GM Tarondor's The Queen of Shadows - The One Ring

Game Master Tarondor

“It is not our part to master all the tides of the world, but to do what is in us for the succour of those years wherein we are set, uprooting the evil in the fields that we know, so that those who live after may have clean earth to till.”
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings

“But I suppose it’s often that way. The brave things in the old tales and songs, Mr. Frodo: adventures, as I used to call them. I used to think that they were things the wonderful folk of the stories went out and looked for, because they wanted them, because they were exciting and life was a bit dull, a kind of a sport, as you might say. But that’s not the way of it with the tales that really mattered, or the ones that stay in the mind. Folk seem to have been just landed in them, usually – their paths were laid that way, as you put it. But I expect they had lots of chances, like us, of turning back, only they didn’t. And if they had, we shouldn’t know, because they’d have been forgotten. We hear about those as just went on – and not all to a good end, mind you; at least not to what folk inside a story and not outside it call a good end. You know, coming home, and finding things all right, though not quite the same – like old Mr. Bilbo. But those aren’t always the best tales to hear, though they may be the best tales to get landed in!”
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings

“Deeds will not be less valiant because they are unpraised.”
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings

It is the year 2998 of the Third Age. The kings have been gone for more than a thousand years. It has been more than two hundred and fifty years since Bullroarer Took defeated the Great Goblin at the Battle of Greenfields and more than fifty-five years since that queer Mr. Bilbo Baggins came back from foreign parts with his pockets stuffed full of gold and his head stuffed full of elvish nonsense.

Beyond the Shire, Eriador is changing. Wolves have come down from the hills in great numbers, harrying the small communities spread across what was once the kingdom of Arnor. Trade, which once ran along the Dwarf Road from Ered Luin to the Misty Mountains and along the Greenway from Bree and the Shire into the distant south, is now almost completely curtailed. Rumors abound of trolls and walking trees, of goblins from the mountains and strangers upon the roads

________________________________________________________________________

It is early evening on a Spring day in Bree-Land that has been unseasonably hot, though blessedly free of the midges and flies that will multiply as the season unfolds, and as the evening has come on, so too has a pleasant breeze out of the west so that all the doors and windows of the region stand open to accept the cooling drafts.

On the front porch of the Prancing Pony, Bree’s largest and best-known inn, a party of woodcutters from the Chetwood relax with pots of ale and bowls of thick brown stew. Inside, a trio of dour dwarves in blue hoods drink quietly in a corner while farmers from Archet and Combe sing lustily and off-key. Old Baynard Butterbur, the proprietor, moves through the throng, carrying trenchers of meat and cheese. ”Barley! Barliman! Now where is that boy?”

The huge common room is ablaze with light from many lanterns even as the last rays of sunlight fill the western windows with scarlet and orange. In one corner sit Lothac and Primrose, a grim-looking man of the far south looking out of place with a young and apple-cheeked hobbit lass a good deal less than half his size. Frowning at them from across the room sits Berethor a tall and handsome man from some distant southern land. Against one wall sits Morwenn, to all appearances a vagabond traveler out of the wild.

In the center of the room sit a striking pair of women, their heads together in conversation. These are Elarinya, an-elf maid of fair and noble mein, and Tilly Appledore, gate-warden and daughter of a local orchard-owner. Dwarves and men out of the south may be uncommon, but an elf-maid sitting in the Prancing Pony is unheard of and many of the Pony’s patrons are trying hard to seem unfazed.

So, tell us why you’re in the Prancing Pony tonight, and what you’re doing. Converse with each other and the patrons awhile, or sing a song or tell a tale. It is, after all, an ordinary day on which nothing else of note is likely to happen.

Morween had entered the Prancing Pony through the servant's entrance, taking up her usual spot on the bench between the kitchen and the sitting room.

She'd received a nod from Butterbur, having graced his common room a number of times in the past.

She shared a look with Berethor, the man from Gondor she'd recently escorted up to the North from the border with Rohan. They'd talk later.

However, she was as surprised as the townsfolk at seeing the elf-maid, Elarinya. Morwenn recognized her from her infrequent visits to Rivendell...they'd most definately speak.

