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Thorgrim pauses in his whittling. Something in the grass? Mayhap a hare, or some hunting vermin? Two rats rutting? Hard to say. Certainly nothing worth rousing the group from their blankets and calling out the guard.
Still, he took Noctocide in hand and added fresh wood to the fire. Couldn't be too careful.
The fire flares a little higher as Thorgrim adds a bit of fuel to the small blaze. Wise it was to stoke it so. A fox bursts from the grass, panic filling its eyes, its tail tucked between its legs as it darts through the camp, past the fire and away. A tingle races down Thorgrim's spin, for something had clearly spooked the small night hunter.
Soon enough the Beorning understands the fox's fear. For emerging from the darkness of the night currently shrouding the rolling hills of the northern downs is an apparition of horror. A headless maid. Or at least a maiden is what you presume by the ghostly flowing dress worn by the thin, skeletal form. Five others ghastly figures all dressed in tattered remnants of ancient arms and armor encircle the figure as they drift forward barely stirring the tall grasses with their aethereal forms.
"Eeeeyyyyeeee....." Moans a voice as the maid holds out a hand. The eerie, deathly sound echoing across the quiet camp bringing all who may have been asleep away with a chilling, frightening start. "Rrrreeetuuuuurnnnnnn theeeeee eeeeyeee."
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"AIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" comes a blood-curdling scream from the large Beorning, finishing the wakefulness of any who were not yet up from their blankets. Such a thing was unlike the myriad of monsters he had slain in his time, and should not even exist, least of all be upon their camp.
Though every nerve in his body screamed for him to run, to run and hide! such an instinct was so unlike him that, though he could not advance and run it through, he split the difference and did nothing but stand and scream.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
A smallest part of him wondered how it was making speech without a head, but that hardly seemed to matter now.
That same dream...A ring of gold surrounding him, shimmering with shadow and flame. Glowing sickly red letters in an ancient tongue, their meaning just beyond his grasp. Yet something was different this night...The shadow within the flames made sounds--mournful sounds of death, forsaken and hopeless. And then there was the scream!
Jolting awake, Ingold jumps to his feet to see the ghostly threat around them, their indistinct moans in his dream rising to a keening wail!
It took all of his will, but Ingold fights through the fear and calls loudly, "Use the light of the flame to hold them at bay!"
Reaching over to Thorgrim, he lays a steadying hand on his shoulder and shares a portion of his resolve with the distressed warrior as he pulls a torch from his pack in preparation to follow his own advice.
When the new companion joined them, Doderic smiled, offered a bit of tea or a sweet snack with his introduction. He was glad that their allies seemed numerous enough to always show up in times of need.
As he jolts awake, he manages to keep his wits about him at the sight before he quickly rolls out of sight, or, at least hopefully so. He watches the scene unfurl as he shakes the last vestiges of sleep out of his eyes.
Cereidh scrambles back out of her bedding, eyes wide and gleaming darkly like the fox's: she stares at the ghostly apparitions as if she can't quite believe her eyes even after all of the events of their adventures so far.
Startled by the ghastly visages, Thorgrim screams his body locked in place as the apparitions drift forward toward the camp. Awakened by the Beorning's completely uncharacteristic frightened call, Ingold quickly grabs a potion and slaps the big warrior to shock him out of his initial fear.
Unsure of the true nature of the threat, Doderic rolls out of his bedroll and deeper into the shadows giving himself time to both fully awaken as well as try and understand what is happening even as he drives the chilling fear of the spirits from his mind.
Following Ingold's shouted advice Anar grabs a fresh torch and jams it into the flames of the fire setting it alight.
Cereidh, upon hearing Thorgrim's wild cries of fright and the ghastly, eerie voice, looses heart herself. The elf retreats backward, the fear upon her face illuminated by the flickering flames of the campfire.
"Eeeeyyeeee. Reeetuuuurrrnnnnn." The aethereal voice cries. It's bone chilling call echoing upon the night air.
