Illryia carefully leads Fæstlîeg away from the ponies, although her horse doesn't seem even to acknowledge their existence. The "clop" of his hooves echoes on the cobbled streets, this early in the morning. She glances briefly at the map as Belgo explains his preferred route, but Morwen seems to have it in hand. "I, too, would rather avoid the marshes."
She puts her bent left foot into the stirrup first, pulling herself up and mounting the horse in one smooth movement. It's amazing the sense of freedom it gives her being up there, and she smiles for really the first time in a while. She gives the sleepy-looking girl a glance. "Hey, Halla. Ride up here with me? Fæstlîeg can carry us both."
Halla looks up at Illyria, who suddenly seems very tall now that she is on her black horse. "Umm...ok." She sounds pretty doubtful, but fear gives way to exhilaration once she is seated. "Wooo! I'm taller than everyone!"
Belgo squints up at the two of them. "You will be careful, won't you?" It's not entirely clear which of them he's talking to; perhaps both.
Much to your relief, the weather is with you; at least for this part of your travels. The air is chill, but dry - and the dank fog that comes off the river does not follow you as you leave the city. Clear skies and bright sunshine light up the day - other than the chill in the air which hints that Winter is on its way, it might almost be September. The cold is invigorating rather than strength-sapping and you make good progress.
On the night of the 26th November you make camp on the edge of the Long Marshes, far enough away to remain dry but close enough to see the twinkling marsh-lights. In the lee of a small hill, you find a spot to build your fire and take shelter.
It is perhaps not surprising that it is Bergur's keen eyes that spot it: buried in a layer of dirt, perhaps from the caked ashes of a fire like your own built and burned-out long ago, a cracked jewel on a tarnished and broken silver chain. Harry and Morwen both immediately identify it as the sort of jewel that some of the High Elves wear, either at their brow or round their necks. How long it has been resting here, and what fate befell its owner, you can only guess. Was it worn by one of those who came this way but five years ago to fight on the slopes of the Lonely Mountain? Or is it of an Age long past, when Gil-Galad summoned the warhosts of the Firstborn and marched them East to face the Shadow?
One thing is clear: the gem is broken beyond any jeweller's art to restore it. Cracked through and marred, it has value only as a memento.
With good fortune and a light heart, you are uplifted by this sight, sensing something hopeful for the future in this glimpse into the past. You are filled with whatever is the particular Hope which drives you.
With poor fortune, you are filled with a sense of doom, seeing the decay of lost glory and the end of hope. You see only the fleeting nature of life and the fall of all that is good, and are filled with whichever Despair is your burden to carry.
(A couple flagons of mead probably helped. He was far from drunk, but he was definitely more relaxed than usual.)
"...and what did I see in front of me, but a full battalion of goblins! 300 strong, all ready and waiting to attack the city. No time to notify the captain and rouse the army, they were going to depart any minute. And all there was to stop them was me, crouching there with nothing but a bow and a pocket full of stones. So I snuck around to one side, looking for the biggest, meanest goblin I could find. I took careful aim with a rock, and threw it right at his head! 'Ow!' he screamed. 'Who hit me?' I threw my voice so that it sounded like it was coming from a goblin nearby, and I said..."
The tale of how Bergur had talked an entire battalion of goblins into killing themselves started out far stronger than it ended, but overall he was pleased with how it had turned out. Just need to practice the end a bit more, I ran on a bit too long and started to lose their attention.
Bergur has no particular opinions about their route; they've always avoided the marshes while scouting so that seems like a reasonable idea. He mostly remains silent while they travel, focusing on searching for any signs of enemies that might be nearby. When they make camp though, a small glint catches his eye.
"What's this?" He gently brushes off the caked dirt and ash and stares at the revealed gem. He only vaguely hears Harry's description of it while he looks into its depths. An elf-jewel? What happened to your owner? Dead and forgotten no doubt, like so many others who have traveled this path...
He forces himself to shake off the sudden bout of melancholy. "An interesting trinket, but nothing more. It is beyond repair." He hands the jewel over to any who might request it and brushes his hands on his trousers.
"Do we have any preference for watch order? My eyes are keener than most in the dark, so I should probably take second or third, when the light is dimmest."
Illyria looks with keen interest at the gem. She has heard of Elves, but not much, and most of what she has heard she has been inclined to dismiss as a fairy-tale. Now, listening to Morwen and Harry, she is not so sure.
But this glimpse into the more distant past has lifted (at least for now) the burden of her own more recent troubles. How strange to think that their paths have crossed with those of a distant stranger! Truly, on the road, all are at the mercy of the elements and depend on good fortune, and the kindness of others, to see them safely to their rest.
The road makes us all equal. I like that.
"I'll take first watch. I'm not feeling sleepy right now anyway."
Your storytelling is well-received, especially by Halla who sits through it all wide-eyed (she doesn't enjoy watching the wrestling, and riddle competitions are boring). As you had already realised, you were rambling a little towards the end, but you nevertheless get a round of applause when your tale concludes; and your mug of mead doesn't run dry for the rest of the evening.
