Bergur shakes his head in frustration and allows Harry to tend to him. "Thank you, Harry. I appreciate the assistance." Leg bandaged, he moves on to stripping the orcs of anything useful.
He pointedly doesn't look at either Morwen or Illyria as he does so. His own emotions are too volatile right now; any further attempt at interjecting himself into the argument would likely do more harm than good.
Illyria looks up from examining Fæstlîeg's hoof. Morwen's attempts to twist the knife and get under her skin are annoying, but she resists the urge to reply in kind.
Instead, she calmly answers the Dúnedain's question. "The part where you haven't apologised. As in, 'yes I missed the tracks and as a result landed us in a dangerous situation and I'm really sorry.'" She shakes her head again. "This isn't difficult. You should just be grateful we're all still alive for you to apologise to. Making amends to the dead is a lot harder."
Ónar continues to puff, mulling what he sees and hears between the two warriors as the battle with words;
The fraying of the bonds, remind this Son of The Lonely Mountain of hearth tales of Thorin Oakenshield, of a warrior's pride before all things especially their companions.
"Best you lasses leave it there eh, before cutting words become cutting iron..."
He shifts uneasily, tapping out his pipe on his boot with a rueful shake of his head as the cloud of melancholy hangs o'er the doughty dwarf.
"We should move on, this place stinks of Rukh and their foulness. Better climes and the road will serve to clear heads and cool blood perhaps."
Grimset and mirthless, Ónar grabs his pack and looks to move onward.
Bergur's shoulders relax as he retrieves his arrows, (and anything else valuable that wasn't corrupted by orc filth). They're all alive. That's all that matters right now. Everything else can be sorted later.
"Wise words, Ónar." He shoulders his own pack, which seems lighter now than it had before. "Let us leave these foul dead behind us, and find a safer place to tend our remaining wounds."
"Good idea. Ónar and Bergur." Morwen said as she turned her back to Illyria and walked away, returning to the group. "How are you all feeling?" She asked. "Especially you Harry, you took the hardest hit in that first wave. We can find somewhere close to rest if you need it." Morwen said while making no comments of her own wounds.
Ónar merely scowls and bobs his bearded head at the Dúnedain's question;
"Been better lass. Been worse."
Harry's pallor is less pale than before. His self-administered bandages and herbs are halting any further blood loss of note.
"I...I will be fine. I am tired and would rest though."
Illyria shivers, and not with the cold. She looks around uneasily. What just happened?
"I agree. Let's move away from here and find a place to rest up. I think Harry's done what he can for now."
Once they find a convenient place to stop, the Rhohirrim struggles out of her armour and checks the injuries she's received. Nothing too serious, and it's clear after a few moments probing with her fingers that her rib is just cracked, rather than broken. She grits her teeth and binds her torso up with a tightly-wrapped bit of cloth, before getting dressed again. Hopefully that will hold it while it heals. It's not the first time, after all.
She does everything as speedily as she can, knowing that time is vital here. As soon as she's finished, she's back in the saddle. "We should keep moving. Where there's one orc warband, there might be another."
24 MARCH 2947
A quick search of the Orc leader reveals a rolled parchment that turns out to be some sort of skin (best not to enquire what) with lettering on it in the Black Speech.
Moving quickly away from the site of battle, you manage to find a place to rest for a few minutes before moving on. Despite Illyria's worries, you encounter no further signs of Orc-kind as you travel.
29 MARCH 2947
Several days later, your path takes you up to the edges of the Elf-wood. Deciding to stick to the flatter land of the plains rather than go through the forest, you edge your way around the banks of the great river. At this time of year, the flood-waters would normally have subsided but the long Winter has led to a late thaw and the Anduin has burst its banks, spilling over and creating a temporary marsh where there should be a trail to follow.
The mud sucks at your boots, and the midges and biting flies swarm about your faces. Progress forward is a challenge.
HIT POINTS
B 15/15, HD 2/2
H 13/13, HD 2/2
I 25/25, HD 2/2
M 14/21, HD 2/2
O 16/26, HD 2/2
INSPIRATION
B 3
H 2
I 2
M 2
O 1
SHADOW (P)
B 1(0)
H 0(0)
I 3(0)
M 2(0)
O 1(0)
CONDITIONS
B
H
I
M
O
OTHER
Group has -1 to skill checks for duration of the Journey
Morwen pulled herself out of the mud, and offered an arm to any of the others who might need a little bit of help. "I'll do my best to keep us out of the mud but some areas it maybe out of our hands." She told them simply.
24 MARCH 2947
Ónar peers at the scroll, lip curling in dismissal.
"Best not to read such fell lettering. Burn it I say."
29 MARCH 2947
As the group trudge through the muck and marsh, the dwarf's sullen demeanour does little to abate.