A break in the farmer's boistrous singing, gave her an opportunity to share her own talent. One of the farmers, from Archet, nudged his fellow, who'd showed signs of resuming his own singing. Morwenn was sure the farmer had seen her in Archet a few months ago.

Taking out her flute, she held still for a moment before beginning a soft, simple tune...one filled with longing and loss, a melody out of Rivendell itself. As she played, her eye rose and met those of the elf-maid, sharing a moment of recognition and respect.

Skill(Song): 2d6 + 7 ⇒ (1, 5) + 7 = 13
Feat die: 1d12 ⇒ 1

As the final notes of the Elvish melody faded, Morwenn dropped the flute to her lap and looked out at all of the faces now looking at her.

Having gathered the crowds attention, Morwenn then raises her voice in song, singing an ancient ballad of the golden times of Arnor, when Men strode the land and the North was theirs.

Skill(Song): 2d6 + 7 ⇒ (4, 2) + 7 = 13
Feat die: 1d12 ⇒ 7

Finally, she takes up her flute again and sets into a lively, local ditty that gets the crowd tapping their feet.

Skill(Song): 2d6 + 7 ⇒ (4, 3) + 7 = 14
Feat die: 1d12 ⇒ 2

When finished, she smiles at whatever acclaim the crowd gives her, and secrets her flute under her tunic and sits, hands clasped in her lap. She nods to Butterbur's wink as he passes, but does not leave as is her usual.

The singing is taken up again by the farmers and others, filling the room with joy and revelry.

For some reason, she stays this night, instead of escaping back into the wild. Something in the air...

Primrose tries to get attention to order another cider. Her head barely manages to clear the man height table. She looks like a child. Her feet swing back and forth under the table. "Barman Butterbur has some good ciders available. It's been so warm that a cider just up from the cellar tastes wonderful." She looks up at the grim faced man sitting next to her. "Any luck today? I spoke with some of the other hobbit families, and no one has seen Uncle for years." She takes a couple of bites of her stew and brown bread.

While eating her dinner she looks around the room. Her glances keep coming back to the man who is clearly staring in their direction. She elbows Lothac gently. "Do you know him?" nodding her head slightly in the direction of the tall man in the corner.

"No luck," rumbles Lothac, his hands cupped around his pint of ale. He casts an uncomfortable, wary glance toward a few of the bar's patrons, not least of all on the man from even further south than he. "He's from Gondor," he adds with a frown as he looks back at Primrose. "You can tell by his face. He's a warrior, I think. But no, I do not know him.

"No word from other travelers," grumbles Lothac, setting both arms on the table. He shakes his head, his long, wild braids on the back of his head flicking to and fro. He wipes a bit of dirt off his cheek with a snort before continuing, "Nobody's seen your Uncle. I don't think we'll find him waiting around. If I could find his trail, I'd track him down easy."

Lothac peers down into his cup, staring at his reflection with a hard-to-read expression. Then he looks back up at Primrose. "We will find your uncle," he says perhaps a bit too firmly, "but we won't find him sitting in Bree. You talk to Butterbur, see where he was last seen. We start following his footsteps in the morning." He pauses to glance up and squint at the other southerner.

"And maybe I'll find out why that man's been watching us the whole time," he mutters below his breath. He leans forward and checks his belt to make sure his dagger is still there, just in case. It is.

Tilly listened intently to the lilt of Elarinya's voice as she told another Elven tale amid the general thrum of the patrons of the Prancing Pony. Smoothing down her woollen skirt as a cool breeze turned and touched her face, Tilly delighted in the presence of the scholar. Lifting her head and eyes slightly, she noted the keen looks cast toward her Elf-maid companion and understood that such a sight might be strange and delightful for the Bree-folk (it was for her, as well, if she admitted to it). Still, they shouldn't be staring.

In lowered voice, the Bree-lander said to the Elf-maid, "My mam always says it's rude to stare. A stick to the noggin might help them find their manners." A flush spread upon Tilly's dusky cheeks. "I'm sorry, Lady Elarinya. You are a curiosity in town, yet a welcomed one." Tilly picked up her deep mug of cider and drank as gracefully as she could, not wanting to embarrass her noble-born companion. She smiled over the lip of the cup.