Halla chooses to sit next to you once you rejoin the group, and it is your leg she clutches from under the table when the dragon-firework makes its appearance.
Morwen only gives a half glance to the broken jewel. Such a sign this early into the journey wasn't a good thing.
When Illyria said she would take the first shift, Morwen nodded. "Wake me when you are done and I shall take the next one."
1.
2. Does Harry know anything more about this route thanks to News From Afar?
Harry smiles at Bergur and says:
"We may never know whom of the elf folk bore this jewel. But perhaps we might! Regardless, I can not help but think that this long-past elf would approve of passers-by of stout heart, even if men and women. I would keep it as a memento of this day."
**************
"My sight is rather keen but I require light to see by. Perhaps first or final watch then."
You have heard that the leader of the Northmen living in the East Bight, Ceawin (called The Generous), is seeking to ally with the Woodmen of Rhosgobel and has sent messengers to the Woodmen elders.
You also know that a party of Dwarves was expected in Dale/Erebor in time for the Anniversary - they were making their way back through the Narrows of the Grey Mountains but didn't arrive.
Evil spirits seem to crowd upon your innermost thoughts, making you feel morose and wearied to your very soul.
The sight of the jewel seems to divide opinion in the party: some are uplifted and their spirits raised, while some are downcast and inclined toward gloom. Belgo is one of the latter, looking at the cracked and broken gem with sorrow brimming in his eyes, while Halla regards it with awe and - if nobody else wants it - she will pocket it as a keepsake.
Regardless of what order you post for your watch, the night passes uneventfully. The next morning is chill, and there is a hard frost on the ground, but the sky is cloudless and the sun (when it eventually rises) is bright.
HIT POINTS
B 9/9, HD 1/1
H 8/8, HD 1/1
I 13/13, HD 1/1
M 12/12, HD 1/1
O 14/14, HD 1/1
INSPIRATION
B 1
H 2
I 3
M 1
O 0
SHADOW (P)
B 0(0)
H 0(0)
I 0(0)
M 0(0)
O 0(0)
CONDITIONS
B 1 point Exhaustion (no effect for now)
H
I
M 1 point Exhaustion (no effect for now)
O
OTHER
Party ignores first 2 points of Exhaustion for this Journey
Party gets +1 to the Arrival roll for this Journey
Seeing Halla looking at the jewel with longing, Harry smiles and says:
"I think, Halla, that you will appreciate the elf jewel more than I. You are welcome to it."
*************
Over breakfast, Harry shares some thoughts with the others.
"That was a quiet and pleasant night. I hope that all of our travels are such! That said, we should keep an eye out, two even! I ran into a dwarf before we left who bemoaned that some of his kin were expected in Dale and Erebor. But they had not arrived for the festivities, expected to have emerged from the narrows of the Grey mountains by now."
"We might also see messengers of the East Bight Northmen. Ceawin the Generous looks for alliance with the elders of the Woodmen of Rhosgobel."
Bergur nods slowly. "There are many dangers on the road, but presumably the dwarves would have been well-prepared for them. You are correct, we should be careful as we travel." He glances at Halla and smiles encouragingly. "Although I doubt we will encounter too much trouble. Our company is strong; most potential enemies will avoid us to seek easier prey."
Nevertheless he resolves to keep an even closer eye out for signs of other travelers. Perhaps they will find the dwarves...or run into whatever had delayed them.
Even as you glance at Halla, who has taken her usual position perched in front of Illyria on the saddle of the vast black horse, your vision blurs and the world fades away. Instead, you see a beautiful sunlit glade, on a hot Summer’s day: the trees are green in leaf and the air is fresh and warm. In the middle of the glade sits a stone well, the water clear and inviting in such heat; and next to the well, a embroidered doll such as a child might play with.
But the doll’s surface glistens with a sticky venom, and the well – though in bright sunlight – is veiled in Shadow.
As soon as the vision appears, it is gone, and you are back with your companions in the cold November air.
27 November 2946
So. It has come to this. Many months ago, you agreed to take on an errand for your father to deliver some gifts (payment of a debt long past) to the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains, on the other side of Eriador from here. Setting out with half a dozen of your companions, you made the journey there across countless leagues without a mishap.
It was only on your way home that you were beset by one misfortune after another: an avalanche in the Misty Mountains delayed your journey, forcing you to find another route over that pass, and by the time you reached the Narrows of the Grey Mountains (dwarves of Erebor don’t tend to travel through Mirkwood, for obvious reasons) the season was later than you would have liked. In times past it would have been a perilous journey indeed, but following the Battle five years ago the orcs and goblins have scattered and – with good fortune – you would have made it back to Erebor in time for the anniversary celebrations.
Your fortune was the very worst. One week into the Narrows, your trail was picked up by a gang of filthy orc-scum, and the hunt was on. The choice was clear: stay together and fall, pierced by arrows or taken in ambush in the dead of night (for orcs have no inclination for fighting fair); or divide and scatter, so that at least some of you might reach home. Thankfully, the orcs did not pursue your trail. You can only hope that your companions were as lucky.
