Bergur bows again. "Thank you, mistress Ennalda, for your hospitality." He too is somewhat irritated by the insinuation that they had caused the conflict between the Beornings and the Viglunders, but not so irritated that he's willing to risk angering Ennalda into retracting her offer.
He surrenders his weapons without a fight, although he does pause for a moment before reluctantly giving up his daggers. Not that he thinks they would actually be of any help in a fight against these people, but it still feels...wrong, to be so completely unarmed.
After sating his appetite, Bergur nearly collapses onto the mattress. "This is much, much better than trying to find another cave."
Illyria shakes her head in warning at Morwen's outburst, although she doesn't disagree with the sentiment the Ranger expresses. "Don't annoy the doorkeeper." She undoes the baldric that fastens her scabbard to her waist and presents her longsword to Ennalda without question. If it's that or a night in the cold, then it's an easy choice.
Dinner is a major disappointment - after the better part of a week on trail rations, she has been dreaming of haunches of roast meat, bloody steaks and rashers of bacon. She does her best not to make too many faces at the rabbit-food they are served, although the cream with honey is a welcome finish.
Once she has seen Fæstlîeg comfortably stalled, she joins the others in their chamber and sprawls noisily onto a mattress.
After sating his appetite, Bergur nearly collapses onto the mattress. "This is much, much better than trying to find another cave."
She gives Bergur a nod of acknowledgement. "Good work in getting on Ennalda's good side. Hopefully you can do the same with Beorn tomorrow. It seems they are none too happy with us, for some reason."
Beorn is waiting for you the next morning, seated at one of the trestle-tables and facing the entrance where you arrive.
Even when sitting down, he looks almost too big to be allowed - not so much tall (he is perhaps 7 feet high) as he is vast: broader from shoulder to shoulder than Illyria and Morwen are tall, and with forearms the size of a man's thigh. He is absently dipping slices of bread into a platter of honey, and deliberately refrains from looking at you until he has finished. Finally, that large shaggy head with almost bestial eyes gazes directly at each of you, until you are forced to look away. Aestid turns pale and steps back, while Ranulf seems to shrink in upon himself. Neither of them speaks.
"So." Beorn's voice is deep, rumbling. "It seems we have much to discuss. Aestid Viglundsdottir, much grief do you bring with you. But it is not all of your own doing. I cannot say that you are welcome - but you are not unwelcome, either. Come, sit with me and eat. I have hot tea, fresh-baked scones and honey."
The tall, pale girl throws an anxious glance at Ranulf but she does the sensible thing and steps forward.
Ranulf is held in the skin-changer's gaze for a moment longer, before Beorn gives a heaving sigh that seems to make the very walls of his house tremble. "I had no desire to become your lord, Ranulf. Not of you or any others of you who call yourselves after my name. I am not Viglund, nor of his inclinations. But, if I am your lord, then it does seem that you have taken much upon yourself - and without my leave. Why don't you go and find something useful to do. I have nothing to say to you right now."
The Beorning looks stricken, but again he does the sensible thing and after a shaky-looking bow, he departs.
Finally, Beorn looks at the rest of you. He does not invite you to sit with him. "Quite the mixed company we have here, enough to excite Ennalda's gravest worries even if we did not know what you had done. A Dwarf of the Lonely Mountain, a daughter of the horse-people, a Man of Bree, a Barding." His eyebrows raise slightly as he looks at Bergur, but he says nothing more. "And finally, Morwen, of house Isildur and heir of Rhudaur the fallen kingdom. Of the Dúnedain that still hunt those walks. Did you really think you could declare yourself in my land - my land! - without my knowing of it?"
He shakes his vast, bearded head as he looks at you all. "What trouble you have brought upon us, you do not yet know. But it cannot hurt for you all to tell me your version of events."
When Beorn talked of his reluctance at being a lord, he was being genuine - but at the same time, he takes that responsibility seriously. Reminding him that you most likely saved Ranulf's life would probably work in your favour.
Harry clears his throat and then, his words start to flow freely.
"Good Beorn, we only recently learned of Morwen's heritage ourselves, in the course of the very events of which you speak. Our business in the Vale of Anduin was at the personal request of King Bard - to deliver a gift to Master Dodinas Brandybuck, Esquire. We left the company of the Elves of Mirkwood on the 19th December. That very day, we had the fateful meeting - Ranulf and Aestid, captured by Vilgar and a half-score of his men."