The pretty flute music met her ears and she looked toward the new minstrel. A song then followed and more flute music and Tilly found herself tapping her feet under the table without much thought of it. Once the performance was done, Tilly clapped appreciatively and then looked to the Elf-maid; deep brown eyes curious and eager, "How long will you be staying in Bree on this visit?", secretly hoping it was a longer visit so she could learn more from the scholar.

Primrose would have tapped her feet to the music if her feet touched the floor. "How beautiful. A good song or two is always welcome. I'll speak with the Barman in the morning."

As she continues to enjoy her meal and the entertainment of the Pony, she hears "It isn't right for a proper hobbit lass." during a lull in the singing. She looks around and sees a couple of hobbit gentlemen staring in her and Lothac's direction.

She sticks her nose in the air pointedly ignoring the gentlemen, and moves to where the music has been happening. Primrose proceeds to sing a rousing song of a hobbit lad who wouldn't mind his own business and came to a bad end. She finishes singing, and flounces back to her seat next to Lothac giving a friendly wave and a wink to Tilly on the way.

Song: 2d6 + 1d12 ⇒ (2, 5) + (10) = 17

As Tilly waited on Elarinya's answer, she watched as Primrose stepped toward the other minstrels and began to sing. The lovely Hobbit's song was spirited and her voice fine and Tilly clapped when the ballad came to an end. When Primrose waved, Tilly happily waved back, wanting to invite Primrose and her brooding companion, Lothac, to their table. But not without the Elf-maid's consent. "I might ask the Hobbit and the Man to our table. Primrose is friendly; don't know about Lothac," casting a sidelong glance upon the Man at the other table. Turning her dark eyes back to the noble Elf, she asked, "Have I your leave to ask?"

Have we lost Elarinya and Berethor? I'm waiting for them to post.

I haven't seen Wasted post in the few days in any of his games.

I kind of came down with a flu and an arm injury that makes typing difficult; still around though! Sorry for the delay

Berethor manages to contain his glowering at Lothac, but only barely. There was no flicker of recognition from the Dunlender; and why should there be? Berethor had been a stripling when they had crossed paths, and Lothac a full-grown man.

But Berethor would never forget the lesson that he had been taught that day.

The Gondorian shifted in his seat, noticing Morwenn and marking well the position of Lothac. then approached the female Elf and woman of Bree. Berethor cleared his throat politely, then spoke in Sindarin.

I was at a lady-friend's place for a couple of days, so did not check :p pinging in now!

Elarinya smiles when she hears Morwenn begin to sing. She recognizes the tune, though she does not join in, preferring her more intimate conversation with Tilly.

"Worry not overmuch; I'm rather used to stares of curiosity outside the bounds of Imladris. Even those that may have happened across one of my Woodland kin are generally...let us say surprised to see a creature like myself. I do not have any set amount of time to be in town; the sad fact is that little of note happens in Rivendell. Lord Elrond receives reports, to be sure, but I am not one of those that has his confidence, at least not yet. There are stories to collect, and it is time for me to find them!"

At Tilly's question, Elarinya's eyebrow rose.
"I have only ever had speech with Bilbo Baggins; I would welcome the chance to know another Hobbit. I have no compunctions about speaking with them."

When the Man of Minas Tirith makes his way to over to their table, and speaks in a tongue familiar to Elarinya, the Scholar laughs with delight, a bright, bubbling laugh that seems to fill the air for a moment. She answers Berethor in kind.

Switching to the Common tongue, Elarinya will speak.
"Tilly, this is Berethor, a man of Gondor. He asked what brought me here; my purpose is simply to record some stories worth telling. What of you, Berethor? You are far from your home."

Lothac seems ready to urge Primrose to speak with Butterbur sooner, but when she calls the music 'beautiful,' he stops to listen to it.

The strange woman playing with her flute and singing her song has the Dunlending's attention. Her songs are not bad, he decides; and he admits to himself a bit of yearning for such a mighty realm as that of Arnor. It instills a rare sense of awe over him for reasons he can't explain.

For a moment, Primrose's smile seems to wane - other Hobbits in the room speak in whispers about her and the Dunlending, and Lothac instinctively begins to rise to share very strong words with them. But Primrose gets up first, and she gives them a rather public retort: a song of her own, a tale of a nosy Hobbit. At once the boldness and subtlety of her song makes him laugh out loud, and he claps heartily when she finishes.