Unfortunately, in scattering from your companions, you have strayed from your intended path and into the mountains which form part of the Northernmost edge of Mirkwood, where you have encountered a lesser enemy: a pack of goblins.
And so here, within sight of the Lonely Mountain, it appears you will be making your stand. With your back to a wall of rock, you turn and face your pursuers, who even now do not dare to close in melee. Finally, one of them braver than the rest steps forward...
He glances at Halla and smiles encouragingly. "Although I doubt we will encounter too much trouble. Our company is strong; most potential enemies will avoid us to seek easier prey."
Seated up on Illyria’s horse, Halla nods with the confidence that only the young can possess. “I’m not worried. Uncle Varin wouldn’t have sent you if he didn’t trust you to protect us.” Belgo offers a weak smile, but doesn't say anything.
As you continue your journey West, skirting the edges of the Long Marshes, your path takes you up and through the foothills of a small mountain range that forms the North of Mirkwood. Tall, forbidding crags define the road you take, which winds to and fro between stands of broken shale. Here the November mist hides the clear sky from you, and the sun is but pale and watery, when it shines at all. Mostly you travel in shade and shadow.
It is the wind that brings the noise to you – a clamor and shrieking that Harry has only read of, but the other three recognise from bitter experience: orcs. From the sound of it, they are on the hunt. Halla gives a squeal of alarm and jumps from Illyria’s horse into her father’s arms.
You hear them moments before you turn the path and see them up ahead: a pack of small, stunted creatures armed with bent swords and cruel javelins. They have brought their quarry to bay: a lone dwarf, his back to a stone crag, prepares to sell his life dearly…
Harry rushes forward to the open corner so that he can see these vicious creatures more clearly.
Can I spook these little orcs? And let the dwarf know that aid is coming? It is time to find out!
He calls out in the common speech, his stout staff held firmly:
I can't reliably move tokens via my phone. Could someone move Harry 15ft north and 5ft east?
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As one of the goblin pack brazenly challenges him, Ónar greets it with a scowl and growl as he brings his axe to bear;
"Ugly little runts! Let us see if the kiss of my axe makes you prettier!"
:
:
As Harry's shout goes up, the dwarf brow remains furrowed but he hails the potential ally;
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The first goblin to step within reach of the dwarf's axe dies almost instantly, its black blood staining the rocky path.
Undeterred, two of its companions scuttle forward across the piles of shale, striking at the dwarf with vicious, bent swords. One of them hits, drawing a thin trickle of blood. A third strikes from a distance, throwing one of its javelins which misses by a distance.
The other two goblins turn to face Harry's challenge, scampering across the stony outcrops to bring their javelins to bear. The scholar ducks the first, but the second strikes him a glancing blow!
HIT POINTS
B 9/9, HD 1/1
H 7/8, HD 1/1
I 13/13, HD 1/1
M 12/12, HD 1/1
O 12/14, HD 1/1
INSPIRATION
B 1
H 2
I 3
M 1
O 1
SHADOW (P)
B 0(0)
H 0(0)
I 0(0)
M 0(0)
O 0(0)
CONDITIONS
B 1 point Exhaustion (no effect for now)
H
I
M 1 point Exhaustion (no effect for now)
O
OTHER
Party ignores first 2 points of Exhaustion for this Journey
Party gets +1 to the Arrival roll for this Journey
Illyria looks at Halla. "Wait, Sir Varin's your uncle?" Any further conversation is cut short when she hears the cries of the orcs - she practically throws the girl out of the saddle and into Belgo's arms. Instinct drives her to spur her horse forward, but bitter experience has taught her that going forward with the others is the best way to ensure she lives to fight another day.
With a slightly bitter smile, she pulls back on Fæstlîeg's reins and moves at walking pace with the rest of her companions.
The sight of the lone dwarf however persuades her that there may well be times to proceed carefully and cautiously - but that this is a time where prompt action is needed. With a joyful whoop, she kicks her heels into Fæstlîeg's flanks. "Eorlingas! Eorlingas! Forth! Forth!"
Unable to move into the fallen rocks on horseback, she throws her spear at one of the skulking goblins.
In her enthusiasm, the throw goes wide. She curses and then draws her longsword ready to engage the nearer goblin in close combat.
Harry allows himself get carried away in the excitement - and charges at a goblin, staff held in both hands!
With a cry of "You scofflaw!", Harry swings the length of stout wood with all of his might!
Bergur's been even quieter than usual as they travel, his gaze frequently returning to Halla. His visions might mean something, they might mean nothing, the danger he foresees could be months or years away...but somehow he doubts it.
When the dwarf comes into view, he immediately whirls around, looking behind them to make sure they're not being ambushed. Goblins were frequently both cunning and cowardly, attacking from behind would be a tactic they favored. But no. There's nothing behind them but the empty road. It seems the foul creatures simply didn't expect any interference.