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Head reeling and his cheek slightly purpled by the force of the blow, Thorgrim stands a moment while the fear leaves his eyes and his quickened breathing returns to normal.
"Gratitude, Ingold. I needed that."
Returned to himself, Thorgrim turns his baleful gaze toward the phantasmal interlopers. "You dare? You. Dare. You who are ABOMINATIONS to all things normal and good! You who are the stuff of nightmares made manifest! You would dare to walk into a campsite of peaceful people and good intent and DARE to demand a boon? I care not if I rightfully owe you a bent copper to purchase ale for a lifetime, I care NOT what you want returned."
He hefts Noctocide. If there was a debate between courteously resolving this dispute through solemn negotiations, and quickly charging into GLORIOUS COMBAT, the eager yellow light that surrounds the great sword, combined with an almost tangible growl of hunger, states in which camp the sword would vote.
"You want to be returned? Then I shall return you. TO THE GRAVE!" the Beoring yells, his words again turning a cry, but this a word-less cry of battle!
"Come, Cereidh, let divine mercy be the only reward they see this day!" he yells behind him, heedless that his recently given bravery is still needed for his heart behind him.
Ingold dips his own torch in the fire as he goes by and moves quickly up to Cereidh, grabbing her arm and forcing her to look at Thorgrim as he speaks to her, saying "He has enough courage for us all, it seems."
"At least spit and vinegar enough," Cereidh says hoarsely, a little embarrassed, a little angry, voice mostly rough from sleep. She does not need to advance to level her mighty bow once she straightens and retrieves it from her shoulder.
When he uncovers the eyes, he steps back gasping surprise as an orb of white and blue stares back at him with unblinking judgement. But after a moment he realizes the eye to be, not an unliving horror, but a thing of masterfully crafted glass and paint. The false eye drops out of its now loose socket to clatter within the dust filled bowl.
Noctocide flares to life as Thorgrim, having regained his stout heart following the initial shock of the aethereal spirits, steps forward to fend off the demanding ghosts. Two to the guardians of the headless maiden drift forward to intercept the Beorning and within moments the whistle of steel echoes through the night air.
No blood spills. No cries of pain or lamentations of the fallen echo through the night. Instead with each passing stroke, Noctocide flares with bright light that does seem to cause the spirits much more discomfort and concern verses the more mundane arrows from Bregghar or Anar's trusted axe.
"Fooolllsssss. Sssssshhaaadooow ssssspaaaawn. Tttthhhiiiieeevesssss." Hisses the maidenly, headless form. An ethereal hand waves the remaining guardian spirits forward. A ghostly finger points toward Ingold. "Tttthhhhherrrrrre!" The voice moans.
Obeying their orders, the spirits move forward brandishing misty swords or spears. As incorporeal as the weapons may be, they do bring pain for the icy cold of death is anathema to the living.
An aethereal spear slips through Thorgrim's mail and although there is no sound of steel being punctured or bleeding wound, the Beorning nevertheless gasps in pain as the sensation of bitter cold steel passes through his side. The same occurs to Anar as the hardy dwarf also feels the chill doom of death slash and puncture his body as he is unable to dodge both sword and spear. The final ghostly guard rushes around the flank to reach Ingold. The scholar gasps as he too feels the pain of ghostly steel intercept with his living flesh.
Guard 1: 22/100
Guard 2: 100/100
Guard 3: 93/100
Guard 4: 100/100
Guard 5: 100/100
Ingold waves the torch around, trying to keep the bright flame in between himself and any spirits, drawing his Dwarven shortsword to help fend off the insubstantial foes, hoping the dwarven steel help ward them off...
From the shadows, Doderic shouts.
Ingold! The Glass eye! Was it of any note other than its material worth? The hobbit yells, striding forth to aid Thorgrim and Cereidh, though with no weapon of magic he can but attempt to ward off strikes on the other warriors.
