Even with how wounded she was, Morwen shifted with bow and arrow in hand and let loose right into the spider with out missing a beat. Pain was something she was very use to.
Bergur nods, satisfied with the shot. It was likely one of the finest ones he has ever made.
He turns to aim at the other spider, hoping to recreate his success, when Illyria pats him on the shoulder. Startled, he looses the arrow far too soon and nowhere near its intended target.
Despite his strike going wayward Ónar grit his teeth and lines up another hacking blow at the stubborn arachnid;
The Spider hisses and chitters in pain as Illyria and Onar strike it and Morwen's arrow wounds it. With its companion dead, it decides to flee in search of easier prey. Trailing viscous ichor from its many wounds, it withdraws into the forest.
Breathing deeply, Bergur lowers his bow. "It seems we've won for now, but we'll have to keep an eye out in case it returns. Harry, could you see to Morwen's injuries? I know she took several bites."
He's worried the Dúnedain might be injured far worse than she's letting on. Having had his own near-brush with death only recently, he is aware of how long adrenaline can allow one to continue even when the body should collapse.
In the meantime, he stares upward at the stone keep. "At least it seems we've found our quarry. Hopefully. As opposed to some other random keep here in these cursed foothills."
"It's just a scratch." Morwen said as she put her bow away. However it was easy to see her clothes where covered in blood.
"Could be worse inside." She said as she took looked up to the stone keep.
Illyria shudders as the psider runs away, before cleaning the blood from her sword blade. "Thos things are unnatural." She gives Morwen a look. "I can see your insides from here, almost. You're no good to us dead. Harry, can you patch her up while we keep moving? Ther'es probably worse than spiders out here."
"I am accustom to pain." Morwen said very simply. "However I don't believe I can walk and get patched up... hard to get the wrapping right if it is moving."
Illyria nods, hiding a smile as Morwen boasts about being accustomed to pain. Get back to me when you've been dragged out of combat from the stirrup of your horse, breaking pretty much every bone you have.
"Understood. I will keep watch while Harry patches you up."
Harry spends ten minutes treating Morwen's injuries, and then you are ready to move on.
"You have my thanks." Morwen said to Harry as he patched her up. "This should do me for now. Let's get moving." She said with a nod.
Ónar eyes his own bruises and nicks, with a frown;
"Och. Ne'er a scratch on my whiskers. Agree let us press on."
"Hopefully this the place Drusilla sought." Bergur had kept a careful eye on the forest while Harry tended Morwen's wounds, but now he returns his gaze to the keep. "But I suppose we'll see once we're inside."
30 APRIL 2947
Dwarven construction is sturdy and even the great forest of Mirkwood has not managed to reclaim this keep in its entirety. As you climb the hill, the remains of a stone pathway guides you towards your destination and at the top of the hill you find yourselves in a clearing. The stone fort is unmistakeably old, but it still stands. An outer wall with a single guard tower surrounds the central keep. Dwarven runes, still legible with the passing of centuries, run around the edges of the archway where the gate once stood. The iron portcullis is partially descended, but clearly jammed long since and rusted in place. The gate itself is no more, pulled off its hinges by some unknown strength. A quick reconnaissance confirms that the outer wall is still intact - short of climbing over it, the only way in is through the front gate.
Although you are in a clearing, the air is still that of Mirkwood: thick, heavy, hard to breathe and oppressively still. There is no sign of life from the fort. No birds sing. No squirrels chatter. No animals graze in the surrounding meadow.
Illyria shudders as she looks at what might be paeceful sight if it wasn't in Mirkwood. I don't like this. If I had that place, there'd be someone on the tower and guard on the walls. We'd have been challenedged by now, or shot at if they didn't watn to talk." She lets go Fæstlîeg's reins, trusting the horse not to stray from her side. "It looks like the gate is our only way in. I'll go first." She looks at Morwen who still isn't fuly recovered. "Bergur, if you follow me, then Harry. Morwen, you can be rearguard."
Holding her sword ready, she walks forward.
Bergur nods. "With Ónar in the middle, he can assist either side if needed." His face is worried as he looks up at the tower. "I don't like this either. It makes me worry that whatever darkness is in this place was more than Drusilla and her men could handle."
Bow ready and arrow nocked, he walks a few paces behind Illyria. He tries to pay attention to his surroundings, but is distracted by memories of the vision he'd had so long ago.
Death to ALL the race of Men!
"We need to be very, very careful here.'
A shudder passes through you as walk under the arch and into the courtyard: a premonition of doom.