"And here I thought I would have to punch one of them in the face," whispers Lothac with a grin, "or at least shake them like naughty children! You Hobbits have a strange way of dealing with insults. I like it."

But Lothac's mirth gives way quicker than he suspects. He catches the Gondor fellow's stare again, and his eyes narrow. He watches the man stand up and stride over toward the table with the elf-maid and the woman from the gate. He can't help but be suspicious toward him, now. What did that man want...?

Berethor - I'd like to invoke my Wild trait to auto-succeed an Insight check on your character. What might he glean about Berethor's attitude toward Lothac? Does he suspect the man wishes to harm him? (Also, Loremaster, I'm assuming there'd be no AP gain for any of our actions thus far, including this one.)

Primrose retakes her seat, and laughs when Lothac mentions shaking hobbits like children. "We may not be strong of arm, but a wee lass like myself can get a point across just fine."

I would say that that would reveal that Berethor is marking Lothac quite closely. Berethor has made no move to his weapons, however, and does not seem as though he is planning any violence.

Morwenn: When rolling a skill, you roll only the feat die and success dice (d12 and some number of d6's). Your Ability score is added only if you spend a point of Hope (which I am assuming you are not doing here). So, Morwenn's playing would be a single roll of 1d12+2d6.

The farmers and wayfarers listen politely to Morwenn's song, some of them nodding at the tale of ancient glory, but Primrose's satiric song gets them laughing and the nosey hobbits go back to their own business.

Old Butterbur shouts out at a young man just come in the door. "Barley! Where've you been hiding? We've more guests than I can handle on my own, what with Bob away, and you're sorely needed. Put on an apron, Barliman!" Young Butterbur mumbles an apology and moves swiftly into the kitchens.

Baynard comes around to each table, huffing and puffing and taking orders for food and drink.

I'm just going to let the role playing spin out a little more...

Elarinya turns over to Primrose and the man she is with, waving to get their attention.

"Your pardon? Mistress Hobbit? I apologize, I do not know your name, but my friend Tilly seems to know you. Would you and your friend like to join us?"

When the barman comes around, Tilly will order a glass of wine.

Editing to respond to Elarinya

Primrose nods in agreement. "We should join them. I think that's an elf. I've never met one of those before." She quickly rises, and grabs her bowl and cup to move to the new table. After sitting down at the new table, Primrose waves politely to Barley. "Could I have another cider, a bowl of coney and tater stew and a side of crisp taters, please?" Primrose is thoroughly enjoying a good meal after her travels.

"Hello I'm Primrose Bunch. I'm from the Shire. Are you an elf? I've never seen one before. I've heard the stories. Especially from Mr. Bilbo. He told good stories about elves. My Pa said not to believe him, but I think he told the truth. He did go away with dwarves after all. Everyone knows that's true. Oh and hi Tilly. Good to see you again. What's your name Mistress who I think is an elf." she finally takes a breath and looks at the male stranger who had joined the table just before her. "Why were you looking at me and my friend? I don't know you. Do I? You have a different look of Big Folk from Tilly and Lothac. Where are you from? What's your name? I'm Primrose. How do you do?" she smiles polity. It appears she's wound down for the moment.

Berethor orders another cup of ale, allowing himself a small smile. It would be all the better if the Dunlender was close by; Berethor wouldn't have to find excuses to keep an eye on the wild warrior, then.

"It seems we'll have quite the group this eve. Reminds me of when the other guards and I would get off shift! We ran up quite a tab at the local tavern."

Where does it all GO? The Dunlending wonders as Primrose orders another big batch of food. Not sure whether to be impressed or a little concerned, the dour warrior just shakes his head, then checks his coinpurse for to feel its weight. It's decidedly light.

"I need no more food," he says with a frown. "And don't volunteer anything for me either, Primrose. We can't spend too much..."

It is then the elfish woman calls out to the pair. Lothac immediately stiffens when he hears her voice; but when he realizes her peaceful tone and her friendly demeanor, he relaxes... At least, he relaxes somewhat. The Gondor fellow seems to be sitting with her.

A rumble rises in Lothac's throat. "You'll wish to sit with your friend?" he asks slowly, looking at Primrose. "Normally I'd just go to my room, but I don't know that I trust that far southerner. Perhaps I ought to sit with you."