24 MARCH 2947
Bergur eyes the scroll with unconcealed distate. "Fell lettering indeed, but nevertheless it is always useful to know the enemy's plans. I will at least try to decipher the Black Speech before burning the scroll."
29 MARCH 2947
Bergur finds the mud to be surprisingly difficult to wade through. It regulary goes high enough to seep into his boots, and the disgusting midges swarming everywhere make it difficult to pay attention to where he's stepping. Even with Morwen's help, he freqently finds himself tripping and falling into the mud.
Illyria has experience in such terrain and knows what to do to get Fæstlîeg through the muddy, sodden ground. Dismounting, she takes the reins in one hand and cradles her other arm around Fæstlîeg's neck, keeping him calm and making sure he doesn't bolt.
The coal-black stallion snorts nervously a few times as his hooves occasionally start to sink beneath him, but Illyria keeps one hand on his neck, muttering encouragement and cautiously urging him forward. As long as he keeps moving, he won't get stuck. She rather envies him his tail as the midges and flies swarm around her face.
She looks back as Bergur continues to flounder. She guesses that the Barding is more used to city streets than muddy swamps. She reaches out to offer him a hand up as he stumbles once more. "I'm happy to help you into the saddle." She looks the slim youth up and down, with the suggestion of a smile on her face. "It's not as though he'd notice the extra weight."
24 MARCH 2947
Harry nods at Bergur's words, perking up at the prospect of applying his skills to deciphering, even if it is the foul text of the Enemy.
"Bergur, I shall also turn my efforts to this matter. The wiles of the Enemy shall not escape our gaze!"
*************************************************************************** ******
29 MARCH 2947
Harry plods on, glad of the sturdiness of his boots and the cut of his clothing.
24 MARCH 2947
29 MARCH 2947
24 MARCH 2947
Harry is able to decipher most of the scroll, which appears to be from "Ashzad, servant of Gorgol" in the mountains of Gundabad and addressed to the self-styled "Greatest Goblin" in the Misty Mountains. The scroll states that the orcs bring human heads to the Greatest Goblin as proof that the Men of the Anduin river are weak and that raiding should begin once more.
Thanks to your efforts, this is one letter that will never reach its destination. Of course, it is possible (even likely) the Orcs of Gundabad have sent out other raiding parties with the same message.
29 MARCH 2947
Despite Bergur's difficulties, the companions manage to traverse the marshy bogland. The worst that happens is some lost time and muddy clothing. Once away from the Anduin and back on your route, the Spring air is warm enough that you are able to dry yourselves off.
2 APRIL 2947
After a few more days, you are round the Elf-wood and out of the land of the Beornings, entering the East Upper Vales of the Anduin River. In days of old, this was the eastern frontier of Éothéod, and it was called the Eastmark. Back then, it was thickly forested, but the horse-people were hungry for timber to build their long-houses, and their axes bit deep into Mirkwood as their ancestors had done in the East Bight. Now, the land is a grim wold of scrub trees and rocky soil - a stark contrast from the rich, lush lands of the Beornings. It makes for poor farmland.
The local Men who dwell here do so in fortified houses or forts built on the top of nearby hills, rarely venturing forth except as needed. The Northern part of Mirkwood is nearby, and is far less tame than the Eastern part where the Elf-king's court dwells. Any visitors to this land keep to the edges of the River, following the route established by merchants and traders.
Here and there, you spot the occasional stretch of farmland. Heavily-armed Men stand guard over toiling workers, who are shackled and malnourished. Most are goblins, heads bowed and stooped to avoid the blazing sun; there are numerous Orcs as well, and the occasional Man. You steer a wide berth.
9 APRIL 2947
The many leagues that the company has travelled have filled you with a sense of clear purpose regarding their goals, dark though the path ahead may be.
After several more days of travel, your destination looms up ahead of you: Viglund's Hold, a large fort constructed of timber and stone. This is where the merchants and traders pass by to pay their respects - and their tolls - to Viglund, before making their way up to the Grey Mountain Narrows, and thence to Erebor, Dale and beyond.
It is impossible to approach the Hold without being spotted, and you are seen and watched from some distance. When you arrive, the main gates open wide for you, and you are inside. You are not required to disarm: trust is in short supply in this land. Fear and the threat of overwhelming force is how Viglund keeps rule. You are vastly outnumbered. Starting a fight would be pure folly.
Once it becomes clear that you are not merely passing through but require an audience with Viglund, you are escorted to a small keep within the fort. More guards keep vigilant watch over you here, but you are allowed to pass inside. The interior of the keep manages to be both sparse and ugly: what little furniture there is has been crafted in haste. Warriors sit on rickety chairs at bowed tables.
You do not have much time to take it all in however, as there is a loud shout almost as soon as you enter: "YOU!!!"