The fort's muddy courtyard once held a number of buildings. The timber that held them up has long since collapsed and looks burned in places. A stone parapet once ran along the battlements, but is broken in many places and the stairs that granted access now look unsafe.
A vast, thick cloud of flies buzzes over one of the ruined buildings. The stench of rot and decay wafts towards you from whatever they are feeding on.
The keep still stands strong, a monument of stone, testament to the building powers of the Dwarfs. A squat, two-storey building, the upper level bears the marks of age and some of the masonry has fallen away. A pair of stout iron-bound doors once warded access to this building. Now both lie in pieces on the steps leading up to the entrance, broken by mildew and woodworm and the passage of so many centuries. The pieces of timber that are still visible bear similar marks of fire to the ruined buildings that once lined the courtyard.
The old door to the watchtower is similarly ruined. However, more recently efforts have clearly been made to create a barrier. It does not look siege-resistant, but it at least keeps out the wind and rain. The watchtower itself still looks solid, although like the keep it bears the marks of the passage of time.
Apart from the buzzing of the flies, the place is deathly silent.
Ónar heeds the words of his companions, but feels the doom as his hard gaze falls upon the sundered doors of the keep;
"That does nae bode well... Our work do not just crumble through the passage of time. We dwarves are made to last, as are the places we build..."
As his words settle, the dwarf's brow furrows in concern and melancholy.
Illyria shudders as though someone walked ovre her grave, which perhaps they jsut did. The smell of decay is somehting she's familliar with, so taking a deep breath she wanders forward to try and see what the flies are feasting on. Prehaps they can get a clue as to what happened here.
"Tell me about it... Feel like if I spoke too loud the whole place would come crashing down." Morwen said as the enter the area. "I would not say this is a good place to remain for long..." Morwen warned.
Illyria disturbs the flies enough that they swarm away briefly, allowing her to see the rotted, festering corpses of almost a dozen horses. She and Harry would guess that the beasts have been dead for several weeks, perhaps a month.
Illyria takes sevarl hasty steps back as she realises what is rotting there. "Oh, you deserved better than that from your masters." Her blood boils as she realises that they probably died of neglect. "Looks like several people were here recently. If they ever left, they were in too much of a hurry to untie their horses and flee that way." Her face shows the disguts she feels. "If they're still here and they're not dead, I'm going to fix that."
"Don't assume their masters allowed it. They may have died as well. However if they didn't then I agree we will correct that." Morwen said as she looked around.
Bergur's stomach churns at the sight (and smell) of the rotted corpses, forcing him to quickly look away. "I'm almost certain they're all dead." He swallows hard. "It is a shame about the horses. You're right Illyria, they deserved better. No one should have to die like that."
"Given the recent fortifications, it seems likely our predecessors took shelter in the watchtower." He inclines his head towards the door. "Shall we look inside?"
The makeshift door to the watchtower gives way easily. Inside, the air is stale, and the dust of ages which was disturbed by the recent occupants has re-settled somehwhat; although it is easy to see where a group of perhaps a dozen people have cleared a space inside. The ashes of a wood-fire still linger in the fireplace, although the fire itself is long extinguished. The internal walls and stairway are still in good order having survived the weathering that has eroded the external masonry. A quick exploration reveals that the occupants had divided the rooms up among themselves, with most sharing. The top-most room has only a single bedroll, of slightly better quality than the others. If you had to guess, this was the leader's room.
There is no sign of anyone: personal effects, bedding, even weapons and armour lie where they were left. It is as though whoever was here went to bed one night and simply vanished.
There is a dried bloodstain just inside the entrance of the tower, enough to suggest that whoever was stationed on watch bled out and died very quickly. The body is nowhere to be found.
The bloodstain is at the back of the entrance-way - whoever died here moved as far away from the door as they could and died backed against the wall.
Bergur freezes near the door, eyes quickly scanning the area. "They had someone on watch at the door. From the size of the bloodstain, whoever it was must have bled out quickly enough for no one to be able to help them." He grimaces. "Or no one was alive to try. Both options are unsettling."
"Weapons, armor, personal effects...everything's still here. Either everyone died in their sleep and something took the bodies away, or they were so scared they willingly ran unarmed into Mirkwood. Again, I don't like either option."
He shivers, and not from the cold. Death to ALL the race of Men!
"Is there anything here that might indicate whether this was Drusilla's group?" He can't imagine it could have been anyone else, but Viglund will no doubt demand proof of some sort.