Harry pauses. He dislikes thinking about the dark minutes that followed and coming to face with some of the ugly behaviour man was capable of.
"Ranulf was bloodied, bruised, and bound. Viglar held Aestid fast. He also claimed that he would allow one Othbald feed bits of Ranulf to his dogs. When he saw us, before we could say a word one way or another, Viglar said:"
Harry's tone changes to approximate Viglar's accent.
"Well, travellers, we don't own these lands - yet - so you are free to pass. But if you want to interfere with us, then I can always use more slaves."
Harry allows those choice words, and their emphasis, hang in the air for a moment before continuing.
"We tried words. I was frankly shocked to see men take slaves, truth be told, but I tried to talk him down. Viglar presented us with only two choices - to allow him to leave with their captives or not. I thought it would come to blows. Then, Morwen revealed her lineage and presented an even blunter choice to Viglar of keeping his manhood or his captives. I will not forget the spite in his return gaze after he conceded. He said:"
- the tone again -
"I will not forget. You have made an enemy this day and I will see to it that we bring your end."
"Moments after he and his men departed, Ranulf collapsed to the ground. I am a healer by intense practice and learning and I know the signs of shock, internal injuries, and hypothermia. Ranulf had all three. I was able to put a stop to what bleeding I could but emphasised the need for him to rest in warmth and safety - swiftly! Illyria placed him on Fæstlîeg as we reckoned he could ride at a slow pace with some surety, with our destination still Brandybuck's Inn with what little speed we could manage."
A brief pause.
"It was his best chance as it was a day or so away. Luckily, the hospitality of hobbits is a great thing indeed - should they see you as friend. They provided provender and warm fire for us all. I was able to tend closely to Ranulf over the past winter and he recovered well from his wounds."
"On the 19th February, Ranulf was set to travel with Aestid to pay his respects to you. He invited us to accompany them and we accepted, glad of the opportunity to meet the legendary Beorn and pay our own respects! Also, as Morwen put it, we wanted to see them travel in safety as we could."
"On the 27th, we sought shelter in a cave. Which unfortunately was already occupied by a pair of wolves. Illyria, Aestid, and Ranulf all took wounds in the melee which promptly ensued. I focused on the wounds of the womenfolk as they were more seriously harmed."
"Last night, we came to the door, and after some words with Ennealda, found ourselves within your walls. Now, here we are. If you require me to expand upon any detail, I will do all that I can."
Harry swallows, hoping that his words will be received well.
"Please, I did not mean to hide it to spite you or because I am ashamed of what I did." Morwen said as she stepped up, though only enough to make it obvious that she alone carried the anger at the believed deception and removed her blue scarf, not like she had before Viglund, but with more respect. "I did what I did to save Ranulf and Aestid from being beaten to death and a fate worse than death... Chains. To them his only crime was loving a woman who loved him in return, that is something worth protecting. For love that crosses boundaries like this isn't see often, and has mostly passed into legend." She explained while she wrapped the scarf around her wrist and held her hand respectfully before her. "The reason I made no mention of who I am was to not bring further trouble. You see after saving the two, I had a vision... Long has my kin been hunted. The House grows smaller every passing years. I believe I have turned the eyes of the hunter to myself... The eyes where far and old... And evil... So I worried that if I did it again, I'd be putting those here in danger as I'd be saying who I am once more. While I do not apologize for saving the lives of Aestid and Ranulf, for I believe it was the right thing to do no matter what and I would do it again, I do apologize if you felt I was misleading you. For it was not my intention. I just wanted to not bring more trouble than I knew we where already bringing. I would not risk evil eyes seeing me in the hospitality of the Beornings. Not our of shame, but out of hopes it would keep you all safe." Morwen gave a respectful bow at the end of her explanation. "I truly wanted to see Ranulf and Aestid home safely. If you will allow this to be her home, that is."
Ónar warily takes in the measure of the bear of a man, knowing full well the stories told of his prowess at the Battle of the Five Armies.
He nods solemnly in agreement at the others assessment of their coming to be here, in his audience;
"Aye, that is the fact o' it Lord Beorn. We have returned your kin, safe and sound as promised to them. We'll not tarry long..."