Editing in...

Lothac joins the others at the table, though he arrives a little after the Hobbit lass does, and his expression is less friendly than everyone else's. It's rather hard to read, really, like he feels he needs to guard his thoughts in this motley group.

"I have only ever had speech with Bilbo Baggins; I would welcome the chance to know another Hobbit. I have no compunctions about speaking with them."

Tilly was pleased with the answer and was about to stand and make the request of Primrose when a handsome Man approached their table. Tilly smiled sweetly, the welcome shining in her eyes until he began to speak. He chose to exclude her by not speaking the Common tongue, so he could show himself in the best light to the Elf-maid. Such impoliteness was not seen well by her folk. Don't be harsh, Tilly. He was drawn to the Elf-maid like all others in here. Such an uncommon event would lead him to speak in her people's tongue and does not mean he is insulting you. Or so she hoped as it would not do to dislike him upon first acquaintance.

"Tilly, this is Berethor, a man of Gondor. He asked what brought me here; my purpose is simply to record some stories worth telling..."

As Elarinya brought her into the conversation using the Common speech, Tilly smiled again, happy with the scholar's thoughtfulness. Tilly turned her dark eyes to the Man of Gondor and with all the manners her mam had instilled in her, greeted him, "Good eve, Berethor of Gondor. Please join us at our table."

It was then that Elarinya gestured for Primrose and Lothac to join them as well.

"Oh and hi Tilly. Good to see you again."

Tilly returned a bright smile. "And it is good to see you, Primrose. I enjoyed your song." Tilly moved closer to Elarinya so the others had room to comfortably sit at their table. She gestured to the space beside her, "Sit beside me, if you have a want to, Primrose." Lothac stood silently by the Hobbit and didn't smile and Tilly's smile faltered a little in the presence of the ill-humoured Man. He is Primrose's travelling companion, so be nice.

Before sitting down, Berethor will bow graciously to Tilly.
"Begging your pardon, mistress; please forgive any rudeness on my part! I have never had the opportunity to speak with one of the Eldar before, and I suppose I wished to seem impressive by speaking the Elven tongue. A...bit gauche, in hindsight. I am Berethor, as she said, of the Tower Guard of the White City, and I am at your service, and already far in your debt, should you choose to grant me forgiveness."

He favoured Tilly with a dashing smile. He truly did not mean any offense, and was determined to make a good impression.

Upon his fair words, bright smile and courtesy, Tilly's first impression of Berethor of Gondor had much improved! See, it's as you thought - he was overtaken by the uncommon presence of the beautiful Elf.

Her deep brown eyes sparkled warm, "You're pardoned, Berethor. You're among friends, here." Tilly lifted her mug of cider to toast their grown, mixed company.

Berethor will clink Tilly's mug with his own.
"I am curious; how might you two know one another? Not often do the Elves deign to travel outside their own halls. Surely there must be something quite special about you, Mistress Tilly, that one would come so far afield for your company!"

As the others speak and share small-talk and formalities, Lothac's interest shifts from their pleasantries to the flute player from earlier. He squints at her in a curious fashion, as if trying to get a better look at her.

Why does she seem as out of place as this elf? he wonders to himself.

Morwenn, her musical offering finished, sits quietly sipping at the mug of Ale that had been pressed into her hand by the bustling Butterbur.

Slowly scanning the crowd, she could see that she'd seen two-thirds of patrons here and there, tilling the fields, travelling the by-ways between Bree and nearby towns, hunting the wilds.

But they hadn't seen her, or if they had....she looked quite different. It always amazed her how merely tousling ones hair and throwing a tattered travelling cloak over one's shoulders could change others' impressions of oneself.

Here, she was merely a vagabond minstrel. Out there....something else entirely.

She listened with delight to the hobbit-lass' song, a fitting rebuke of the local hobbit's scornful glances.

A smile crossed her lips as she saw the Man of Gondor she'd escorted begin to charm the local lass and the elf-maid....what was her name again?....ah, yes, Elarinya. Wonderful to see her out in the world.

Then, she caught the curious gaze of the other man at that table...the Dunlending. A fierce one, there, she thought...but he travels with the hobbit-lass....there's a story there.