Illyria fails to spot the blood until Bergur draws atention to it. "That is a lot of blood, a mortal wound." She agrees with Bergur, niether option is comforting. "If they fled, they would have takent hte horses, I think. It takes, waht, a few seconds to loose one and then you are much, much faster than on two legs. Unless you were scared out your wits I suppose."
"Is there anything here that might indicate whether this was Drusilla's group?" He can't imagine it could have been anyone else, but Viglund will no doubt demand proof of some sort.
Illyria considers the question. She had assumed that this is Drusialla's group, but Bergur is right. there's no proof. "What about the gold coins the boy mentioned? Not many people carry gold. They should still have those with them."
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"Over here." Morwen said as she pointed out the bloodstain in the back of the hall. "Whoever bleed here wanted as far away from that door as they could be." She told them.
Ónar too spies the bloodstains, but lacks the ken to draw further conclusions.
"Ach. Who leaves their arms and armour? Makes no sense... even at haste ye would grab a blade or bulwark!"
Listening he nods slowly at the others conclusions, then looks to where Morwen spies further insight;
"Canny eye Dúnedain! So beyond the portal holds the threat?"
Illyria thinks about what Morwen has pointed out. "So something came through the entrance door that was scary enough to make the guard get out the way as much as they could. Not that it helped them in the end. And then whatever it was went through all the other rooms and grabbed everyone before they could make a sound or even draw a weapon."
She shivers. "Am I the only one with a really bad feeling abuout this?"
"No, you're not." Bergur's face is grim. "Something is very wrong here."
He starts searching through the personal effects, looking for the gold coins Illyria had mentioned. "Personally, if we can find anything proving this was Drusilla's group, I say we leave. If a dozen warriors were killed without so much as the chance to draw their weapons, I don't like our chances. If we can't, then we'll have to decide if definitively completing the mission is worth the risk of exploring further."
Illyria's idea, good though it is, proves fruitless: there is no sign of the gold coins that were mentioned. If they were ever here, they have disappeared along with the people. All Bergur can find is evidence that whoever was here belonged to Viglund's people (the quality and style of their belongings matches what you have seen elsewhere in the region); and that the leader of this group was a woman, evident from the gear she left behind.
Bergur frowns as the gold coins are nowhere to be found. "I can't imagine this was anyone else, but Viglund doesn't seem the type to be appeased by 'we think something happened'. I think it would be wise to leave, but I worry that he might refuse to sanction the marriage without proof we have completed our task." He sighs, clutching his bow a little tighter. "Do we risk going into the keep? This is a matter I feel we should all agree on."
Illyria tests the blade of her sowrd, just checking it's as sharp as it was five minutes ago when she last checked. "I agree. Let's see what's in the keep befroe it gets dark."
Morwen pulled an arrow from her quiver and stated "We have to go in. We need something to show that she's dead. Her body would be the best, but we may not get that..." She pointed out.
With the consensus being to stay here and continue exploring, the next bit to explore is the keep. The double doorway is wide and no light can be seen within the passageway beyond. Thick cobwebs trap the dust of centuries, except where they have more recently been broken showing that you are not the first to try and explore this place. The hallway is stone, interrupted along each side by arrow slits and above by murder holes. All is blackened with soot and scorch marks. Evidently the dwarves who lived here did not surrender the place without a fight.
A series of doorways - the doors long since broken and lost - lead off on each side and at the end of the hallway. Exploring each room in turn, you find ancient guardrooms, long-abandoned storage rooms, a cold forge with rusting anvil and mildewed bellows. Like the hallway, the same marks of ancient violence are seared onto the walls and the same pattern of disturbed cobwebs shows that you are not the first to have explored this place.
Only when you open the door at the end of the hallway do you find something of more interest. The double doorway - the doors here again lost to fire and time - is wide enough for you all to walk through at once, and this room is large enough that your torches fail to illuminate the whole of it. It is clear that this was once the great hall: the remains of an ancient feasting table (solid oak and ebony, now riddled with rot and woodworm but still standing) dominates the centre, while at the far end you see the high table where the lord once sat.
Scattered across the table, glinting in the torchlight, are a number of gleaming golden coins...
Illyria's sense of unease grows as they explore. Clearlye someone or something has been here before them, but their fate is a mystery. As they walk through the door into the great hall, she looks closely at the coins. "I don't like this she mutters to the others. "Let's keep together and see what else is here, but don't touch the coins."
Keeping close to the rest of the group, she moves forward to see what else is here.