Illyria is surprised to be so readily identified - clearly this Beorn is more than a local warlord. She is glad that everyone is being polite this morning: from the look of the man, she would not want to fight him.
She doesn't have much to add beyond what the others have said, so she remains (respectfully) silent, waiting/hoping to be invited to have some breakfast.
Bergur swallows hard, all too acutely aware of the size difference between himself and the man in front of him. Beorn's eyes seem to bore into his soul, and he remembers stories told by his fellow soldiers who had survived the Battle of Five Armies, stories of a gigantic bear slaughtering all who crossed his path.
Only the evil ones, he reminds himself. The orcs, the goblins. Not even the greatest exaggerators had ever suggested anything different.
"We did not intend to cause trouble in your lands." He forces himself to meet those intense eyes. "And I do not believe we did. Because of our...interference, everyone survived that night. Had we not been there, Viglar would have tortured Ranulf to death. Surely any trouble we caused by wounding Viglar's pride pales in comparison to the trouble that would have arisen should a Beorning have died by a Viglunder's hands."
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Beorn listens intently to you as you speak, although his gaze is fixed on Aestid as he stares at her, unwaveringly. She does her best to stare back, but there are few indeed who can contend with one such as Beorn. At the end of all speaking, he gives a vast, heavy sigh and stares upward - not as if seeking guidance in the manner of some mortals, but rather as if wishing himself somewhere - anywhere - else.
Finally, he looks at you all once more, his rumbling voice almost shockingly loud as it ends the silence that has fallen. "I did not seek the fealty of Ranulf, nor any of his brethren that take my name. Still less did I encourage them to intrude on the affairs of Viglund. And yet, had Viglund exacted his own form of justice... perhaps there is merit in your words, although there are few who can assert to know what would have happened. It is not among my talents."
He pauses, ruminating; and sighs heavily. "You have intruded yourselves into affairs you understand little of, and upended a balance you cannot comprehend. Against that, you have saved one of my own, fool though he may have been."
He stares again at Aestid, who doesn't even try to match his will this time. "So. Daughter of Viglund. I know well your father of old; and kindness is not in his nature. I cannot blame you for fleeing. Tell me then, this: do you truly love Ranulf? Or was he simply your means of escape from the mean life you were living? Do not think to lie."
Aestid's cheeks colour as she gulps and gasps out her reply. "Not - not at first, my Lord Beorn. It, it is as you say. I saw a man I could charm, whom I could prevail on to... to take me away, far away, from my father, my brother, all of my vile family..." She trails away before looking up at him suddenly, her eyes clear and defiant. "But he is a good man, a loyal servant to his Lord, who, it seems, sees him only as a fool. He deserves better than that. I have - I have come to love him, yes. He can be impulsive. But he would have fought Viglar and all his men to the death over me. And I for him. So yes, my Lord Beorn. I truly love Ranulf, with all my heart."
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Beorn heaves a heavy, almost rueful, sigh; but there is subtle shift in his mood - almost a relaxation. "You speak truthfully. I cannot send you back to your father. Very well, then. You will be my honoured guest here in these halls. Viglund's arm will not reach this far. As for the rest of you..."
He looks up and gives a grizzled smile. "Come, sit, eat! There is hot porridge and chilled cream and fresh honey." He gives a chuckling laugh. "I confess, though your actions bring strife I did not wish for, I would have liked to see the look on Viglar's face as you made him back down. Ha! In front of his men, no less. Come, break bread with me, and eat with my blessing."
Morwen motioned for the group to take a seat and took one herself. "Well I'm sure you can picture it. I mean I gave him only two options, neither of which was going to end well for him." She said with a shrug of her shoulders. "He wouldn't meet my eyes after I gave him an ultimatum. Paler then the snow outside. Then again I've been told I have that effect on people when I get angry." Morwen teased a bit as she made herself a plate.
"I've a feeling we'll have to meet up with him again, but I'll cross that bridge when I get there." She stated before she started eating, mixing the honey and porridge together and drinking the cream. "How much trouble is Viglund and his people?" She asked.
Illyria wastes no time in finding a seat and eating as much as she can. Hot food after so long in the saddle is never to be turned down. She has half an ear open to listen to Morwen and Beorn, but she also pays attention to Aestid.
"You spoke well there. It can't have been easy to say all of that in front of everyone."
Harry does not hide the relief in his body language at Beorn's decision.