As he attempts to use his shield, he shouts back.
If it is not, then giving it back may be the best course of action?
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"You are DEAD! You HEAR me?!?" Thorgrim yells at the oncoming specters even as they fight back against him. "You have no RIGHTS! You have no CLAIM! You are full of LIES and DECEIT and your very EXISTENCE is an EVIL and BLIGHT upon this land that we will snuff out!" His yells are from the very bottom of his lungs as he swings Noctocide to and fro.
= 16
= 16
"Are you MAD?" Thorgrim calls back as Doderic sees the undead plan. "There is no truth in their words! How are they to prove their claim? Are we solicitors now that even the most vile of creatures can come to us and just demand all our possessions? These things are servants of the enemy and must be fought with FIRE and STEEL!"
Have you not wondered why you are both calling each other servants of shadow? Doderic responds before looking to Ingold.
Ingold, do you think this is the spirit of the princess? Or merely a work of shadow to try and confound us?
Thorgrim slashes twice more at one of the ghosts hovering before him. The brilliant light of Noctocide flares again and the spirit suddenly breaks apart like ashes scattered upon a wind. Moments later remains of the ghost except the faint smell of rotting roses.
There is no time for the Beorning to take a respite from the spiritual onslaught. For the second ghost pushes its aethereal spear through Thorgrim's shoulder causing no blood to spill. Instead the warrior feels the searing, icy pain of death's dark night race through his shoulder.
Stout Anar suffers the same icy wound as the ghost harassing the dwarf stabs as passes through armor, cloth, and flesh to freeze a portion of his liver. Gasping with the sudden pain caused by the wound, the dwarf is forced back several steps to try and regain his balance and composure.
Doderic manages to duck away from an attack even as he ponders who these ghostly attackers might be and what has drawn their interest.
Ingold has little time to respond to the hobbit. Despite his best efforts to spin away, a deathly cold ghost blade lashes him across the thigh momentarily numbing the limb.
Guard 1: 0/100
Guard 2: 100/100
Guard 3: 90/100
Guard 4: 100/100
Guard 5: 100/100
Listening to the words of Doderic and Thorgrim, Ingold says, ” Princess Nirena Turmen died a horrible death and was reputed to possibly be mad—the eye is tainted by the shadow cast by her pain and torment.”
Could this be the ghost of the princess? What would be the implications of returning this eye to the ghost of the seeress?
(Passive 20)
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”Yes, Talandil, let us move on. Some of these items may be purged of the shadow taint if exposed to the cleansing power of the sun,” says Ingold as he regretfully puts them all away for now and starts wriggling out of wretched lair they have lingered in too long.
"I do not need to wonder if we are servants of the shadow, as the wisest man I know has a plan to cleanse these ancient treasures of their taint. Therein we take a weapon of the enemy and ply it to our will. What is more benevolent than that?
Do these before us look like they are creatures that frolic in the sunlight? Will they lay in lush seas of green and gold, allowing the cleansing day to chase away the shadows?
Nay, nay my friends, nay. These are things of the dark and of caverns. Were we to yield to them now, we would put ourselves on a path of yielding ever hence."
For all his bluster Thorgrim had to take a moment to gather breath, his bladepoint dipping as he gulps air and ponders his "victory". He unleashed all his fury on the wist-wraith, and only now did it fall. And there were still a hand's full left! Would they all be as stout a tree to chop down?
Well, there was nothing for it. If Ingold, or Doderic, could come up with a plan, then good on them. But for the nonce there has ever been but a single way to deal with spirits of the long past.
He takes the ever-ready Noctocide in a firmer grip and engages the sole spirit now dancing with him.
= 16
I offer this solution. He says as much to his companions as to the spirit of the woman, though without letting his guard down.
Allow us to purge your eye of any and all influence of shadow. Upon completion of that task, if you still so desire, we shall return it to you. Would you accept this?