"Don't need to tell me twice." Morwen said with a shake of her head, as she allowed Illyria to take the torch so that she could keep her bow out.
"There is just... something wrong with this place..." She agreed as they moved.
Looking at the coins scattered across the table, Bergur is almost tempted. It's more wealth than he's ever seen. But Illyria is right, those coins are no doubt part of whatever evil permeates this place. He gives the entire table a wide berth as they walk around.
"Still no sign of Drusilla or her men. It's seeming more and more likely that they simply...disappeared." He shakes his head. "What curse could have caused this?"
He moves forward with the others, but casts frequent glances behind them. They've seen no sign of any enemy, but that didn't mean nothing was there.
As you venture further into the great hall, the darkness does not fall back from the light of your torches, but instead seems to linger, becoming more solid, drawing itself around you like a net. As Bergur asks his question about a curse, a mocking, hollow laughter rings out across the hall.
"A curse? Cursed be the race of Men! Oathbreakers! Death-bringers!"
Standing in the doorway - between you and the questionable safety of Mirkwood - is the shimmering form of a Dwarf. Clad in a hauberk of silver and with jewels on his helm, he was once great. Now, he is but a memory, if a dangerous one: you can see through his form to what is behind him. He starts to move towards you, striding right through the table as if it does not exist. He continues to rage at you as he moves.
"We showed you friendship, and swore an alliance against the hated orcs - but it was not they who took this place, greedy for treasure! It was not orcs who slew my kindred even as we drank together, who burned the hall of my ancestors. A curse on you! Death to ALL the race of Men!"
With that, he is upon you. A fell dread infects your spirits as terror washes over you all.
Illyria meets the terror of the night with a cry of defiant anger. "I break no oaths! You belong in the grave and I will put you there!" She lashes out with her longsword, a cold fury guiding her blade.
Bergur had seen this coming, quite literally. It didn't help. In fact, it only increased his fear. Is this how I die?
Shaking hands fumble with his bow string, only to drop the arrow instead of loosing it. "A ghost," he whispers. "What can the living do against that?"
Morwen nodded to Bergur's whispers adding her own. "We need to find out...."
Illyria's sword passes through the dwarf, although it does disrupt the thing's spectral form slightly. Morwen's arrow also manages to hit, despite the Dúnedain's obvious fear, passing through the dwarf and taking some of its essence as it travels through. The dwarf gives a harsh laugh, obviously glad to have someone to vent its wrath against. Its axe, still gleaming with a keen edge despite the passage of so many centuries, lashes out at Illyria but the horse-woman manages to duck.
HIT POINTS
B 15/15, HD 2/2
H 13/13, HD 2/2
I 25/25, HD 2/2
M 19/21, HD 2/2
O 26/26, HD 1/2
INSPIRATION
B 1
H 3
I 3
M 1
O 1
SHADOW (P)
B 1(0)
H 1(0)
I 6(0)
M 3(0)
O 3(0)
CONDITIONS
B
H
I
M
O Exhaustion 1
Dwarf -5
Illyria throws herself to owne side to avoide the attack, but in doing so her own strike goes wide and she misses. Her eyes narrow as she watches for the next opening.
Bergur continues backing away, nerveless fingers loosing an arrow more out of habit than anything else. Unsurprisingly the arrow goes nowhere near the spectral form.
This is what killed Drusilla and her men. It must be. How could we stand against it?
Morwen snatched up another arrow and swiftly let it fly.
Unearthly, hollow laughter spills from the inky void of the Dwarf's spectral mouth, echoing to the rafters of the great hall. "You cannot defeat me. I am death to all the race of Men." The shadow of its axe brushes past Illyria once more, bringing a chill to her veins but not causing her any harm as she again ducks out of the way.
HIT POINTS
B 15/15, HD 2/2
H 13/13, HD 2/2
I 25/25, HD 2/2
M 19/21, HD 2/2
O 26/26, HD 1/2
INSPIRATION
B o
H 3
I 2
M 1
O 1
SHADOW (P)
B 1(0)
H 1(0)
I 6(0)
M 3(0)
O 3(0)
CONDITIONS
B
H
I
M
O Exhaustion 1
Dwarf -5
Illyria grits her teeth. "You keep sayint that. It's getting dull. Besides, I'm not a man." Leetting her anger get the better of her, she presses the attacck recklessly, swinging her longsword with both hnands.
"He didn't say man, he said race of Men, which unless I am incorrect the Rohirrim are still of the race of Men. Even the Dúnedain are a race of Men." Morwen shouted before she took aim once more.