Casting one last glance back at Halla, wide-eyed in her father's arms, Bergur moves forward and pulls out his bow. There are two of the creatures close in front of him, but those aren't his target. The dwarf seems hale enough, but appearances were frequently deceiving. He'll trust that Illyria, Morwen, and Harry can deal with the creatures nearby.
"Forgive me master dwarf, but two on one seems a tad unfair. Let me see if I can even the odds."
His words are casual, but the focus in his eyes is nothing but. One doesn't leave the service of King Bard's army without having learned how to shoot a bow.
Ónar's scowl deepens as one of the goblins nick him with their crude blades;
"For shame, that a weapon as ill-crafted as that draws Erebor blood!"
As the arriving travelers pour on the attacks against the other goblins, the dwarf warrior resumes hostilities;
"Seems you runts are as eager as yer friend to taste proper steel... Let me oblige ye!"
:
:
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Taking aim at the orc higher up, Morwen let loose and arrow and quickly got another one.
Bergur's arrow takes the goblin right through the skull, and it drops noiselessly. Morwen hits another, but it doesn't fall. Illyria misses with her attack.
Onar's axe knocks down the other goblin in combat with him; the remaining goblins stay well clear of melee, throwing javelins instead, before taking flight like the cowards that they are, scampering across the rocks with startling rapidity and out of sight. Only the dwarf is hit by the parting shots.
HIT POINTS
B 9/9, HD 1/1
H 7/8, HD 1/1
I 13/13, HD 1/1
M 12/12, HD 1/1
O 9/14, HD 1/1
INSPIRATION
B 1
H 1
I 2
M 1
O 1
SHADOW (P)
B 0(0)
H 0(0)
I 0(0)
M 0(0)
O 0(0)
CONDITIONS
B 1 point Exhaustion (no effect for now)
H
I
M 1 point Exhaustion (no effect for now)
O
OTHER
Party ignores first 2 points of Exhaustion for this Journey
Party gets +1 to the Arrival roll for this Journey
Harry misses but then realises the orcs are falling swiftly.
He looks about, quickly wrapping the nick on his chest.
He calls over:
"Who is harmed? I can begin to ease wounds!"
Bergur slowly lowers his bow. No sense wasting arrows pursuing the wretched creatures; they had a distressing tendency to vanish into crevices like the vermin they were.
He strides over to the one he had killed and removes his arrow from its skull. A fine hit. Captain Lifstan would have been proud.
More likely he would have scowled a little less before finding something to criticize, but Bergur is not immune to the occasional flight of fancy.
"Master Dwarf. Are you injured?" It's a rhetorical question as the blood speaks for itself. He sketches a quick bow. "Bergur at your service. My companion back there is Harry, a scholar who has studied the arts of healing. Please allow him to tend to your wounds." He glances around. Harry mentioned several dwarves going missing, hadn't he? "Do you have companions nearby? We will aid your party insofar as we can."
Ónar stoically watches the goblins retreat, then snaps from his frown by Harry's shout and Bergur's introduction.
The warrior looks o'er himself, noting the nicks and grazes from goblin blade and javelin;
"Feh. They barely split a beard hair upon me... though I'll take any healing offered with thanks."
He nods his head toward Bergur in greeting, then to the goblin felled by the archer;
"Well met young Master Bergur. Ónar, son of Óin at yer service. Quite the shot you made there laddie... Quite the shot indeed!"
The dwarf warrior casts his eyes over your assembled number in measured fashion before continuing;
"Alas there is just me, unless you have encountered any other dwarves on your travels? We were a party out of Erebor returning from the Blue Mountains, when an orc band began to hunt us. After a skirmish we broke numbers and scattered separately, each hoping the draw the orc-scum away from our brethren. I lost my way somewhat and was waylaid by these goblin wretches. Of the fate of the others... I have no notion, but fear the worst."
Harry walks over to the dwarf, hearing his tale.
"Master dwarf, I am sorry to hear of the troubles that have befallen you and your kin. I am Harry Kettlegrass, of Bree, a scholar from Breeland, and as Bregur here says, I can tend to your injuries. With no orcs lingering, I shall take my time and do this right!"
Harry begins to carefully examine the various wounds, selecting appropriate bandages and unguents to apply. Throughout, he makes friendly conversation with his patient.
"We are travelling into Mirkwood, Ónar, though we will help as we can. What will you do yourself?"
Harry stands back and nods to himself approvingly.
"I hope that eases your wounds!"
Illyria grips her longsword tightly - and then realises there suddenly aren't any enemies around any more. Sheathing it, she swings her twisted left foot out of the saddle and dismounts Fæstlîeg, crawling up into the rocks to retrieve her spear. Her shoulder aches from the throw. Stupid to think she could just go straight back into a fight after so long out of it. It's one thing to wrestle these Northmen, another to cast a spear with intent to kill.
She catches Bergur's eye, and nods. "Good shot." There's one Northman at least who can play the part of warrior, for all that he looks like a stiff breeze would snap him in two.
She winces and grabs at her shoulder. "Stupid mist. Gets right into my bones."