Doderic was still hopeful that, were this truly the spirit of the princess, some small bit of good was left. Having seen the effort required from Thorgrim to fell a single ghost did not bode well. Still, they could possibly claim a victory tonight.. but what about the next night? Or the night after? Would the spirits keep returning? Or would slaying them put them fully to rest? He couldn't aid in the dispatching of the spirits, and so his mind began to race.
Bregghar's first arrow flies true. Radiant light flashes as the arrow passes through the spirit. The ghost simply shifts, one instant it is hovering near Anar's right shoulder, an eye blink later is lurks on his left. This causes Cereidh's second arrow to fly uselessly past the intended target and disappear somewhere out among the tall grass of the downs.
Thorgrim and Noctocide valiantly fend off the second spiritual guardian, but indeed despite more heavy blows, the ghostly form continues to retain its integrity and press forward with its only chilling attacks.
While attempting to duck and slip away from the aethereal weapons of the ghostly ancients, Ingold tries for a better read of the grim female form still lurking behind her minions. The dress, although a mere shade of its true form, was once clearly a thing of beauty and wealth. Interlacing lines of likely gold ran along the edges. Jewels once sparkled and shined in the open areas between the elaborate knotwork embroidery. Across the bodice, a circle seven gem-centered stars of Arthedain. Of course, one can never be certain given the missing head, but the scholar believes it is distinctly possible this is the ghost of that long ago slain princess and seer of the ancient Dunedain.
Doderic puts voice to his bargain and for a moment the feminine form's arm drops in a sign of perhaps hesitation. But for so many dark, cold centuries has her spirit lingered between the worlds. Tied to her gruesome death, tied to the powers that she once wielded in service to country and kin. To have it removed, stolen...such a circumstance cannot be tolerated. The arm sways back up and the ghosts continue to press the attack.
Thorgrim's foe once again lances the Beorning with a cold spiritual blade as does Anar's foe. The nimble hobbit just manages to avoid being struck by a ghost blade feeling the chill of its passage. Ingold does his best to duck away as well. His aethereal foe nearly strikes him in the shoulder, but the wise Dunedain is able to pull away quickly enough to avoid the blow.
But you notice her hesitation. A possible openness to a bargain. Could the hobbit be on to something?
Guard 1: 0/100
Guard 2: 68/100
Guard 3: 83/100
Guard 4: 100/100
Guard 5: 100/100
“Princess Nirena Turmen, your soul balances on the edge of a knife! The good you did in life weighs against the brutality of your death and the foul unlife you manifest now! If I give you back the eye before it is cleansed of corruption, it would doom you to fall under the sway of the shadow forever! I would destroy it first!” calls Ingold firmly, pulling out the glass eye and preparing to dash it against a nearby rock.
Help action on Doderic’s diplomacy…
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Breathing like a bellows, Thorgrim allows his natural vitality to infuse with strength enough to keep fighting, even as one of the unworldly weapons of the spirit-fey thrusts through him with life-stealing cold.
"You will have your toy later, or will have it never!" Thorgrim calls at the spirit fighting him. Does the spirit care? Or even hear him? Who can say? Who knows? Who is John Galt? But he can make it suffer and send it back to whatever grave it is stealing from to think on his words.
Thorgrim continues to battle the ghostly royal guardsman. Noctocide flashing again and again. A flickering beacon upon the dark gloom of the night shrouded North Downs.
Striving to find the thin threads of Reason, Good, and Hope within the shade of the former royal princess of the court of Arthedain, Doderic and Ingold continue to speak as the duck away from their aethereal attackers. Ingold's words of past goods, corruption and salvation resonate and the press of the attack eases. These words added to Doderic's offer to cleanse the Eye and return it have the desired effect.
Suddenly the spiritual warriors retreat several steps, although they still stand ready should the command be made.