His mood swiftly brightens further when he realises what is offered.
"I would be delighted to partake of such breakfast fare!", Harry replies with a smile.
She has half an ear open to listen to Morwen and Beorn, but she also pays attention to Aestid.
"You spoke well there. It can't have been easy to say all of that in front of everyone."
Aestid gives Illyria's shoulder a grateful squeeze, but doesn't say anything. She looks as though she is waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"Then again I've been told I have that effect on people when I get angry." Morwen teased a bit as she made herself a plate.
Beorn nods his head gravely. "Indeed. I am sure you are quite the fierce one."
"As for how much trouble Viglund and his..." Beorn pauses for a moment. "his followers are, or will cause, that is for you to find out." He gives a heavy shrug of his vast shoulders. "Since you saw fit to involve yourselves in this, I see no need to un-involve you. Once the snow has thawed in a week or two, you will travel North to Viglund's steading under a flag of truce. There you will convey my greetings, and ask him what dowry he requires for Aestid's hand to my follower Ranulf."
"While you are doing that, Ranulf will travel to the Old Ford, and reside there. He will spend that time working the toll road, since I cannot now have him travel to Viglund's land in his former role." His dark eyes meet Aestid's pale gaze. "You will not go with him. Once your companions have returned from your father, with his word, you may both then wed. Until then, you may remain under this roof as my guest." Aestid looks for a moment as though she is going to object, but she instead bows her head gravely.
Beorn continues. "It is well, then. I suggest you go and tell your beloved of my wishes."
Aestid rises, slightly shakily, gives you all a very weak smile, and takes her leave.
Beorn turns his gaze towards you, waiting to see what (if anything) you have to say for yourselves.
Ónar eats heartily of the offered fare, trying in vain to avoid his beard becoming honey tangled...
As Beorn outlines his will, the dwarf listens until the wild lord's gaze turns toward him and his companions;
"A fine spread Lord. A fine speech too. So we are to be mere messengers in all this? Mediators and heralds? Alas you'll no find me the best talker Lord Beorn..."
He pauses, labelling a heavy spoon of porridge;
"For we dwarves... Actions speak louder than words!"
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Beorn nods. "I know that, Dwarf." He broods in silence for a time before speaking again. "So does Viglund. Seeing you will remind him of what he has to lose if he wishes to be foolish."
"You want us to speak for you?" Morwen asked with a slightly surprised look, but shrugged it away.
"I'll speak with Viglund again. I'll even be nicer so long as he acts like a man and not a goblin." Morwen agreed with a nod. "I will even tell him what he has to lose should his foolishness continue. If he can't tell of course." She drinks and eats a bit, letting a moment pass. "I won't lead with an arrow, that I promise, but I'll bring it out if I must. Do you accept that?" Morwen asked Beorn.
Harry mulls the words of Beorn for some long moments, then finally speaks.
"Lord Beorn, we have some deftness with words as well as swords. My friends and I will can do our utmost to keep matters civil. To be clear, if you want peace, I would be happy to try for that."
Illyria quietly wonders whether they - who so badly offended Viglund's son - are the best people to be sending as emissaries. But she's not about to argue with Beorn - at least, not on a diet of porridge and honey.
She nods. "We will undertake that task. I only hpe Viglund honours our flag of truce."
Bergur relaxes when it becomes clear Beorn bears them no ill-will for the incident. Only to immediately tense up again when he suggests sending them to Viglung under a flag of truce.
"Morwen's words may be...direct, but they ring true. Last time we met Viglar threatened to make slaves of us, and I have no reason to think he will be less threatening on his own lands, after having been humiliated once already. If we go to Viglund's steading, it may end in violence no matter our intentions." Bergur forces himself to meet Beorn's eyes. "I will agree to serve as messenger in this matter if that is your will, but I cannot guarantee it will lead to peace. Much depends on Viglund's nature, and on how much control he has over his son. If that possibilty is unacceptable to you, then we are not the emissaries to send."
Ónar nods in agreement at first Beorn's word's then those of his companions;
"Aye. He'll do best to honour the flag of truce. Especially when faced with the keen blades and keen minds in our company!"
Beorn gives a slow shrug of his vast shoulders. "There are not many in Middle-Earth who would violate a flag of truce... but if Viglund turns out to be one of them, then I will have my answer." His low voice rumbles. "You chose to involve yourselves in this, and now you will see it to its end."