Remebering that there are civilians travelling with them, she grabs the broken bodies of the goblins and hurls them over the rocks and out of sight. Not much she can do about the black blood that spilled out of them first, of course. She calls back along the path: "It's safe to come through - but mind where you look."
She then walks over to the dwarf. "Well met, Ónar son of Óin. I am Illyria Theodricsdottir. I'm glad we were here. Dying at the hands of orcs in the mountains is not a fate to be wished on anyone."
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"Get a scarf they seem to really help when it comes to mists." Morwen said as she made her way to join the rest of the group. "And be careful were you walk. Black blood is a toxic thing." She stated on the end of Illyria's call of safety.
"No, not a fate to be wished." Morwen seemed to parrot before asking. "How did you pass the Lonely Mountain completely?" She asked the dwarf, obviously a bit weary of the newcomer. "You're so far on the other side you're almost to Mirkwood." She pointed out.
Ónar nods in thanks to Harry as his administrations heal the warrior's wounds;
"My thanks Master Kettlegrass, your skill in healing is a credit to you and the folk o' Bree."
The warrior leans on his axe, mulling the questions and his own next steps. At Illyria's introduction he eyes her cautiously;
"Mistress Theodricsdottir, glad to make your acquaintance. Seems I'm not the only one far from home... Don't see too many folk o'... the Mark this far North."
At Morwen's pressing the dwarf's face darkens;
"As I said lass, we scattered. With orcs at our backs, none o' our company had time to tarry. Ill fate and choice o' pathways brought me to here. As for my next step, it is clear my sense o' wilderness direction is lacking, so I'm undecided. Where are your company bound for?"
"You are most welcome, Master Ónar son of Óin. We are bound for the edge of Mirkwood, to meet elven associates of our charges here. Well, the elder of the pair. So far, we have done a fair job in my estimation."
'But how?! You can see the mountain from here!!! In order not to you'd have to of gone so far north to be in greater danger or so far south you'd reach Gondor!! Morwen screamed in her own mind as her right eye twitched, confused at such a statement so much it hurt.
"We are escorting some to Mirkwood and then heading off to hand over a gift that need to get there before winter closes in." Morwen said taking a long sigh to calm herself down.
Ónar nods, running a calloused hand thoughtfully through his beard;
"Just Ónar is fine Master Kettlegrass. Me Far is a dwarf o' renown so I've learned to mention me being his scion as a matter o' course when making introductions."
The warrior mulls Morwen's words... and countenance;
"Escorting is it? Then delivery of a gift... All sounds as mysterious as how I got to be here..."
The dwarf offers a stoic smile before continuing;
"Mistress. By your height and countenance I'd mark ye as Dúnedain, and while I appreciate ye finding confusion o'er the circumstances that I find myself here, the son of Óin is no storyteller nor one for tall tales. Simply put we scattered to draw the orc band. All directions and as quick as we could. While not long of leg like yourself, we Dwarves too can go swiftly, and they do not tire sooner than Orcs,”
Bergur studies the dwarf for a moment. While he understands Morwen's suspicion, he also feels that if Ónar were lying then his cover story would have been more...believable.
Besides, hehad been fighting a band of goblins. Being an enemy of the Enemy did not necessarily make him a friend, but it was worth giving him the benefit of the doubt.
"Perhaps fate led you here to cross our paths. I hope that your companions met with similar fortune." He hesitates, reluctant to speak for the group but feeling it should be offered. "We are going in quite the opposite direction from Erebor, but if you wish to travel with us you might find the roads a safer place for the company."
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"As I said lass, we scattered. With orcs at our backs, none o' our company had time to tarry. Ill fate and choice o' pathways brought me to here. As for my next step, it is clear my sense o' wilderness direction is lacking, so I'm undecided. Where are your company bound for?"
Illyria shrugs - she doesn't have many problems navigating through the wilderness, but she found the city of Dale hard going. It's probably all about what you're used to.
She nods in agreement with Bergur. "If there's orcs around, the more we have in our group the better. You're welcome to travel with us, Ónar"
Morwen's face showed a slight bit of shock when Ónar pegged her so easily as a Dúnedain. Many, too many by Morwen's belief, had pushed them off as a shadow of the past. Those that had passed from this world. It didn't help that Morwen's people remain hidden more than seen. "Color me impressed Master dwarf." Morwen said as she stoic face returned. "Few have I met that can see what I am so easily." She congratulated him.
"We should keep moving. Less they come back and choose to try their luck again." Morwen warned the group. "Numbers are a bonus in our favor. Come along Ónar, as I feel that would be best since your sense of direction is so poor I worry what might happen if you do not and go on your own way."
29 November 2946
Whether it is the easy success you had against the orcs/goblins, or simply the happy fortune of meeting a likeminded fellow traveller, or even just the fact that the weather is fine and the road is fair, you arrive at the edge of Mirkwood in good spirits: the many leagues that the company has travelled have filled them you a sense of renewed purposes, dark though the path ahead may be.
