark contrast to the echoing sorrowful calls of the orcish horns.
"I've every intention of sharing a pint of Good Butterburr's latest brew with you at the Pony. Still the fortunes of war and battle are ever fickle and should fate's hand turn to ill, I will do so knowing that others will live who might not do so if no one survived to warn the Council of a growing threat."
"The same can be said for each of you. Heroes of valor and steel you've already proven yourselves to be. For few have I met who could face the numbers already vanquished without loss of heart or head." His demeanor turns thoughtful once again. He pulls out a few shreds of dirty, blood stained cloth. In the dim light it takes a few moments to realize they are crude symbols torn from the shirts and jerkin's of the recently slain orcs. Each displays a red field filled by a black serpent coiled around a mannish figure. He hands the patches to Ingold.
"The enemy is moving. The free people must be warned. First this Captain stirring up the trolls, now a of orcs tribe I'm not familiar with in these parts. Perhaps you or one of the elder folk in Imladris will have insight into who and what we might be facing."
A pair of horns sound much closer. "Time is short. To tarry further is to invite more trouble." He adds readying himself to depart or fight depending on the decision of the fellowship.
With decisions made and the enemy closing in, false trails are laid and quickly enough the Fellowship parts company with Talandil. As Thorgrim breaks the rickety ladder leading back up to the upper ruin, the others watch as the old ranger's lamp light bobs in the dark tunnel leading east from the ancient courtyard. The only direction seemingly free of nearby orc calls. Moments later the light disappears around a corner leaving nothing but darkness and horns calling from west, north, and south.
You race back up the tunnel finally reaching the ancient Great Hall of the kings of Arthedain. The stench of the dead spider and rotting remains of the wraith still lingers in the air. For the moment it seems the old Dunedain's ruse is working. The orcish horns are distant notes weeping sorrow through the dark halls of sunken Fornost Erain.
Pursuit has been eluded for the moment, at least that is the belief until Cereidh gasps as a short, black feathered arrow plunges deep into her side.
"Told you Scrag." A high pitched voice snarls from behind the large corpse of the spider. "Told you I smelled elf. Told you, if you stick with ole Gash you'll eat well tonight." The voice belongs to a wiry, thin orc dressed in thick leathers and wielding bow and long knife. It wear a leather helmet is decorated with finger bones sewn around the edges. The grim headpiece clatters as it rises from hiding and readies another arrow.
Lurching from behind one of the pillars is another orc. This one the near physical opposite of the first. Standing a hand taller than Thorgrim and maybe half again as wide, the creature is practically the size of a troll. A necklace of ears, bones, and other trophies rattles over a hodgepodge of rusty ringed and iron armor. It's beefy hands are filled with the thick handle of a wide headed warhammer.
"Scrag trust Gash. Scrag hungry for elf steak." The big orc rumbles, its voice like two grinding millstones.
Cereidh drops Bregghar across her shoulder and snarls, drawing her broadsword. Her eyes flick only briefly to the rest of the party; not beseeching. The only way past these orcs is through, so their hands are forced.
"Big guy, you're big enough to make a barricade for your mindless siblings all on your own," she snarls at Scrag, and closes with him.
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The words rushed from Thorgrim's throat and in an instant he was upon the massive orc.
He had been having a good day. After leaving a great many foul orcs laying motionless in his wake, he got to destroy their only egress out into the open world, crushing it with his bare hands, which is always fun.
On the short jaunt back out, he took another gander at the grubstake of stars fallen from the grand ceiling. If anything he had under-counted the fruit of his labors. Even not counting the prize of the diamond, he judged himself able to purchase anything that could be purchased, save only perhaps the grandest of works. That the thing he actually wanted was the grand work he now strode out of and away from seemed like a poetic tragedy a bard in a wineshop might sing of.
He had begun thinking of flowers when the arrow hit the elf.
"YOU SHALL KNOW THOUSAND DEATHS!" he screamed, Noctocide in his hand in an instant. "YOUR LIFE HAS MEANT NOTHING AND IT ENDS HERE! NONE BUT YOUR FLEAS SHALL MOURN YOU!" All his training. All his experience. Every ounce of martial ability he poured into this target, for only the greatest of violence could ever hope to balance the scales against this greatest of insults. "THERE SHALL NOT BE ENOUGH LEFT OF YOU TO FEED THE DOGS THAT ARE YOUR BEDMATES!"
First Crashing Mountain, then Raging Flood. All of the pain.