"Aaaacccceeeeppppttttteeedddd. Uuupppooonnn tthhheee Hunnnttteeer's Moooon'ssss rriiiisssee, sssshhhhallll ttthhheeee Ssssseeeerrrr'sss Eeeeyeee bbbeeee ggggiiivvvveeeennnnn, eeeelllsssseee uupppoonnn Doooommm'ssss sssshhhhiiippp yyyoooouuuu willl ssssaaiillll." The last syllable's of that deathly voice drift across the hill's and ring in your ears as the ancient ones slowly retreat and eventually disappear once again into whatever depths of darkness from whence they emerged.
A short while later a cricket takes up its instinctual fiddle and begins to thrum that familiar late summer song. Soon enough it is joined by its fellows who provide a simple symphony as the moon drifts across the summer sky shining its silvery light upon the haunted barrens of a once thriving land.
Guard 1: 0/100
Guard 2: 33/100
Guard 3: 83/100
Guard 4: 100/100
Guard 5: 100/100
Nodding, Ingold says to Thorgrim, "I do not doubt that we could prevail against these apparitions, but perhaps some good may be done in putting the princess to rest properly instead."
To Doderic, Ingold bows and says, "You show much wisdom, good hobbit, and I thank you for your timely intervention. Though, I must admit, I feel at a loss trying to fight these creatures of shadow with no magic of my own at hand."
Cereidh looks about herself in surprise, almost chagrin. "... I wonder how much she really knew of the decision that she just made?"
Doderic shakes his head. You give me too much credit, I saw how our group struggled to fell them, and that most of our weapons were useless, I was merely hoping to survive all considered. Hoping I could be useful.
He looks around at the others.
That said, I suppose we have more reason to make haste for rivendell. As that is likely the best place to learn what must be done. Unless you already know, Ingold. I've heard stories and legends, but, those are but those are but tales, spun from half truths most like.
”We have several items tainted by the shadow but not intrinsically linked to it that should be responsive to strong sunlight and careful ritual, but it make take some research to determine exactly the correct process for this eye,” responds Ingold, still shaken by the attack.
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Thorgrim stands, breathing heavily, staring in wonder at the spot where the enemy was last seen, as if waiting for them to reappear at any moment.
"What just happened here? I did not even think they could even understand the tongue of Man, least of all react to it.
You have the right of it, Doderic. The long beards at Rivendell will, no doubt, have much to speak and more to read upon this.
We must make haste."
Both Ingold and Doderic have suspicions about how to cleanse the treasures from Fornost Erain, but neither are truly certain without further study, likely within the hallowed library of the Last Homely House. But it is Doderic who states in the usual practical manner of so many of his kin, that sunlight is ever anathema to the Shadow. With that simple philosophy in mind the two come up with a simple regiment of placing the items in the bright noon day sun during each day of the journey back to Bree.
Although not freed of the foul curse entirely, Ingold is certain that the influence of the Shadow has lessoned substantially by the time you all cross the threshold of the Prancing Pony.
You receive warm greeting from Master Barlimann and more than a few other patrons, all of whom heard of your exploits in Archet not so very long ago. Rooms, ale, and a hot meal are all in ample quantity per usual at the Pony and you've plenty of time to rest and recover before making the final push back to Rivendell.
With some press of time placed upon you by the bargain with the spirits of Fornost, you do not linger for long in the warm and comfortable confines of the Prancing Pony. Instead after a couple of days to rest and recover from the ordeals faced within the ruined city, you once again take to the road.
Thorgrim sets a hardy pace along the East Road. The first week of travel ends setting up camp beneath the looming ruin of Weathertop. The ancient citadel of the Dunedain still looks out upon the wide open lands east and south of the Weather Hills. Lands you have passed and spilled blood upon not so many weeks ago.