He seems to be growing weary with talking and with company; he rises from the table. "As I said, you are my guests here until the snows thaw. Then you must be on your way."
He takes his leave without another word.
"Oh I'm not complaining about that." Morwen said before she finished her honeyed porridge. "I finish what I start." She added before she downed the remaining of her cream. "Thank you Beorn." Morwen said when he got up to leave.
"We'll be ready for the thaw. And prepare for what we will do and what we may have to do. Hope for the best, but always prepare for the worst." Morwen then stood from the table as well, looking to the others. "I'm heading back to our quarters."
As Beorn leaves, Illyria suddenly realises just how much tension she's been holding in, as her shoulders slowly relax. "That is not someone I would want to cross."
She looks at the others. "I think we will have to trust, or hope, that our truce will be honoured. But - more importantly - the FIRST thing we do when we leave here, is go hunting." She gestures with scorn at the oatmeal porridge. "This stuff isn't food. This is what food eats."
Bergur stands when Beorn does, offering a quick bow to the Lord (willing or no) of the Beornings. "Thank you for your hospitality." As Beorn leaves, he sits back down with a sigh. "I do not foresee this going well, but hopefully Beorn is correct that even Viglund would not dare violate a truce." He smiles slightly as Morwen also leaves. "Prepare for the worst. I can do that." It's the 'hope for the best' part I have trouble with.
He picks up another slice of bread and dips it into the honey while glancing around to make sure there are no Beornings close enough to possibly be offended by the talk of hunting. "The lack of fish is strange to me, but I've never seen so much honey before. It's quite good. Perhaps we could take some of it with us and use it as a glaze for the meat?"
Harry devours his meal with clear pleasure.
"I am quite used to porridge and honey but this is of excellent quality!"
"We really are in a bit of a sticky situation. That said, Viglund would have to be a foolish leader to break a truce so blatantly. No, I think Viglar is the one to watch. Truce or no truce, he might decide that a spot of out-of-the-way murder is in order. Keeps his father's hands clean and his own sensibilities satisfied."
In his tone, Harry makes no secret of his utter distaste for the ways of Viglar.
Ónar eyes the now depleted spread with a wistful shrug;
"We dwarves trade for our food, so learn not to be picky eaters... That being said. A fine haunch of venison with some ale to wash it down with wouldn't go amiss..."
He smiles, then refocusses on the task ahead;
"Aye Master Kettlegrass you have the right o' it. Play it canny but keep our axes close."
Morwen, who had stood to leave the area, shook her head at Illyria. "This is what I'm use to eating, that and whatever one can hunt. I've learned to not be picky." She said. "And you should as well, even more so in the halls of another who has welcomed us so." She chastised them as she began to put her scarf back on. "Think it all you like but never insult the host while in their halls. Figured you'd have learned that when I was quick to apologize for not saying who I am."
She looked around the table before starting her walk off. "Harry is right, we'll likely have to fight Viglar."
That was the last of it before she vanished around the corner to head to their room. She'd take time to clean her weapons and armor, but most importantly to think. The thaw wouldn't be too far off, and they'd be facing Viglund soon enough. But it was Viglar that her mind lingered on the most. Even if Viglund agreed with Viglar's wish to end them upon seeing them, and even if he didn't stop Viglar should his own will become known, it would be Viglar they faced... and unlike before his men would not be tired from tracking. Ónar could hold the line of them as dwarves often do, while Illyria made sweeps around their flanks, assuming the land on which they where attacked allowed the movement of a horse with ease. She and Bergur could stand just behind Ónar and rain arrows with Harry just behind... however he'd be threatened if Viglar and his men get in behind them...
Morwen let out a long sigh. Too much to plan for ahead of time... too much unknown. This mission would see someone hurt, likely many hurt, the question was just how many and who.
15 March 2947
It has been a harsh - and long - Winter and it is another two weeks before the snow melts and Spring starts to arrive. In that time, you have said goodbye to Ranulf (hopefully only temporary) and watched him trudge away South toward the Old Ford, obeying his liege's command. After watching him leave forlornly, Aestid withdraws into herself and rarely strays from her room except for meals.
Beorn mostly disappears, leaving for days at a time. On the rare occasions he does return, he keeps his own counsel. Only Ennalda gets to talk with him on such occasions.