All for you.
= 18
= 15
._.
= 24
Like a foul tempered cave bear, Thorgrim's roar echoes within the vast ruins of the Great Hall. Noctocide sings as steel whirls and strikes with a fury powered by the Beorning who, in the dim glow of lantern and shadow, seems to become a mauling beast of the wild.
The slow witted orc attempts to fend off the mighty blows, but more than a few leave the thick skinned beast bleeding and staggering backward. Yet, what he lacks in brains, Scrag clearly makes up for in stamina and constitution for even as Cereidh's arrows add to the creature's wounds it is righting itself and readying to rally with a set of blows of its own.
Scrag: 62/150
Gash: 150/150
Ingold continues to move towards the exit but aims his bow near the scrawny orc hiding behind the spider corpse. He looks for the telltale bulge of decomposing effluvia under pressure in the massive corpse, and then times his shot to burst the swollen cyst just as the foe leans out to take another shot, hoping to splatter the orc with foul spider ichor and ruin its shot!
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Doderic moves in to aid his large friend swinging the sharpened pillar.
Rolling between the imposing trolllike orc, he lashes out at the orcs hamstring.
Ingold slips an arrow into the gap of the massive orc's iron armor, but it does little more than sting the beast. Doderic steps up to guard Thorgrim's flank. The hobbit twists slashing at Scrag's lower legs only to have his blade clang of the orc's black iron armor.
Having just been pummeled by Thorgrim, the orc growls and brings the big ugly warhammer crashing down in two quick, successive blows that crash into the Beorning like a great battering ram.
With him companion engaged with Doderic and Thorgrim, the sneaky Gash let's fly a pair of arrows toward the hobbit slipping around behind Scrag. Fortunately, Doderic hears the snap of the bowstring and with quick reflexes is able to duck aside at the last moment, avoiding both arrows.
Scrag: 58/150
Gash: 150/150
As Thorgrim has closed with Scrag, Cereidh steps back to return Bregghar to bear.
With the spider’s ichor splattering over the scrawny orc and throwing off it’s aim, Ingold moves again towards the exit and looks to see if there are any more surprises awaiting them on the way out (Passive Perception 17), then prepares to shoot again at the orc archer just as he tries to take aim, more to foul his attacks than do any real damage.
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"Oooofff," Thorgrim exhales as the orc pays in the only coin that his low-browed race has. But he pays out well, and the wind is knocked from the weaponmaster. For a moment he gives ground to catch his breath.
"Oh what a way to cap the day!" he shouts when finally he has lungs enough to. "To start with the undead horror, and then the spider, and then a bevy of orcs, at last to end with these two champions of the orcs? Even if we fell this day could any say it was not well spent?"
I mean, he had no plans of falling this day. He had things to do. Still, there was only one way out of this.
Later we would swear that Noctocide seemed to hear and understand, like a well-heeled dog. The blade rose and fell and fainted and slashed with a preternatural ease that bordered on sentience.
= 28
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Gash coughs and splutters as he pops his head above the spider corpse just as Ingold's arrow slams through the arachnid's poison sack, bursting the bloated balloon right in the orcs face to splash it with ichor and toxins. The Dunedain's attack once again hinders the orcs ability to attack leaving him to watch helplessly as the formidable Scrag succumbs to the combined might of elf and Beorning.
Bregghar's arrows catch the big orc in the side opening a gap in the orcs defenses and Thorgrim and Noctocide quickly take advantage. Beorning steel collides with orcish iron and the steel prevails. Thorgrim's first blow opens a huge cut across the orc's belly and foul smelling fluids pour forth. A heartbeat later, a follow up strike drives through armor to pierce the villain's heart and the orc crashes to the ground dead.
With his companion fallen, all of Gash's confidence and bluster evaporates in a series of dark curses as he scrabbles out of his hiding spot and disappears behind a fallen pillar and into the shadows on the far side of the hall.
Suddenly all is quiet as Ingold signals the way out is still clear.
Not bothering trying to locate the orc in the darkness, Ingold moves up the stairs and looks for any other threats in the immediate area. He pulls some herbs out of a pouch and starts mashing some together, looking in concern at Thorgrim's wounds.
"Come, let us away from this death trap before their reinforcements arrive," encourages Ingold.
Unable to spot the hidden orc, you all decide to simply leave him behind. You quickly make your way back up the stairs, over the weakened section and eventually back out into the late afternoon sunlight.