For a moment or two, Morwenn held the Dunlending's eyes with hers, then inclined her head in a nod of welcome.

Taking another pull from her tankard, she set the vessel down on the bench beside her and stood.

With a roll of her shoulders, Morwenn made for the servant's entrance, catching Berethor's eye as she did so. A thrust of her chin let him know she'd meet him where she'd left him a few days ago, a small clearing just outside the town, protected on all sides by tall hedges.

Perhaps, the Man of Gondor will bring his new acquaintances to their meet Morwenn ponders as she makes her way out of the town.

Morwenn slips out the door of the Prancing Pony and stretches langorously in the evening's fresh air, ignoring the smells of the town. As she steps off the back porch and heads for the west gate, she suddenly notices a glow like the rising of the sun...in the northeast. Turning to look, she sees a ruddy glow on the horizon in the direction of Combe and the Chetwood - a huge fire!

It seems that Combe, a mile or so up Bree-hill must be on fire, or perhaps the whole Chetwood!

"I am curious; how might you two know one another?...Surely there must be something quite special about you, Mistress Tilly, that one would come so far afield for your company!"

The colour on Tilly's dusky cheeks blossomed upon his question. No one had ever thought of her as special outside of her mam and da.

"Lady Elarinya is my teacher whenever she passes this way. We share stories for a time." Tilly smiled at Berethor. "You must be very brave to be a Tower Guard of the White City."

Morwenn ponders the glow crowning Bree-hill for a moment, then runs back into the Prancing Pony.

Standing in the servant's entrance, for a moment she seeks out Butterbur in the crowd, knowing his bellow only too well.

She sees him by the bar and hastily makes her way over to him, grabbing his arm to get his attention, speaking urgently directly into his ear "There's a large fire up top of Bree-hill....Combe or maybe the whole of Chetwood! "

Lothac starts to listen in again to the conversation around him, though he seems largely disinterested and is content to listen rather than talk. But when the strange woman reappear - not from the front door this time - to speak with Butterbur, his eyes narrow. He looks away from the table and starts rising.

"Something strange is afoot," he says quite simply. He doesn't bother with any proper excuse-mes or anything of that nature. The Dunlending only adds, "That woman just left. She's back." She's worried, he thought to himself. And she's not one of these weak-kneed Bree-stock...

"What?" Primrose looks the direction that Lothac is staring at. They've travel enough together to know when he meant business. She starts to slide off the bench and follow him.

Berethor, noticing Tilly's blush, couldn't help but grin. There was certainly something fetching about this young woman. True, the Noldor beside her was beautiful, but it was an otherworldly, almost alien sort of beauty; something to be admired from afar.

"I'm unsure that bravery enters much into it; I was merely raised to the life of a soldier. The right skills, the proper lineage, and more than a little luck led to my position. It is a curious order of my Lord that sees me out so far from the gates of Gondor, but I do my best to serve my people."

Noticing Morwenn's exit, and rapid return, Berethor suddenly shifts in attitude. He sits up straighter, eyes casting about for trouble.
"I know that Ranger. Something might be wrong; the actions of Morwenn are not purposeless."

Berethor will stand and approach Morwenn.
"You've a hasty look about you; is some danger afoot?"

Tilly listened as Berethor spoke of his soldiering life and nodded upon his explanation. Perhaps me calling him brave was not to his liking. She silently chided herself to take more care with her words.

As Lothac, Primrose and Berethor all stood and walked away from the table, Tilly cast her eyes to Morwenn, now by Old Butterbur, for she was acquainted with the Ranger, too. Standing and looking to Elarinya, she said plainly, "We should see what the fuss is about, don't you think?" Tilly gave a resolute nod and then began making her way to the Ranger.

She arrived as Berethor was asking his question and Tilly looked to Morwenn to hear her reply.

Was hoping for a response from Butterbur...but I'll just assume he's looking at Morwenn with a blank look on his face :)

Morwenn looks expectantly at Butterbur, but the man doesn't seem to grasp the import of her message.

She turns to see Berethor advancing followed closely by Tilly, "Danger, aye. There's a large fire up on Bree-hill, looks like Combe or Chetwood's alight. We need to get help up there! " she says intently to the two, "One moment." she says, then jumps up on a nearby table she shouts at the patrons and staff alike "The top of Bree-hill is on fire...Combe, maybe Chetwood is on fire! Get going! You there!" she yells at a passing server, "Run and alert the constable! We must rouse the town!"