Viglar, son of Viglund, storms his way towards you, face mottled with rage and veins bulging in his neck. "How DARE you show your faces here!! I will kill you where you stand!!!"
2 APRIL 2947
Illyria looks away from the plight of the slaves with an expression of disgust on her face. "I never thought to feel sorry for orc-kind. I've cut them down in battle, killed them without a second thought, but this - this is not right." She shudders, and keeps her gaze averted until the farm is out of sight. Doubts about the wisdom of their course of action continue to plague her, but she keeps her counsel for now.
9 APRIL 2947
Should have known this was never going to go smoothly.
Illyria's instinct on encountering Viglar is to reach for her sword, but she has learned some caution on her travels and knows that they are out-matched (well, out-numbered, anyway). Instead of drawing her blade, she holds her hands up, fingers spread and palms outward. "We are here under a flag of truce. Beorn himself sent us to parley with Viglund. Will you dishonour that by striking someone who comes in peace?"
24 March 2947
"Keep that, if we come across any settlements we can show them what we found and warn them to be on edge." Morwen suggested when they said what the letter described.
2 April 2947
"And they'd do worse to you." Morwen said, in the simple that's how it is tone. "I don't like this either. But sadly right now there isn't much we can actually do about it..." She sighed.
9 April 2947
The look on Morwen's face said it all 'Oh here we go'
When Illyria spoke she smiled a bit. They where out-numbered and while she was sure that they could drop Viglar before anyone else laid a finger upon them, that wasn't what they where here for.
"I'd listen to her." Morwen said as she stepped up. She had removed her blue scarf to show the pendant that had scared he and his from then the first time. As a soft non-verbal reminder of what Morwen had stated she would do for the sake of those Viglar and his men had harmed. "Beorn has sent us to speak with your father Viglund regarding your dear sister, and her marriage to one of his people." Morwen explained.
2 April 2947
"They would do worse to us." Bergur is also disturbed by the toiling slaves. "We're supposed to be better. Killing them in battle is one thing, but this?" He shudders, and his eyes linger briefly on one of the few Men in the fields. I wonder what his crime was? Judging from our encounter with Viglar, it could have been nothing more than speaking out against tyranny."
He takes a deep breath and pushes his emotions down. "But you're right Morwen; we're on a mission of peace. Complaining against this slavery would not do us any favors. Although it will be worth mentioning to Beorn, when we report back."
9 April 2947
"Hello Viglar. You may not remember our previous introduction; I am Bergur of the Bardings, son of Ragni." This time he does bow, mindful that they are in Viglund's territory and thus (somewhat) under his authority. "We come under a flag of truce, and mean no harm to you or your people. We simply wish to convey a message from Lord Beorn to your father."
24 March 2947
"That is a wise suggestion, Morwen. I shall tuck it away safely!"
2 April 2947
Harry looks about him with distaste and a foul feeling.
"It is a wretched affair. Both to witness and to know that this is the way in a land of men."
9 April 2947
"We are here for words, not blows.", Harry notes in between his companion's speech.
Your peaceful words and gestures stay Viglar's hand for a moment or two - only for Morwen's mention of the word "sister" to make it look as though, truce or no truce, Viglar is about to draw his sword and strike you.
However, in that moment or two, the decision is taken out of his hands. "Viglar. Enough." The voice is not loud, it is not deep, it does not boom - but it has the cold finality of command. Viglund steps forward, scattering the crowd before him - who suddenly seem to realise that they have urgent appointments elsewhere. In mere moments, the hall is empty save for you, Viglar, and Viglund.
Where Viglar has the classic bully's build (thick-shouldered, thick-waisted, thick-headed), his father is of a different sort. As tall as Beorn, he is lean, making him seem taller still. If it weren't for the vast, bulging muscles at his bicep and thigh, you might almost think he had a wasting disease: his frame seems emaciated, his skin stretched tight over his skull, his eyes almost fever-bright as they stare at you with the predatory gaze of a lone wolf.
Viglar and his sister are clearly of the race of Men - Viglund is just as clearly not, any more than Beorn is.
"You are here for words, not blows, you say. Talk, then. Tell me what that fat oaf in the South has to say for himself."
Viglund rules through fear, force of arms and respect. Here in his own hall he will not tolerate anything that makes him look weak.
Viglund rules through fear, force of arms and respect. Here in his own hall he will not tolerate anything that makes him look weak.
The loss of his daughter - especially as she fled from him - is a serious loss of face. Quite apart from the fact that Viglund was hoping to cement an alliance by marrying her off, he will not - cannot - simply shrug his shoulders and let her go. Viglund has to come out of this with his dignity and respect intact.
Harry gulps as Viglund approaches, then rapidly composes himself.
Straight to the point with this one, I bet!