Belgo smiles once you arrive at your destination: a sandy shore where the river emerges from the treeline before threading its way through the Long Marshes and thence to the Lake.
At twilight, a trio of rafts emerge from the mists on the river. Green-cloaked figures punt these rafts to the shore. They greet Belgo and Halla warmly, with singing voices; it is clear that the merchant is known to them. He in turn replies to their greeting in what is not very good Sindarin, which meets with laughter.
The Elves (for such is what they are) are slightly more reserved with the rest of you, but they greet you courteously in the Common tongue.
The ponies are quickly unloaded and their burdens transferred to the rafts. The animals are initially wary about getting onto the rafts, but one of the Elves whispers in the ponies’ ears, and instantly all four of the animals become perfectly calm, happily trot onto the rafts and stand stock-still in the middle. Once departed, the Elves expertly pilot their rafts against the current of the Forest River.
After several hours of slow, almost dreamlike, travel, the land on either side of the rafts rises and turns stony and wooded, and the company pass into the shadow of the trees. It is as though the rafts are sailing up a dark tunnel, as the branches interlace overhead into a dark canopy. You glimpse tall hills in gaps between the trees, until the river widens and the trees grow thinner once again. Here, a bay opens, and huts cling close to a shingly shore.
The Elves steer up a stream which flows out of a rocky canyon. The canyon walls grow higher and higher, until the rafts pass a portcullis and suddenly you find yourselves in the caves of the Elvenking. From somewhere up above you hear a peal of joyous laughter, and the sound of a harp playing; a soft light glows in the ceiling, without flame or heat. The smell of tree and leaf is heavy in the air.
Belgo is met by a friend of his, an Elf named Lindar who is master of the king’s cellars. "Baldor! Welcome! I am pleased you are here at last. There are rooms waiting for you and your daughter upstairs, and you must join us for dinner." He scrutinises the rest of you keenly. "You too are welcome here. Perhaps you could introduce yourselves?"
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When the elves met them upon the bank of the river, Morwen was glad to see this was almost over. When greeted she placed her hand over her heart nodding in thanks and speaking in Sindarin for their kind words. She always tried to speak to those in their own tongue if she knew it.
When they moved them up the stream Morwen grew more and more on edge when the sides grew high and cut off her view. However when the sounds of the court filled the air she relaxed more.
Morwen's demeanor changed when they entered the more courtly area. The tall woman held herself with a sense of regal air, and her stoic mask had shifted slightly to a calm and graceful look if still as unreadable. "I am Morwen of the Dúnedain and of House Isildur. This is Illyria Theodricsdottir of Rohan, Bergur son of Ragni of Dale, Harry Kettlegrass of Bree, and Ónar, son of Óin of Erebor." Morwen said, speaking in Sindarin with great ease. "The journey here was mostly calm however there might be something that interests you. We found Ónar surrounded by a pack of orcs. I haven't seen them this far south since the battle of the five armies. Though I wouldn't be surprised if there were a few pockets." Morwen told him with a small shrug.
"A Dúnedain?", asks Harry, "That name rings a bell for certain!"
He then thinks about this...
Fascinating!
***********************
Harry seems to get the gist of the elf speech. He nods appreciatively.
"They seem to approve of Halla.", he whispers to his companions.
You know a little of many languages. You can hold a simple conversation in any of the tongues of Men or Elves, and know a few common phrases in the tongues of the other peoples – enough to offer a greeting, shout a warning, or insult someone.
***********************
Harry looks all about him as the elves lead on, already planning his notes!
To Lindar, Harry also bows, trying to coordinate with Morwen.
Ah! So that's what Dúnedain means! Sindarin too, goodness!
"Mae govannen, good Lindar! I am Harry Kettlegrass of Bree and I saw with mine own eyes Odar slay orc after orc. We came in from Dale, when we witnessed King Bard, the Elfking, and the King Under the Mountain make gestures of friendship."
Lindar bows to Morwen. "I am pleased to meet one of the Dúnedain - it has been many a year since one of your kind sought refuge with us." He listens politely to Harry. "Gestures of friendship go a long way in these troubled times. Please accept our hospitality, but since you are not known to us I cannot permit you to enter further into our halls. Perhaps you would care to stay here to keep watch on your supplies? I will gladly ensure that you are provided for."
"I have met a few of your warriors at the edge of Mirkwood before." Morwen explained. "I often walk the lands of the Vales all the way up to the elf-path. I am glad to hear there are still some areas that my people are not forgotten." She said with a slight smile. 'Even if the family name has been it seems.' She thought to herself.
"Le hannon, Lindar. I am glad to see both father and daughter safe, and your hospitality is most gracious. We will gladly remain here for the night and leave come the morn." Morwen assured him.
Ónar nods in agreement at the proposal;
"Aye. Makes sense... I'll likely lose my way once again, and better my axe keeps you all safe for aiding me in my scrap with the goblins. I'll accompany you to your journey's end,,, and perhaps beyond."