She hops down and addresses Berethor and Tilly, "I must go and see what's happening. Stay and rouse the town...or follow."

She gives the server a push towards the door, then gives Butterbur a look that leaves no doubt as to what she expects of him, then runs back out the servant's entrance.

Primrose runs back to her corner, and grabs her bag from behind the bench she and Lothac were sitting at. She then follows the woman as quickly as she can. "The wood are on fire?" she huffs and puffs as she follows. "Hopefully Bree isn't in danger of the fire spreading here."

Before Morwenn leaves, Berethor fixes her with a look.
"Let us do both."

With the ease of authority gained through earned command, and a booming voice accustomed to giving orders over the din of battle, Berethor projects, his baritone filling the inn.

"PEOPLE OF BREE! There is a fire in Combe, visible even from here! If you have your wits about you, ensure the safety of your home, family and friends! If all is well here, your neighbors in Combe need you! Make ready to heal those that need it, and put out what fires you can! I say again, your neighbors need you! Now GO!"
Inspire: 3d6 + 1d12 ⇒ (4, 2, 6) + (5) = 17
Assuming a TN of 14 that's a Great Success.

Berethor nods at Tilly and Elarinya.
"I must go. People might need me. You're welcome to join!"

Berethor wastes no more time and is swiftly after Morwenn.

A long, low rumble rolls about in Lothac's throat as he watches the others try to get the townsfolk to get their family and things. The grim warrior seems to decide they have control of the situation. He marches swiftly outside, but rather than follow Morwenn immediately, he climbs up atop the nearest suitable object and stands up tall to get a good look at the fire himself... and looks around for raiders, too.

I'd like to make a Perception Test here and apply my Wild trait (Wild = trusting and acting on instincts). My Fire-making trait may also be applicable, as perhaps Lothac can tell something about the fire.

Perception: 1d12 + 2d6 ⇒ (4) + (3, 5) = 12

Once he has gotten his look, Lothac leaps down and finds the others, making sure to fall in beside Primrose. He might seem a frightening figure with his whipping braid of dark hair and his axe clenched tightly in his hand.

Elarinya checks her gear, ensuring that she is ready to travel. The Elf-maid casts a look at Tilly.
"This may be a story worth investigating! Shall we?"

As Morwenn heads for east gate, Berethor exhorts the people to organize and fight the fire. Old Butterbur takes up the call, ordering his folk to go rouse the town while the Combe farmers rush after Morwenn.

Primrose follows Morwenn, practically running to keep up with the ranger's loping stride. Elarinya and Tilly consider the general chaos as Lothac scrambles up one corner of the Prancing Pony, pulling himself onto the wide slate roof.

"Could it be?" the Dunlending murmurs as he stares out at the flames. He grimaces, then looks down upon Berethor and the people the Tower Guard is organizing.

"There are attackers in yonder village!" he shouts at the top of his lungs, pointing toward the raging fire. "Man-like shapes walk among the flames! Bring steel, you fools, and your wits as well!"

I'd like to apply the Grim and/or Leadership traits to my coming Inspire roll. The feeling he's trying to inspire is a healthy fear - not to make them run, but to make the Bree-folk ready themselves properly. Caution, basically. If that would be an Awe roll, my Awe has the same number of dice.

Inspire: 1d12 + 1d6 ⇒ (7) + (2) = 9 Grim and Leadership traits.

With that, Lothac leaps down from where he is and chases after the Ranger and the others. "Let this be the vanguard, then!" he growls as he readies his axe. He looks wilder than before, his eyes darker, his braid unruly, and his teeth clenched together tightly, as if he were possessed by wrathful spirits. "Forward!" he shouts, and there is no room for argument against that tone.

"Alright, alright. Just give me a minute." She digs around in her pack and pulls out a sword belt and sword. Attached to the side of the pack is a bow. She also pulls the quiver out of the pack, and hangs it on the outside. "Let's go."She puts the sword belt on as she follows. "Running into danger and a fire. What would Ma think." she mutters to herself.