"Lord Viglund, we bear tidings and welcome from Beorn. He wishes to know what manner of dowry would suffice for your daughter Aestid's hand to his follower, Ranulf."
"Well met, Lord Viglund." Bergur bows again, slightly deeper than he had to Viglar. "Beorn asked us to convey that he wishes no trouble with you or your people. Ranulf did not have his permission to escort Aestid from your lands, and was punished for his actions." A slight stretch of the truth perhaps, but exiling him to the Old Ford could be seen as such.
"However, no one can change the past. Regardless of the circumstances behind their meeting, the two are very much in love and wish to wed. It is Beorn's hope, and ours, that a proper dowry can help make amends for Aestid's...unconventional departure."
"Boys you are jumping in too soon." Morwen told Berger and Harry. "You have skipped introduction." She explained as she stepped up, holding her hands behind her back as she spoke. "I am Morwen of House Isildur, those here with me are Berger, son of Ragni, Harry Kettlegrass of Bree, Illyria of Rohan, and Ónar of the Lonely Mountain. As the two before you have said we came from Beorn to speak with you of the dowry you would ask for Aestid's hand in marriage to Ranulf, one of the followers of Beorn. They are also correct in the fact he has been punished, as he did not have Beorn's leave to do such and take Aestrid away. However, Aestrid has made it clear to him that she loves Ranulf and desires to marry him. So we have come to ask what dowry will you Viglund, would ask for such a union?" Morwen asked very simply. She remained with her hand behind her back as a signal of submission and non-agression. Men like this, like Viglund, ruled through fear. Any form of action that would even hint at dominance over or against them would only hinder their chances of making it out of here without fighting. They'd need their strength later, as Morwen was sure Viglar and his group would file out after them itching for a fight. Thus, for right now showing a simple form respect, or at least submission, could go further than expected.
Illyria shifts uneasily from foot to foot as the talks progress. She has little experience with this, and everything that needs to be said seems to have been said.
She watches Viglar, to see if he is likely to try anything.
Viglund waves a hand dismissively at Morwen's introductions: "Do Isildur's heirs, or the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain, have any stake here? I think not. You speak only for Beorn, as his lackeys." His lip curls, stretching the taut skin further across his bony brow. "Talk not to me of love. I have heard the word before and I know how hollow it rings."
He stares suddenly at Harry. "You - you get to the point. I like that. Yes, Beorn shall pay tribute to me and we will discuss that bride-price later. But first..." He looks around. "Viglar, go. Sweep this place, ensure that none overhear what I am about to say. Including you."
Viglar looks as though he's been slapped, which - metaphorically - he has. "But father!" He quails under the icy stare and leaves without another word, but not before shooting all of you a glare: This. is. not. over.
Ignoring him, Viglund pulls out a chair and sinks into it heavily. "Sit. Sit!" He stares at each of you in turn, assessing your measure. "What I am about to say will not be discussed further within my realm." It is not a request. "I settled here while the Necromancer still ruled from his accursed realm, and my people have endured much. Still, we endure. Even now, when fools talk of peace and plenty and love my people count the cost in blood each season of keeping the passes to the Grey Mountain narrows open, of containing the fell things that lurk in the shade of that accursed forest. Merchants and traders complain of my tolls, they forget that time not long past when there was no trade beyond the eaves of Mirkwood. This land is hard, not like it is further South. Nothing grows readily here. Crops are meagre. My people are stretched thin merely holding what we have. You judge me. I know that, and I care not. Every man toiling in the field is one less to defend against the forces arrayed against us. Still, we endure, just as a bundle of sticks tied together resists being broken - as long as the cord remains."
"Some two weeks ago, one of my chieftains to the East rebelled against me, taking refuge in the great wood. Drusilla, her name is, a thorn in my flesh. I have held off sending my forces after her, since if one chieftan can rebel what is to stop another? And thus the bundle comes untied, and we are all lone twigs to be snapped by any with the will to do so. But you, now... you have no stake in this. You arrive here, talking of a debt to be paid, and I am in need of such a debt." He smiles. "Fine chance indeed, or fate!"
"This is what you will do. You will track Drusilla and her followers to their lair on the edges of Mirkwood. You will return her here, to me - alive or dead, I care not. That is the price of my favour. When that is settled, we shall talk of dowries."
Harry half-expects Viglar to protest harder.
He knows he will have another chance!
The Breeman sits where and when instructed by Viglund.
No benefit to protest from my lips either!
He then listens to the lord's words before replying, measuring his own carefully.
"Lord Viglund, I believe this task is not beyond us. How many have followed her to the shadow of Mirkwood?"
Illyria meets Viglar's glare and holds it. Cross me again and next time it will be over - for you.