As the Elves and Morwen engage in conversation, Ónar stands by Harry's shoulder - keen to discern any gems the scholar uncovers in his translation.
He whispers an aside to the group as they wait;
"While I appreciate their hospitality, we should still keep eyes open and guard. We dwarves have found the elves to be a mercurial folk. History shows their words and actions do not always match."
Illyria understands Sindarin, but doesn't trust herself to be able to speak it properly - especially around the elves themselves, who she regards with something approaching awe. She keeps to the background while the negotiations are going on, but frowns at Ónar when he voices his mistrust.
"They've been nothing but good to us. Besides, we need them. I like the idea of a good night's sleep. So please don't do anything that makes them send us away."
She's more interested in the talk of the Dúnedain. She had figured that Morwen wasn't one of the North-folk, but she's never heard of the Rangers, or of Isildur. She makes a note to talk to Morwen about it at some point and learn more.
Bergur nods, understanding Lindar's caution. He had not been able to follow the Sindarin, but whatever Morwen might have said they're still five strangers, a dwarf among them. Times of peace these may be, but there are still some tensions that are not easily set aside. "Thank you for your hospitality, Lindar. I have no objection to remaining here with the supplies." Even this much is more of the Elf-King's Halls than he had ever truly expected to see.
He crouches down to Halla's level, smiling at her. "You'll have to tell us all about it later. I'm sure you'll have lots of fun." For a fraction of a second the light seems to dim and his smile starts to fade. A poisoned doll...no. Not here. Whatever it was I saw, she will be safe in these Halls.
"We'll be waiting here for you, once you are ready to leave."
Lindar smiles and bows once more. "Then it is agreed. Tomorrow, I will have some of our warriors escort you to the edge of our realm and set you on the path through the forest. Now, if you will excuse me..."
The Elf withdraws, one arm around Belgo and Halla's shoulders. The girl looks back at you once, before her curiosity is drawn elsewhere: everything within this realm is passing strange to mortals.
True to his word, Lindar sends down excellent meals from the Elf-King’s kitchens and you pass the night in peaceful sleep.
30 November 2946
The following morning, Lindar returns to the caves, bringing an obviously well-rested Belgo and Halla with him. You share a simple but very enjoyable breakfast of warm bread and jam made from some fruit which you're unable to identify.
Afterwards, a pair of brown-cloaked Elves with stern features and obviously armed for war make their approach. Lindar introduces them as Míriel (a female elf with short fair hair and a slight scar under her left eye) and Galion (a male elf with long dark hair and an almost perpetual smile). Galion speaks Common and cheerfully engages you in conversation, while Míriel is more watchful and seems to be perpetually scanning her surroundings.
Once you have made your farewells to Lindar, the pair of them escort you out of the caves by a secret route, and bring you some miles down the Elf-path. This part of the wood is not so oppressive; the path is lined with beeches, and the daylight filters through the trees to dapple everything with green-gold light. This region still preserves the beauty and peace of Greenwood the Great. Galion warns that you will soon enter more perilous regions, and he gives you one key piece of advice – don’t leave the path! The path is mostly clear of trouble, but the same cannot be said of the woods to either side.
Once your feet are firmly set on the path, Galion bids you good luck (Míriel just scowls and shakes her head), and the pair of them vanish into the shadows of the trees. You are now on your own, and face a long journey.
7 December 2946
While the truly perilous parts of the forest are away down to the south, in the Heart of Mirkwood and around Dol Guldur, that does not mean that travelling in Northern Mirkwood is a pleasant stroll through the woods. The Elf-path is little more than a mossy trail of soft grass, sometimes as wide as fifteen feet, sometimes narrow enough that you have to go in single file, and always it meanders in a wandering trail of its own, requiring sharp eyes to distinguish it from the rest of the undergrowth as it twists and turns, sometimes seeming to double back on itself before carrying you forwards.
It is however, protected – at least to some extent – and travellers who walk its path are under its enchantment. The way is marked here and there by “sentinel-trees” - these are of a kind none of you recognise, and they seem to sparkle with wreaths of light and coloured mists; at least, when you’re not looking at them directly. Whenever you look straight at them, they are almost indistinguishable from normal trees. But even then, the forest is fey and strange. The ponies have to be blinkered in order to persuade them to move forwards, and Illyria’s black stallion is skittish: he refuses point-blank to accept any other rider, and goes so far as to try and bite anyone other than Illyria who wanders into his reach.
After a week, the darkness of the forest weighs heavily on your spirits. The air is thick with damp and the smell of decaying leaf-mould; and every night when you make a (small) fire, you attract dozens of large, black moths. In the darkness, you spy red eyes watching your every move.
The only saving grace is that the weather holds off, and (apart from the biting cold) it might almost be Autumn. The bushes on each side of you are thick with berries; and a profusion of edible mushrooms can be found wherever you look. The small rabbits that wander across the path are fat, glutted, and sleepy with cold, which makes them easy to catch. You may be uneasy, but you eat extraordinarily well.