The shadows are already growing long among the ruins of Fornost Erain, and the heat of the day ripples off the stones and drooping, parched leaves of the scattered trees or scrub. There is no movement or sign of life as you start to pick your way back down the hill, and yet each of you cannot help but feel malevolent eyes watching from hidden places, biding time for the shadows to grow deeper and the sun to finally sink beyond the western hills.
"Let us move quickly to be away from this place. Shall we go first to Bree and check in at the Pony, or head straight to Rivendell? But first let us move to a place of relative safety where I may prepare my herbal remedies and address our injuries," counsels Ingold as he tries to help cover their tracks as they make good their escape.
"I should like to rest at the Pony first," Cereidh says with an exhausted sigh, frequently glancing back with melancholy resignation towards where the Dunedain perhaps still fights. "But briefly. But the Shadow will not yet try to overtake us there."
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As Thorgrim escapes into the cool evening air, it is if he was a goatskin full of air, and of a sudden he is poked with a hatpin. "Ugh," he grunts, slouching down. "Now, with the rush of battle leaving, I feel I've run a hundred leagues.
Aye, Bree seems a fine idea," he says, sluggishly, as though he has not the strength to contemplate the question.
"We may have run a hundred leagues," Cereidh jokes.
The sun is low in the sky when you finally reach Deadman's Dike and the outer edge of the fallen city. Taking a few moments to catch your breath, you each know there is little time to linger here so close to the city. Whether Talandil succeeds or not, it is only a matter of time before some party of orcs comes hunting, and that Gash who escaped down the tunnels seemed a bit more cunning and dangerous than most of the others you faced beneath the ruins.
So it is quickly decided to make for Bree and to stick to the remnants of the Greenway where travel by moonlight is less hazardous than making your way across the open downs. With a decision made, the Fellowship sets off at a steady ground eating pace, but soon enough the sun is down and the exertions of the day begin to add up. Patched wounds open, bruised muscles begin to ache and belly's grumble. Well into the late evening, Thorgrim spots a sheltered spot a short distance from the road suitable for a camp.
Sitting atop a short rise, the campsite even offers a bit of a view back along the way so recently traveled. So it is, that Ingold, while preparing one of his herbal concoctions notices a flash of light back along the road. Still some distance away. The scholar watches for several minutes and again a gleam of light. It doesn't take long for the Dunedain to recognize the signs of moonlight glinting off iron and steel.
Although Ingold judges them to be several miles back, the enemy has the scent and is on the trail.
Having bound wounds as best he could and encouraging others to rest, Ingold sighs as the signs of pursuit make themselves evident. Having just replenished his stock of herbal remedies, he moves to quietly inform the others.
"We are being followed...the orcs appear to have our trail--my skill has not been enough to mislead them, I fear. We will need to either move on or prepare for battle."
Word is they were heading further north toward Deadman's Dike and the old ruins up there. A tale that causes most folk to go quiet and make the sign against evil. Most folk except a fellow dwarf. A female no less. Mara was her name and she could certainly put the ale away. She'd been traveling with Cereidh and the others and indeed a raid was thwarted. It was that raid that put her on the road back to Rivendell. To carry back word to the council.
After a few more ales and with little prospect for trade or prospecting in the lonely haunted lands surrounding Bree, Mara convinces you it might be good to see your old companions once again.
"They'll be somewhere in the old city of the Dunedain up there. Fornost. Looking for signs of hobbits taking part in some long ago fight with the shadow." She leans in a bit closer, dropping her voice. "Really it's about seeing where those raiders came from and if more of the enemy are gathering in them shadow filled ruins."
She gives you a long look. "I didn't much care for having to leave them behind, but word needed to be sent. I head east in the morning. I'd be much obliged since you've traveled with them before, if you could spare a few miles on your boots to head north and see if they found anything and made it back out."
You really can't recall what sold you on the entire endeavour, but several days later you find yourself hiking the overgrown ruin of the Greenway, mule in tow.
It is well into the night when the you suddenly hear a thrush burst from its nest somewhere north of your quiet little camp. It is near a slight high spot in the rolling downs and given your solid dwarven night vision, you are able to spot a quartet of travelers taking refuge from the road not more than a few hundred yards from your own camp. Happily, at least two of the shadowy figures seem familiar.
Turning and pointing south, Ingold says, ”Someone up ahead has made a small campfire recently. They may be a friend in danger from this orcish war party as well—or may be yet another enemy. Doderic, would you mind using your considerable reconnaissance skills to investigate? Thorgrim, how should we array ourselves for battle?” adds Ingold, continuing to speak softly.