Finally however, over breakfast this morning he has broken his silence. "The way is clear, although the paths are muddy. You should make it to the Elf-wood without trouble. After that, your fates are your own. Bear the flag of truce and see what happens."
He gives a heavy sigh, as though weary beyond measure. "I did not ask for your involvement in this. But without it, Ranulf would be dead or worse and Aestid would still be under her father's tyranny. Go with my blessing. And be wary."
HIT POINTS
B 15/15, HD 2/2
H 13/13, HD 2/2
I 25/25, HD 2/2
M 21/21, HD 2/2
O 26/26, HD 2/2
INSPIRATION
B 2
H 2
I 2
M 2
O 2
SHADOW (P)
B 1(0)
H 0(0)
I 2(0)
M 2(0)
O 0(0)
CONDITIONS
B
H
I
M
O
OTHER
"Things like this are never easy." Morwen said as she stood from the breakfast table. "You never wanted this Beorn, as you said, but I cannot think a more deserving person. I am glad we got to meet, even if I wish it had been under better circumstances. You people have been good to us, and though Ennalda and I differ on opinion, I can respect that she wants the best for her people. We will go and speak in peace, and hopefully come to an understanding. With luck, we'll see each other again in favorable consideration." Morwen said before she looked to the group.
"Pack your things, we're leaving." She commanded.
Illyria figures that's as close to a thank-you as they're going to get, and gives Beorn a nod of acknowledgement accordingly. With that, she practically sprints to the stable and vaults into Fæstlîeg's saddle. The coal-black stallion is as impatient as she is to be away, and with a whoop of joy she canters away from Beorn's steading, enjoying the feel of the wind through her hair and the sun on her face as her steed's hooves race across the turf.
She is careful not to let the group out of her sight, and circles back several times to ensure she is never too far from them. But there is something exhilarating about speed.
"We will be wary, and hopefully return with good news." Bergur still finds it difficult to meet Beorn's eyes, but he forces himself to do so. "If we are not able to make peace with the Viglunders, it will not be for lack of effort on our parts."
He quickly finishes his breakfast and packs his things, (not that there is much to pack). Before they leave he makes sure to take Aestid aside for a quiet word. "If there are any messages you wish for us to pass along while in your father's lands, I will do my best to do so. Also please let me know if there are any personal effects you would like to have back. I can make no promises, obviously, but...I will try."
Harry replies to Beorn:
"Way we shall have to be. But we will do our best to return with good news!"
Ónar nods sagelike at Beorn's departing words;
"Aye Lord, we'll parley as is your wish."
He mulls the situation to come, brow furrowed;
"My hope, is that cool heads will prevail... but know if they do not, by my axe, those same heads will roll."
As they prepare for the road ahead, the grim faced dwarf checks his equipment, then nods to the others he is ready.
According to the maps, Viglund's steading is in the Northern reaches of the East Upper Vales, within a day's journey of the Grey Mountain Narrows. From there, he can watch all those who traverse his land, charging toll on merchants seeking to avoid the perils of Mirkwood by skirting around the forest to the North. If all goes well, you are looking at a fortnight's journey or thereabout.
Sadly for you, things go wrong from the outset, regardless of Beorn's blessing upon you. Whether as a result of unfortunate mishaps during cooking, a scarcity of game, a blunder when picking mushrooms or a need for haste leading to you simply eating what scraps they have while on the move, the meals eaten during your journey have a tendency to be, by turns, undercooked, infrequent, burned, tasteless or just foul.
24 MARCH 2947
It is Harry who spots them first, mid-morning of a cloudy day that has taken you close enough to the great river that the ground is muddy. Freshly imprinted into the mud you see a several sets (perhaps a dozen or so) of hob-nailed boots. Clearly, a small Orc war-band or raiding party has crossed the Anduin from the Misty Mountains - or perhaps even Gundabad itself - in search of plunder.
From over the next hill, now that your ears are alert for it, you hear the harsh guttural sound of Orc-speech...
Illyria momentarily flinches at the sound of the orc-speech, as it brings back sharply unwanted memories.
But it lasts only a moment. Gripping Fæstlîeg's reins tight, she brings him to a full stop and pats his neck soothingly to keep him quiet. She remains in the saddle, but drops abruptly sideways, keeiping only one foot in its stirrup so that her head and body are below the level of the saddle (it's an old horse-warrior's trick, designed to minimise visibility from the enemy.) The change of position doesn't seem to faze her at all.