Elarinya readies her spear, face suddenly grim.
"Let us away!"

She moves to follow Morwenn.

After rousing the people, Berethor is out the door, keeping pace with Elarinya.

Upon news of the fire in Combe, Tilly moved back to the table she was seated with Elarinya and took her pack, spear and bow from under it. Her other weapons remained inside the pack.

Upon Elarinya's word, Tilly nodded and moved out of the inn and onto the road with the others. She heard Lothac barking orders at the townsfolk and Tilly's face grew dark as she heard the ill-tempered Man call her people fools. Whatever thoughts wished to be spoken aloud she held tight within her chest for now was not the time to speak of such things. Combe was under attack and engulfed by flames.

Seeing an Appledore cousin running past her, Tilly called out, "See to my Mam and Da. Tell them I am gone to Combe. Do not let the fire breach the gate and spread into the fields and orchards."

As Elarinya bid them forward, Tilly began to follow her as swiftly as she could for she was no match for the long-legged Elf-maid. Still, she heeded the call to Combe.

I'd like to apply the Grim and/or Leadership traits to my coming Inspire roll. The feeling he's trying to inspire is a healthy fear - not to make them run, but to make the Bree-folk ready themselves properly. Caution, basically. If that would be an Awe roll, my Awe has the same number of dice.

[dice=Inspire]1d12+1d6 Grim and Leadership traits.

Quick Rules discussion. When you invoke a trait (I think Leadership is a very appropriate trait here. Grim, not so much), you can do one of three things with it: A) you can automatically gain a normal success; B) you can propose an unforeseen action; or C) you can gain an Advancement point. I read what you have written as requesting an automatic success, but rolling anyway in case the Loremaster disagrees.

Will post later tonight.

Morwenn lopes for the East Gate. Berethor rouses the folk of the inn to sound the alarm and prepare to fight a fire. From the roof of the inn, Lothac exhorts the people to prepare to defend themselves and their town.

While some run off to find hoes and bill-hooks and torches, others run off to sound the alarm.

Meanwhile, Primrose, Tilly and Elarinya make ready and head swiftly after Morwenn.

As you pass up the slope of Bree-Hill, each to his or her own path and method, you see the rising smoke and flickering flames of a large fire. Small and distant, figures can be seen limned against the firelight here and there. A scream sounds, faint and fleeting on the evening's breeze.

It is almost a mile up the gentle slope from Bree to Combe. It is still too far to see anything clearly. This is perhaps twenty minutes at walking speed. How do you proceed?

Quick Rules discussion. When you invoke a trait (I think Leadership is a very appropriate trait here. Grim, not so much), you can do one of three things with it: A) you can automatically gain a normal success; B) you can propose an unforeseen action; or C) you can gain an Advancement point. I read what you have written as requesting an automatic success, but rolling anyway in case the Loremaster disagrees.

Correct! I wished to make it an automatic success, but in case you disagreed I rolled.

A mile? Hm. Would an Athletics roll be appropriate here? I imagine Lothac would make his way as hastily up the hill as he could. If he had time, he might try to get into a better position afterwards via Stealth or Battle, but I doubt there'll be much time for maneuvering. It sounds like lives are being lost.[/ooc]

Primrose would move at faster than a walk. Would I roll a fatigue roll to see if I tire out when I arrive? No points in athletics for me. Edit: I just had an idea.

Primrose sees that thankfully Combe isn't right next to Bree. She looks around for a horse, a pony or a horse and cart that she can commandeer to bring people closer to Combe more quickly. "Is there a horse and cart or horses available? We need to get to the fire quickly and running will just tire us out before we even arrive. We can double up the ride isn't far."

Awareness To Find Something to Ride: 2d6 + 1d12 ⇒ (3, 6) + (8) = 17
Is this an appropriate roll?

Having fetched her gear, Morwenn hastily advances up the hill, heedless of those that follow...or not; so focused is she on getting somewhere she can help.

The Dunlending's shouts ring in her ears, Attackers! in Combe...what is happening?"

Invoking Morwenn's Cunning trait here, so she can use her knowledge of Bree-Hill to find the quickest, most efficient route to Combe...

Elarinya, feeling something swell within her, would break into a run, hearing that there are enemies near Combe.

Athletics, perhaps?