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Thorgrim had kept to his own council through the brief march. Having poured all of his vigor into the most excellent battle offered by their former hosts, he felt need to save his breath for whatever was to come. His day was not finished yet, no matter what may come.
"Eh? To battle?" he recites distractedly, staring into the middle distance. "For a small campfire? Gah, Ingold. We are chased by a full warband of of orcs. Probably. Even if two-hands worth of orcs have made a fire, they are of no threat to us.
Either the owner of the fire is no threat, or mayhap it is a friend of he that we have left behind, come to see where the erstwhile scout has gone. And that is all the better for us.
Let us advance and keep to our march. Let them worry about arraying for battle."
Thorgrim tromps on forward, eyes on the campfire.
"Aye, so moving on it is," replies Ingold, hastily breaking what small camp they had set up. Attempting to judge the speed of the approaching warband, he worries about being overtaken by them in the gathering gloom, but he trusts Thorgrim on these matters combat-related.
Leaving the rise the fellowship drops down the south side of the hill to come upon a single dwarf camped with his mule hobbled where it can easily reach a little of the parched grass growing near the sight. It the dim light of night it takes a few moments before both Thorgrim and Cereidh recognize Anar the dwarven warrior whom they traveled with east of the Misty Mountains.
With the orcs in pursuit, time for greeting is short and quickly replaced by warnings and thoughts of escape. While Anar breaks camp, Ingold lays out several false trails with the help of Doderic. By the time the moon has moved a full hand, you are back on the road moving at a steady jogging pace much to the mule's unhappiness.
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Oh man that White Lily stuff is powerful to keep around!!
"Gratitude," Thorgrim rumbled in his way as he let himself be administered to by Ingold's tending. He timidly takes the brewed tea the man had made and, holding his breath, knocks the drink back in a single swallow, wishing it was hard Haradian liquor.
The instant the brew touches his tongue he feels energy flow through him, as if from a volcano of power. "Confound I am restored," he says, the cup only having just left his lips. He stands and flexes, relishing the feeling of being, well, himself, in his full power. "That is potent stuff, Ingold! When next you visit me in my homestead I will mix that with good barley beer and never will the woods cease their song of praise for such a drink.
Indeed, I feel the Dew of the very Mountain flow through me!"
Restored, it was no wonder that he rushed down to meet what turned out to be Anar's tent. How could one stay still after such an imbibement?
"Allow me to help with that, Ingold," Thorgrim offers as false tracks are discussed. "I may not have book-learning, but I have some small experience with this."
Working together Ingold and Thorgrim manage to create a confusion of trails and cross trails leading off in every which direction from the Fellowship's hasty rest stop and at other several key spots as you all hurry south.
The ruse seems to work as the next time anyone looks back toward the north, the signs of pursuit are more distant. By the time the dawn starts to brighten the horizon in the east, even the keen eyes of Ingold or Cereidh can't make out any sign of the pursuing orcs. Although it is likely, they would've gone to ground with the coming dawn.
After a long night's run, legs are tired, chests ache, and mules voice loud complaints. Bree still lies a good eighty miles to the south and the desolate rolling hills of the north downs and lone lands offer little comfort.
Cereidh puffs and pants open-mouthed and wolfish as she lopes along, focused on the ground before her. As they take a moment to breathe atop a hill, she looks at the distance still to cover.
"The Shadow has no reluctance to spoil wild places," she says, "but visibility is good. I think we're in more danger of being caught by our pursuers than we are of coming unawares open danger hiding in these hills. I vote we press on."
”I suggest we slow our pace and watch for a defensible place to rest. We can’t fight well if we are exhausted,” suggests Ingold.
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Thorgrim listened to Cereidh and looked at her. He couldn't help but smile.
"Aye, I too would maintain such a heading. But soft, elf, not all are made for endless journeys." While facing her his eyes motion toward the Scholar. "As you say, visibility is good. Why not take the chance and make a camp? If the enemy again catches our trail, we will be able to see them in good time and we will be leagues ahead by the time they make it to our cold fires.
And besides, we are four now!" he clamps Anar palpably on the shoulder. "More eyes mean mean watches so each can get more rest. Let's give Ingold a chance to find a meat place for us to lay our heads.
I will even take first watch."