But this time there are no wayward travelers, sneaking orcs, or bargaining tribesmen. Only the dry late summer sun, shifting winds and crisp mornings signalling the changing of the seasons. More time passes as the familiar sight of The Last Bridge comes into view. The crossing of the Hoarwell signals a journey nearing its end and within another weeks hard travel you find yourselves gazing down the valley and upon the Last Homely house. At long last your ears hear elf song echoing through the woods and the scent of fresh breads and cakes drifting on the wind from Elrond's busy kitchens.
Happiness and warm greeting meet you all as you arrive upon the steps of Rivendell. Many are simply glad to see you safely among friends and companions, others eager to hear of your adventures and findings. Most especially among that later group is a certain aging hobbit who is quite antsy to resolve his wager. Another is Glorfindel who seeks news of your less than happy findings regarding the powers of the Shadow lurking within the land.
Settling in for a few days at the Prancing Pony, Ingold consults with Barnabas about their consignment business, ensuring any proceeds get distributed properly. He waits patiently for the Dunedain ranger to join them as he had planned, but all too soon they needed to leave upon their continued journey, and he could only pray that the spirits of light would watch over Talandil, wherever he was.
Much of his time in Bree had been spent at the shops or in the Prancing Pony common room, where Ingold listened more than he spoke, paying careful attention to tales that may be of interest to his companions or the Elves of Rivendell.
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It is almost two weeks to the day after your arrival in Rivendell that word of Talandil reaches Elrond's sanctuary. The old ranger is alive and recovering from injuries received during the escape from Fornost Erain and the subsequent chase across the wilds. Fortunately he encountered a pair of fellow rangers hunting trolls in the Lone Lands. Together the trio were able to escape the pursuing orcs and eventually make their way to a small settlement tucked within the wilds east of the Downs. Although Talandil lost an arm due to filth upon some of the orcish blades, he still lives and passed along word complementing the bravery and strong hearts of those he met outside the lost city.
The interim also allows Ingold to spend the necessary time and dedication to solving the secrets to cleansing not just the Eye of the Seer but the other items discovered upon your journey. With assistance from none other than the Lady Arwen Undomeil herself the scholar is able to devise a suitable ritual that leaves all of the treasures free of the Shadow's influence.
The cleansing of the Eye of the Seer is doubly successful in that it eliminates the Shadow curse dwelling within the item but also frees the bindings holding the fallen princess to the mortal lands. As the ritual beneath the noonday sun is complete, the ghost of the lost Dunadain appears, her head intact with her body. Auburn locks frame a youthful faces with pale blue eyes and high cheeks. The smile she offers is like the blooming of the first rose of spring, grand and glorious filled with the Hope of a new season. Freed from the curse placed upon her by the Witch King at the fall of Fornost her spirit and those of her guards slowly fade, leaving the mortal world for whatever lies beyond.
Although lacking the numbers to fully deal with the orcish threat in Fornost, the elves and Dunedain Rangers devise a strategy under the council of Glorfindel and Aragorn to harass the beast and disrupt any plans their wicked minds might try to implement. And warnings have been sent to Bree and the outlying villages insuring no further surprises like the one you foiled could be perpetrated by the foul orcs.
And so summer turns to autumn. The harvest is brought in. The final caravans depart for destinations east, west and south hoping to complete their journeys before the snows of winter blanket the land.
For your services to the Free Peoples, Elrond grants you all the title of Elf-Friend or in Cereidh's case, Friend of Rivendell and of course rights to whatever of the treasures you discovered to use with as you will.
Ingold gathers the companions together and lays out all the treasures they have found, proclaiming them freed of corruption and available for any member of the fellowship to claim.
With the proceeds from the sale of their treasures in Bree and the coins and gems they found along the way, Ingold seeks to upgrade his equipment if possible--especially his armor (currently Leather Corslet) and finding a great bow (currently has a short bow).
He also spends many days in the late summer and early fall searching for herbs to replenish his supply as well as learning all he can from the learned experts in Rivendell.