She listens impatiently to Viglund's speil, wondering when he will get to the point. Doiing someone else's dirty work is not what she had planned for her life, but it seems that refusal is out of the question.
"Lord Viglund, we have travelled many leagues to get here, on foot for all but myself. Will you grant us leave to rest here and set off tomorrow?"
Bergur shifts uneasily, and not just because the chair is uncomfortable. (Although it is.) He opens his mouth, closes it, rethinks what he needs to say, and tries again.
"Lord Viglund. Do your people know of Drusilla's defection? If so, having foreigners with, as you said, 'no stake in this' go after her seems..." He desperately tries to think of something that's not 'like it would make you look weak, someone who needs outsiders to solve his problems.' "...Like it might do more harm than good. If they do not know, all the worse. We would return here, dragging along one of your chieftains...how could that be seen as anything but a defiance of your authority?"
He doesn't like this. He doesn't like this at all. They had first gotten involved in this situation by helping one woman escape Viglund's tyranny, and now they were to drag another back? Drusilla might be worse than Viglund, true...but they didn't know that. However refusal would be likely to get them all killed, and even if Viglund let them go he had made it clear the dowry, and any chance of peace that might mean, was contigent upon their cooperation.
What were they to do?
Morwen did not even give Viglar the respect to look at him as he left. It wasn't worth her time at the moment.
"You can't risk sending one of your own, not only because you are spread thin, but also if Drusilla spoke with them instead of just fighting them, they may join her side. However, as we are a third party and as such have no loyalty to either side and can be completely impartial." Morwen said with a slight sigh. "Though my allies bring up a good point. We have traveled a long way and now must travel partly back to get to this Drusilla, and it won't look well if we come back dragging Drusilla, dead or alive like you said. Bergur has the right of it in the fact it won't look good for us or you. How are you looking to save face on that? Want us to come in the back way? Or to meet us further out?" Morwen asked.
Viglund's jaws clench together as it becomes apparent that you are not immediately jumping to obey, but he visibly forces himself to listen to you speak. As you all finish your questions, he snorts with derision. "All this talk yap, yap, yap. Is this how the fat oaf does it? What my people will see is a group of outlanders bringing to heel one of my disobedient hounds, at my command. My people will see that my arm is long, that I am obeyed by many. Run anywhere, and I will send someone to find you. That is strength. That is respect."
"As for giving you leave to stay, why would you tarry? Are you not eager to hasten the cause of true love?" Viglund does not bother hiding his disdain for those words. "Besides, my son dislikes you. Staying here, around him, would be unwise."
He looks once more at Harry. "You, I like. You get to the point. Drusilla commanded perhaps thirty spears. Half chose to follow her, the rest she killed in their sleep before she fled." His lip curls, stretching parchment-thin skin across his bony skull. "It seems I taught her well, perhaps too much so."
Harry calculates swiftly. His demeanour is graver than usual, a far cry from his usual warm cheer.
"Around fifteen spears then, and not all might fight to the end for her. Lord Viglund, what are the directions to her camp? Landmarks that we may know her position by?"
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Bergur's fist clenches very slightly, by his side where no one can see. Outwardly perfectly calm, he says, "I will take that as confirmation that your people do know of Drusilla's defection, and won't immediately try to kill us for dragging her back through your lands." He says nothing more, trusting in Harry to get the information they need. It seems he's the only one Viglund will actually listen to.
The fact that Drusilla had killed her own men upon fleeing makes him feel slightly better about the prospect of tracking her down. Slightly. He's still far from certain that doing so will be the right thing, (and unwilling to give his word that he will either kill her or allow Viglund to do so), but he is willing to at least approach her camp and go from there.
Assuming they do in fact kill her and her men, perhaps the Viglunders will see that as proof of Viglund's ability to command even foreigners. Or perhaps, as Bergur suspects, they will note that Viglund could do nothing about Drusilla himself and instead had to bargain with 'that fat oaf from the south' to get his men to take care of her. Either way, that is not Bergur's problem.
For now he sits very still, face carefully neutral, and waits for the audience to be over. He will breathe far more freely once they are gone from these lands.
Viglund marks on your map the location of Drusilla's steading, but it's clear that he doesn't know where she has gone from there. It seems likely that she has taken refuge somewhere within Mirkwood.
With that, you are on your way.
Viglund's former chieftain's former hold lies at the corner of his realm, nestled in the shadow of the Grey Mountain Narrows and the forest of Mirkwood - an inauspicious destination indeed. However, despite the somewhat grim/unsavoury nature of your task, you feel a certain lightness of heart on setting foot outdoors once more. Perhaps it is being away from Viglund's unsettling presence, or the knowledge that you have once more got the better of Viglar - in his own land, no less. Or maybe, despite Viglund's mockery, it is the knowledge that you do this for the cause of Aestid and Ranulf's love.