"I have fought these things before. They are not the stupid beasts of legend, but fierce and cunning warriors. If they realise they outnumber us, they will try to encircle us. If we are to strike, let it be so swift that they are running away before they can get a count of our number."
She is not particularly confident in her ability to move away with stealth. Besides, if they leave this fight then the orcs will simply prey on the unwary. She doesn't especially want that on her conscience.
Also, she owes the damned things for several broken bones and a season of wounded pride.
Ónar nods at Illyria's stratagem;
"Aye lass. Hit 'em hard and fast. They'll rout like the black-blooded curs they are."
The warrior grips the half of his great axe and readies for the charge...
"On your signal then Daughter o' the Mark."
"I agree they need to be taken out, but hold a moment. I want to ensure how many there are. Running into a group of more than we can handle isn't a good idea." Morwen whispered. "I'll be but a moment, wait here."
Bergur bites his lip for a moment, then shakes his head. "I'll come with you. Scouting is rather a speciality of mine, and four eyes may spot what two cannot." Sometimes you had to scout alone, but it was best avoided if at all possible.
If nothing else, double the eyes meant double the chance that someone would still be able to report back if things went wrong.
Creeping carefully forward, Bergur and Morwen both keep a low profile as they skirt the crest of the nearest hill and peer over cautiously. The land on the other side forms a small, bowl-shaped depression in which just over half a dozen brutish, man-size creatures have grouped together in a temporary rest. They are drinking some vile fluid from a shared waterskin, and passing around strips of dried meat from a knapsack.
They are significantly taller than Goblins, as tall as a Man if they stood upright but instead are somewhat hunched, with broad shoulders and long arms. They wear crudely-dried leathers and belted at their waists are curved, black scimitars. It's easy for Morwen to identify them as Orcs.
What neither Bergur or Morwen sees is the trail of footprints in the grass, showing that around a half-dozen or so additional Orcs have (for some unknown reason) recently left the group...
Harry awaits word - or shout - from the party's scouts...
Harry bounds after Ónar, doing his best to keep orc blades at bay as the dwarven warrior swings to hack and slay!
He does his best not to think about what those very blades might do to his friends - or him!
Morwen waved to the group holding up six fingers and give them the sign to go ahead and attack. She herself didn't need to get close, the bow was a beautiful thing.
As Morwen gives the signal and stands to shoot, Illyria kicks her heels joyously into her horse's flanks and speeds forward, rapidly outpacing the others. She raises her sword, giving herself room to swing it at one of the orcs, shouting a challenge as she closes for melee. "Rohan! Rohan! Bright the blade, and dark the blood it sheds!"
Ónar charges toward the nearest orc, axe raised and bellowing his battle cry;
While the first mighty swing goes wide, the dwarf growls and brings his great axe to bear far more accurately with the follow up;
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You have advantage on both of those attacks thanks to Harry's Help actions. Enjoy!
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Bergur and Morwen have both slightly miscounted: there are seven orcs in the hollow. Before they can even rise, one of them falls stone dead - slain by Morwen's arrow. Her second arrow badly injures another, before Illyria tramples it into the dirt. Onar's axe-swings account for another. Bergur's shots both land, but the bow the scout wields draws less power and the orc grunts in pain but still stands.
The Orc leader, a brute even by their standards, snarls a curse in their vile language and shouts a brisk command. At his order, the survivors throw themselves into the fray. Two of them attack the Rider, trying to pull her down from her horse, while another attacks Harry. The leader makes straight for Onar, drawn perhaps by the ancient feud between these races.
In the haste and confusion, most of their attacks miss but Harry is grievously wounded.
HIT POINTS
B 15/15, HD 2/2
H 3/13, HD 2/2
I 25/25, HD 2/2
M 21/21, HD 2/2
O 26/26, HD 2/2
INSPIRATION
B 2
H 2
I 2
M 2
O 2
SHADOW (P)
B 1(0)
H 0(0)
I 2(0)
M 2(0)
O 0(0)
CONDITIONS
B
H
I
M
O
OTHER
Orc 1 - DEAD
Orc 2 - DEAD
Orc 3 - DEAD
Orc 4 - 9
Orc 5
Orc 6
Orc 7