Perhaps because of this, or simply because they are not used to thinking about threats in a three-dimensional environment, Bergur fails to pay attention to the dead tree on the side of the Elf-path (beyond noting that it’s, well, a dead tree). It’s therefore a terrible surprise when a vast spider the size of a carthorse swings down from a webbed thread towards you! It is a terrifying monstrosity, with far more legs than even a spider should have and – worst of all – set into its head is a twisted, grotesque mockery of what a humanoid face should look like.
In the moment of stunned surprise, fear washes over all of you: Halla screams while Belgo is too immobilised even to manage that.
Only Illyria is speedy enough to act. The magic of the Elf-path is potent and surely your only chance of victory in this fight…
HIT POINTS
B 9/9, HD 1/1
H 8/8, HD 1/1
I 13/13, HD 1/1
M 12/12, HD 1/1
O 14/14, HD 1/1
INSPIRATION
B 1
H 1
I 2
M 1
O 1
SHADOW (P)
B 0(0)
H 0(0)
I 0(0)
M 0(0)
O 0(0)
CONDITIONS
B
H
I
M
O
OTHER
Party ignores first point of Exhaustion for this Journey
Party gets +1 to all skill rolls made during this Journey
Party gets Advantage on all rolls vs the Spider
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The oppressive nature of the forest gets to Illyria quickly. On top of that, Fæstlîeg is clearly out of sorts. Trying to manage his mood and prevent him from lashing out at her companions, or the ponies, keeps her occupied. Inwardly, she is troubled as the seemingly endless miles pass by on this creepy road. What am I doing here? Am I just running away from home so I don't have to face up to everything back there? Her thoughts are gloomy.
The interruption of her reverie by the spider's attack is almost welcome. She gratefully accepts anything that draws her out of herself. Brandishing her longsword, she urges Fæstlîeg forwards into the fight.
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:
:
A week in the wilderness does not sit well with Ónar who clearly enjoys the comfort of great halls and the smokey stalls of an inn, over the fetid mould and irritating insects of Mirkwood.
As such the dwarf complains regularly, grumbling between camps and throughout the march (prompting some of you to mull if his previous comrades gave him poor directions for the sake of peace and quiet!)
:
However when the huge spider unfurls from the canopy above, Ónar's mood shifts - as he too clearly relishes the opportunity to vent his frustrations against a worthy foe;
"Ho-Ho! A big 'un! Save some for me Daughter of the Mark!"
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Bergur finds he doesn't like the forest. (Not that anyone likes Mirkwood, but he suspects any forest would be difficult for him to spend too much time in.) Growing up first in Lake-town, then in Dale, he's not used to the trees pressing in on every side. It's too dark. Too damp. He's gone a full week without so much as a glimpse of the sun. He can't see more than a few feet off the path on either side and it leaves him constantly expecting an enemy to jump out at them.
There's only trees. Only trees.
Bergur tries his best, but unfortunately there is one major deficiency in his training as a scout. He's used to plains and rolling hills, used to peering for signs of an enemy across far distances, and most definitely isn't used to looking up.
Which becomes a problem when the spider very nearly falls on top of him.
Startled, rather than immediately jump into battle he finds himself looking behind him at the sound of Halla's scream. Is there another?! But no, just the one, and that one is more than enough. Ónar's shout brings him back to the enemy that actually exists just a moment too late.
The spider gives a chittering hiss (almost a shriek) as Illyria's sword slashes into it. It retaliates almost instantly, its jawed mandibles biting deeply into her, inflicting damage that would kill most mortals almost instantly.
Illyria remains standing, but is gravely injured.
HIT POINTS
B 9/9, HD 1/1
H 8/8, HD 1/1
I 4/13, HD 1/1
M 12/12, HD 1/1
O 14/14, HD 1/1
INSPIRATION
B 1
H 1
I 2
M 1
O 1
SHADOW (P)
B 2(0)
H 0(0)
I 2(0)
M 0(0)
O 2(0)
CONDITIONS
B
H
I
M
O
OTHER
Party ignores first point of Exhaustion for this Journey
Party gets +1 to all skill rolls made during this Journey
Party gets Advantage on all rolls vs the Spider
Spider -13
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"Goodbye, Belgo and Halla! Take the very best of care!"
Harry does his best to not just be overwhelmed by the stay with the elves.
He relaxes more after his bouts of nightly scribbling of notes, with clear glee on his face.
****************
Whenever the party camps, the others may well notice Harry sketching drawings of the trees, the shape of the path, and many other details. His sheer enjoyment of seeing new things does not seem to dim whatsoever.
Then....the spider drops.
Harry yelps, and hurridly fumbles for his sling, hoping to launch a bullet at the creature. To his surprise, the bullet strikes the creature in its foul face!
Rolls against Shadow
Roll against Fear
Illyria notices the pain, but in a detached, absent sort of a way. The rest of her focuses on fighting back against this abominable spider. She swings her sword again, with cold determination rather than hot rage.
"A spider this close to the road?" Morwen asked a loud in shock. However it didn't keep the woman from drawing her bow and letting loose and arrow at the creature.