Whatever the reason, you embark with a resolute sense of purpose and a hopeful determination. With the Anduin at your backs, and the foothills on your left, you march forward, in the direction of the great forest.
13 APRIL 2947
There is a single pass that leads from the Vales of Anduin into the narrows of the Grey Mountains; four days into your journey, you cut across it. Viglund's men have a toll booth charging for passage in each direction, but enough merchants are eager to avoid the perils of Mirkwood, and/or sure enough of their profit margins in the trade with Dale and Erebor, that there is a steady stream of traffic in both directions. Grim-faced guards surround sharp-eyed traders, shepherding them on their journey. None stop to talk with you.
Set high above the pass, a huge standing stone marks its entrance. Once a square-cut pillar, the Ages have weathered and rounded its sides, and scoured its runes. But even from this distance, the lettering is still visible for those who can read Dwarven runes: The Mouth of Dust
The term "Mouth of Dust" refers to the pass, although the reason for that name is unknown. It is said that the Dwarves often bury supply caches and money near the stone for their return journey across the wastes. These caches are hidden using Dwarf-magic, and none may find them whether by looking or by accident.
Who knows what may lie buried here, awaiting an owner who came to grief long ago and will never return to collect it?
Merely looking at the vast, stone stele and its engraved markings is to be transported back to a time when the Dwarf holds still stood, before the Shadow spread its malice across these lands.
9-16 APRIL 2947
Harry is less talkative than usual on this trip.
"That was a deeply unpleasant meeting. Seeing more of the ills of these lands and justifications...I want to be done with this soon!"
*****************
13 APRIL 2947
Harry's excitement grows as he stares at the stele.
"The Mouth of Dust! The origin of the name is lost but it refers to this pass. Dwarves are reputed to have secreted caches here, hidden by cunning means. There may be some left remaining, their owners never returning. Onár, would you know of this?"
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9-16 APRIL 2947
Bergur too is far from talkative. At least until they are away from Viglund's keep. Once they are alone again, with no preamble, he asks, "How far are we willing to go?" He looks between the others. "We were sent here to get Viglund's consent for Aestid's and Ranulf's wedding, and establish peace between the Beornings and Viglunders. Viglund has made it clear he will only give such consent upon us either killing Drusilla or returning her to him, likely for a fate worse than death." The images of the few Men toiling in the fields once again flash before his eyes, and add a slight bitterness to his tone. "We know little of Drusilla, or why she defected. What are we willing to do to her to ensure Aestid's freedom?"
His expression and tone make it clear that this is not a rhetorical question. He himself is not certain what his answer would be. He is not certain there is an answer. But nevertheless the question is real, and must be answered before they reach Drusilla's camp.
13 APRIL 2947
Bergur still remains quiet as they reach the stele, the border between lands. He gently runs his hand across the ancient stone.
"I have heard of this stone, but obviously never seen it before in person. If any such caches remain, you would know the secrets far better than I." It is unclear whether by 'you' he means Harry or Onár.
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9-16 April 2947
"It was likely she got sick of serving a tyrant." Morwen said when they where a safe enough distance. "The thing about ruling by fear is that sooner or later people get tired of being afraid." She explained, though she figured it was a well known fact. "He only keeps control at the cost of blood..." Morwen went quiet for a moment, knowing of course that Bergur was correct, they had to make a choice. "There is a third option... But it is a huge risk and would take a major power play." She began however it was obvious that she was hesitating greatly to continue.
13 April 2947
"Yes Ónar would likely be the best for this, but should we even think about it? It belongs to the Dwarves, and only Ónar is a dwarf. I'd honestly feel like I'd be stealing..." Morwen said. "Which doesn't sit well. I understand doing it for survival but I believe we have what we need."
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9-16 APRIL 2947
Illyria's grey eyes are like flint as she considers the options available, liking none of them. Eventually, she sighs. "Even if Viglund was the worst tyrant imaginable, she killed - murdered - half of her own men in their sleep. Whatever land you find yourself in, that is punishable."
She shakes her head. "Honestly, my best hope is that we fail to find her and that Viglund gives us a different task. My next best is that we do find her and that she tries to kill us. That would simplify things nicely."
13 APRIL 2947
Illyria barely listens while the others chatter, her gaze lost in staring at the monument. Edoras, the ancestral home of her people, is old "time out of mind" in the tales of her people. And yet, the trees that were felled to build it weren't even saplings when this pillar was already ancient.
She shivers, feeilng suddenly insignificant. "Come on. We have things to do, places to be."
She doesnt' look back at the pillar as they move away, although she can feel its presence mocking her. A mouth of dust, indeed.