With the sun just slipping over the eastern horizon, Ingold finds a good spot to hole up for the day. Not a cave, more of an overhang about a hundred feet off the road. Partially hidden by dry scrub and tall grass. There isn't much of a view, but if one posted watch about thirty feet further up the slope, they would have a reasonable view back north and the heights of the rolling hills.
Little disturbs the peace of the day except the hot, dry wind and the occasional grazing of Anar's mule. At one point a pair of hawks drifted over while riding the currents. Their outstretched wings rippling in the winds as they search for a meal.
Finally, evening approaches and with the sun dipping into the west, it is time to set out again. Everyone watches for sign of pursuit, but none appears immediately forthcoming. All heave a quick sigh of relief and hope for a less frantic journey south.
Then the forlorn echo of battle horns drifts through the evening air. They are the same horns heard beneath the city only a scant day ago. Once again they emanate from different places. Certainly to the north. But then also further to the east. As you listen to the back and forth, it becomes clear the pursuit is no longer focused in your direction, but somewhere out to the distant northeast.
Having taken the time to thoroughly check everyone's wounds for signs of infection or corruption, Ingold is finally satisfied that the party is at least momentarily safe from the orcs.
Introducing himself, Ingold says, "Greetings, friend of Thorgrim and Cereidh. I am Ingold of Eriador, a more recent companion of theirs sent from Rivendell to help assess the threat of the shadow in these lands.
What brings you here?
Mostly at ease given his companions' familiarity with this dwarf, Ingold cannot help but remember the older dwarven smiths captive of the shadow for so long they encountered not so long ago. He watches and listens carefully to Anar for any sign of similar taint.
Assuming he finds nothing alarming, he rests until the late afternoon when the party has regained their strength, then prepares to move on towards Bree unless their new companion has a dire need to go elsewhere.
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Thorgrim was content as the others settled down for well-earned rest, and he to his watch. In sooth he did not feel the least bit tired, for one of his iron constitution the short pause they had enjoyed, along with the potent herbal brew, robbed him of even the memory of the bone-dead exhaustion that had plagued him so recently.
Hence the time seemed meat.
When you wake a flower crown greets you. By your head rests a creation that some young girl might make from wildflowers to rest atop her head. But the workmanship and detail given to the thing leaves no room to think it came from any but hands long-used to working with what nature leaves us.
A complex and strong triple-weave flows through the emerald crown as gayfeather, snowgum, and soft ivywine flow and intertwine as of they were feyfolk of the forest chasing each other. Though it might not last 'til the end of the age, none could say that its equal has been seen in these lands.
The crowning jewel of the work is the fire-bright wild lilie that is raised to prominence on the front. White with bold red and yellow interiors, the flower is not only unique, but lifts the heart of all who gaze upon it. It gives assurance that the whole of it was made with forethought, skill, and care.
"There is battle given, but not for us," Thorgrim observes as warhorns call throughout the air. "I would not slacken our pace, but he no longer need risk exhaustion upon the field to speed our steps."
As they gather their strength all and set out again, Cereidh remains quiet, as absorbed in movement as a hunting hound - but she now wears an exquisitely crafted flower crown and seems a little bit smug about it.
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Having taken the time to thoroughly check everyone's wounds for signs of infection or corruption, Ingold is finally satisfied that the party is at least momentarily safe from the orcs.
Introducing himself, Ingold says, "Greetings, friend of Thorgrim and Cereidh. I am Ingold of Eriador, a more recent companion of theirs sent from Rivendell to help assess the threat of the shadow in these lands.
What brings you here?
Anar shakes Ingold's hand. "A dwarf lassie named Mara told me to look you up and that you needed my help. I think my friends missed my axe! Ha!" Anar takes a bite of dried meat. "From the sound of the horns. I'm sure you do!"
With pursuit seemingly drawn off to the northeast, you find yourselves with a moment or two to breath and travel with slightly less urgency. Two more days pass without incident or further sign of pursuit, and yet you still can't shake the feeling that something still lurks in the shadows of your trail.
It is on the third night, still a full day's travel from the outskirts of Bree, that Thorgrim sits the watch. The moon has dimmed as it continues to wane toward new. The dim light of the low campfire provides little to see beyond the immediate circle of the low ruins of some long abandoned homestead. And yet, there is something on the wind. The scent of blood and doom that gives the Beorning pause and has him straining to see or hear any hint of danger sneaking up in the night.
Anar's mule suddenly grows restless, snorting and pulling at the lines keeping it close. Still nothing reveals itself.