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The sight of this ancient relic from times past affects the party differently: Bergur, Harry and Morwen sense something hopeful for the future in this glimpse into the past, but Illyria is afflicted with a sense of doom, seeing the decay of lost glory and the end of hope.
Regardless of how it affects you, after a league or two your path turns again and the Mouth of Dust is lost from sight.
HIT POINTS
B 15/15, HD 2/2
H 13/13, HD 2/2
I 25/25, HD 1/2
M 14/21, HD 2/2
O 16/26, HD 2/2
INSPIRATION
B 2
H 3
I 2
M 2
O 1
SHADOW (P)
B 1(0)
H 0(0)
I 3(0)
M 2(0)
O 1(0)
CONDITIONS
B
H
I
M
O
OTHER
Group has Advantage on checks for duration of the Journey until they fail a roll (Illyria)
+1 to the Arrival roll
Ónar listens intently to the words spoken by Viglund, then his companions.
Away from the ears of their host he eyes the company warily;
”I like not this task. You know me, and my people well enough my friends. We do not shirk red-handed deeds when called upon. Yet this trial set by Lord Viglund feels foul no?”
The dwarf’s brow creases in thought, nodding at Morwen’s take;
”We have only his word that this fallen chief, this Drusilla, is a murderous captain. Perhaps this is true, perhaps not. He admits she is a nail in his shoe. Best we find the truth as well as this rebel, lest we are but convenient instruments of his revenge and pride.”
He nods with a hard smile at Illyria’s words;
”Aye Daughter of the Mark. I hope you are right… but I fear you are no.”
Ónar reverently removes his glove, running his calloused hand o’er the ornate stonework.
”Mouth of Dust…”
A proud smile crosses the dwarves features, not an expression you often have seen from the warrior.
”Is it no beautiful my friends? Weather’d and worn as it is, the craftsmanship is still plain to see.”
He nods at Harry’s words;
”Aye Master Kettlegrass has the right o’ it. Inside there will be caches aplenty. Treasures of my folk long hidden and perhaps lost… Should we find them? I do not know. Somethings are best kept lost. Others seek to be found. For both reasons weal… and woe…”
Lost in his thoughts, the warrior silently stares at the stonework and his expression returns to a more solemn, grim set.
As the miles flow past and put the experience behind her, Illyria allows herself to relax slightly.
"She murdered her men, yes. And that is punishable, if true. To betray men who trust you is a grave sin." Bergur sighs. "Nevertheless this still feels wrong. Even if she attacks us that doesn't simplify things as much as I'd like. We are the ones hunting her, not the other way around. She has the right to defend herself against people who, willing or no, are acting on Viglund's behalf. Perhaps not finding her at all is the best outcome we can hope for."
"However I would know what this 'third option' you speak of is, Morwen. Best to consider all our options before approaching, even if we decide collectively not to take the risk."
"Beautiful indeed, Onár. Dwarven craftsmanship is always a sight to see." Bergur once more runs his hand against the ancient stone, marveling at it. The Shadow spread across these lands like a plague, but the stone still stands tall. What was built endures.
A good sign.
"If we stumble across any caches, we can decide what to do with the contents then." Bergur shoulders his pack once more, heart lightened. "For now, we still have many miles to go before nightfall."
Harry looks a little glum at the talk of options.
"If Viglund is to be believed, she turned on her own men and fled. He is a harsh, cruel man but base treachery is even worse. I would like to hear Drusilla's account of matters, even if it proves to change aught."
17 APRIL 2947
Your conversation over the course of your journey has revealed the paucity of your options, few of which are good - and by the time you reach your destination, you are beset by foul moods and short tempers that you must work hard to throw off.
Be that as it may, however, you do arrive safely at Drusilla's (former) steading: a wood-built fortified house built on a hill over the surrounding countryside. The land here is mere scrub, too poor for crops. A few sheep and short, scrawny cattle with ribs showing through their hides can be seen grazing at a distance. As you approach, it is clear that the fort is unoccupied, although the nearby houses are not: a wary crowd of peasants draws near, torn between caution and curiosity. They carry the tools of their trade: scythes and pitchforks and smithing hammers, rather than sword and spear.
Finally, when a sufficient number of them have gathered, one of them pushes forward (or is pushed, it's a little unclear). The pockmarked fellow looks at you behind squinting eyes. "You'm b'aint from round 'ere, are ya? What brings ya this way, strangers?"
HIT POINTS
B 15/15, HD 2/2
H 13/13, HD 2/2
I 25/25, HD 1/2
M 14/21, HD 2/2
O 24/26, HD 1/2
INSPIRATION
B 2
H 3
I 2
M 2
O 1
SHADOW (P)
B 1(0)
H 0(0)
I 3(0)
M 2(0)
O 3(0)
CONDITIONS
B
H
I
M
O
OTHER
Group has Disadvantage on social checks for duration of the Journey until they succeed at a roll
"Nevertheless this still feels wrong. Even if she attacks us that doesn't simplify things as much as I'd like. We are the ones hunting her, not the other way around. She has the right to defend herself against people who, willing or no, are acting on Viglund's behalf. Perhaps not finding her at all is the best outcome we can hope for."
Illyria turns in the saddle to look at Bergur. She is wary of causing another argument, but she cannot agree with his reasoning. "You were in the army, weren't you? If one of your officers murdered half her men and ran away, would you not be justified in hunting her for the crime? It wouldn't matter if your King Bard was a just ruler, or the worst tyrant imaginable. Murder is murder."
She sighs, her grey eyes gazing off at the horizon as she wavers between certainty and doubt. "Fro me, the question is whether she did what she is accused of, or if that was just an easy lie Viglund told us. If she is indeed a murderer, I will strike her down with an untroubled heart."
17 APRIL 2947
As the crowd gathers, Illyria stays back to keep her steed from out of trouble. She allws Harry or one of the others to take the lead as she looks over at the crowd, trying to discern what she can.
Bergur nods, conceding Illyria's point. "Would we be justified in hunting down such an officer? Yes. I am not trying to say that Drusilla does not deserve death if she committed such a crime. It's just..." He struggles to put what he's feeling into words. "We would hunt down that officer, because of what they did. We would not send strangers to kill them for a reason only tangentially related to their crime. Viglund did not ask us to find her because she murdered her men. He did not seem to care that she murdered her men. We are looking for her solely because she wounded Viglund's pride by defecting."
He shrugs his shoulders helplessly. "It is a strange distinction to make, I know. I do not expect anyone else to feel the same way. But for me, personally, I will not sleep easy after striking her down. Whether she is a murderer or no."
Bergur remains silent for the moment, trusting in Harry to make a good first impression. What do these people want to hear? Will knowing we have been sent here by Viglund to find Drusilla encourage them to talk, or make them stubbornly silent?
"If Drusilla did what Viglund said she did it was a complete breach of faith of not only her men but the laws of man themselves. Those under command often die, but they should never die at the hands of the leader they trust." Morwen stated blatantly. "That said, I don't put much faith in what Viglund said. As I don't put much faith in anything Viglund says or even does, I do believe that Drusilla may be just as ruthless as him. If not more so because she's a woman on the run from a tyrant who would do far worse to her then just kill her." Morwen explained. "I want to know why she murdered her men." She said as she adjusted her arm guard. "There are a few reasons I could understand, though not agree with, that would color my view of her in her own light. For example, if she tried to get her men to agree to turn against Viglund but because of their own fear they denied it... I could see Drusilla turning around and killing them to ensure when she turned against Viglund they wouldn't join him. It would throw those who sided with her into a state of doubt if they had to fight against people they where just fighting beside."
Finally she rubbed the back of her neck and answered Bergur. "The third option is to remove the obstacle and put something else in the way." Morwen said began, starting as vaguely as she could. "Viglund is likely not going to play nice no matter if we bring Drusilla back dead or alive. He is our obstacle... he's a tyrant, abusive to his own kin, and worse to his people. But he is the evil we know..." Morwen went on to say. "Where are Drusilla is the evil we don't know..." She wondered if that was enough to get what she was saying.
Morwen narrowed her eyes at those who came to meet them, however she remained silent for the moment. Letting Harry speak first.
9-16 April 2947
"I can understand your thinking, Bergur, and it is a difference! But think on this way. Men killed in their sleep is a grim act. But if it was a choice between slip out in the night and fight them later, or to kill them in their beds...argh! This does not help!"
"Morwen, that thinking needs even more 'ifs' than our first two options! There is the matter of trying to keep a peace between Viglund's people and Beorn's - we could stir up a royal mess if we do...that!"
*********************
17 April 2947
The days and nights have worn on Harry but a smile emerges from his travel-tossed face.
"Greetings, good folk! I am Harry Kettlegrass of Bree and these are my companions. We seek word on Drusilla and where she went."
"Actually our first two options have no ifs. It is either kill Drusilla or bring her back or go against Viglund's orders, which makes this whole point moot." Morwen explained. "No royal mess if there is no royals in Viglund's area. However the power gap left behind would be the larger issue. If we bring about a coo, we'd have to end Viglund's line. Which is no easy task, both in deed and in mind..." Morwen stated. It was obviously that she had through threw this aspect of choice. "We'd have to be ready to put someone else in their spot... which would bring up the topic of Drusilla. I will also point out that this is a option. Not the best. The fact of the matter is we must be prepared to fight out way out as I do not trust Viglund nor his son. Lets say we choose to return Drusilla, dead or alive, can we trust Viglund to keep his word? Or to keep his son calm?"