It began, as many adventures do, with a barrel. The Foresters are surrounded by trees and they make and use (and sell) a lot of barrels. This praticular barrel, however, was flawed. Either a sloppy apprentice or misfortune worked to make it split, spoiling its hold of salt as foul water crept in during the long winter storage (and in Mirkwood, foul water can carry worse than dirt). Salt is a vital part of preserving food, even though the Foresters are masters of smoking and drying, if you want food to stay eatalbe for any length of time you need salt. This barrel in question held the salt reserve for three separate Forester settlements. When the spoilage was discovered, the issue was raised in the Folk-Moot and it was agreed that more would be needed. These days, with trade being easy, the best and cheapest salt is found in Lake-Town. Foresters prefer not to journey too far from the woods, although they will at need. In this case, however, fate had provided the Foresters with outlander companions, who would be much more willing to take this journey.
It is spring, and the town is waking from Winter. Men and women drag rugs and blankets outside, and beat the winter’s dust out of them. Knee-deep ashes from fires kept burning all season long are cleared from the hearths, and the collection of firewood for next year begins.
You meet on the grassy sward that surrounds Rhosgobel's Great Hall. From here, you can see all the way to the Brown Hay, the vast hedge that protects this place from intruders. On the path that winds to the Hedge-gate, you can see drovers taking livestock out to the pasture lands that lie beyond the eaves of Mirkwood. The plantive call of the cattle, sheep and goats mingsle with teh ring of metal from the forge. The smell of woodsmoke is carried on the breeze, which is still sharp with the memory of the fading winter. An old guide named Hylda sits at the edge of the Hedge Gate on a carved log stool. As a veteran traveller, who used to lead logging parties into the forest, she asks the business of all who come and go. The sound of her chatter carries to you where you sit. A handful of children freed from their chores chase a wooden ball with sticks around the open areas of the settlement. Elders shout at them to stay inside the hedge, warning them that they’ll be eaten by Spiders if they stray. (Giant Spiders have not been seen around Rhosgobel since the death of Smaug, but one does not grow old in Mirkwood without learning caution.) Well-trained working dogs can be seen all around Rhosgobel, the Foresters being masters of hounds that are kennelled within the settlement and watch for any threat from the forest. Occasional excited barks can be heard, but no howls warn of danger.
Rhosgobel is a safe refuge in a sea of dark and threatening woods, but the slow pace of life among the Foresters can make some outsiders restless, keen to find travelling companions and head out into the wider world. You have been asked to attned a Folk-Moot in the Great Hall, where outsiders are not usually invited without good reason. However, prehaps the discussion is going long, because you have not yet been called inside. Still, the sun is warm on your faces and the day is young.
They call her The Axe, which is short for The Axe of Rhosgobel. Presumably, like all Foresters, she has a real name, but you certainly haven’t been told it. There’s a reasonably solid rumour that it’s Fran - but then there’s another equally solid rumour that she traded her name to Radagast in exchange for the gift of battle prowess. What is not rumour is that she killed two spiders of Mirkwood in close combat before she was twenty, and that none of you has seen the like of the axe she weilds, a two-handed weapon with an ancient bronze blade that still gleams like new, and a haft of unidentifiable wood. Now in her early forties, the years have taken one eye and her red hair, which is now shorn and grey. But she has lost none of her fiercenss. Her role in Rhosgobel is unclear to you. She’s not the chieftan, but in one sense she runs the place: nothing important happens, and no outlanders get to enter, without her say-so.
The Axe glares at you with her one eye as you enter the Great Hall. “Huh. Good. You’re here.” The Axe doesn’t do ceremony, or politeness. It’s probably why she’s not the chieftan. “Got a job for you.” The chieftan doesn’t order people around like this, which is possibly why he gets to be the chieftan. She gestures at the three other people in the Hall. “This here’s the speakers from Larchrise, Woodsedge and Pinemount.” You’ve never heard of these settlements, but there are hundreds of small Forester communities dotted across the Anduin vales, unmapped and unremarkable. “The salt that was supposed to go to them is spoiled. I didn’t know salt could spoil, but there you are. We’ve arranged to get more from Lake-Town, but we need people to go and get it and bring it back here. That’s where you come in.”
“Any questions?”
Ólneth has dealt with the Axe's rudeness before; it's a large part of the reason she no longer stands on ceremony. (At least not in Forester settlements.) She's a little curious as to why the people they sent to make the arrangements couldn't also arrange to have the salt sent back, but not curious enough to bother the Axe by asking the question.
As for the questions she does want to ask, most of them concern the practicalities of carrying several large heavy barrels across the forest. Particularly given her own lack of strength. "Are there any ponies we could take with us that would be willing to go through Mirkwood?"
|
Agnar still wasn't sure what he was doing here, but the act of -not- doing -nothing- certainly no longer appealed to him. In the ensuing time he's been able to rage, laugh, cry, beat his chest, bemoan his fates, and mourn in a thousand other ways, most of which didn't hurt. Now that there is A Thing To Do his mind begins to focus in that thing. Of course, his way of doing Things is usually to set about it and let the fat of his intellect sort out the details as he goes.
As he sees the uncomfortably-attractive she-elf bard is also to be part of the Team That Is Doing The Thing, he greets her with a rare, broad smile.
"I never asked you, Olneth...did you make your instrument or are there, um, instrument-smiths that make them?"
'Instrument smiths? Smooth playah.'
'Well I don't know what they're called! It's probably something that makes about as much sense as calling a man that makes a bow a 'boyer' but a man who makes arrows is a 'fletcher' as if that ever made sense!'
His brain starts warring with itself but thankfully he starts getting yelled at by The Axe so he has something to start thinking about.
"Have you tried boiling the salt? I mean, if you started a pot boiling, and then dumped the salt in, you could just boil it until only the salt remained. This one time I set these curtains on fire by boiling a batch of...." he trails off, not sure the usefulness of telling them a story of how to buy new curtains.
"Um, yeah, so, ponies. Ponies are good. Failing ponies, I guess sleds could be just as useful," he adds, trying to be helpful and currently lacking a filter for his tongue.
Meant to work on that.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
The Axe. How many times had Faem gazed on her from afar in the past eighteen months? The hobbit imagined that if she was twice as tall and twice as old, she would look a lot like the indomitable woodwoman. Rarely, while tussling in the courtyard with the village guard, she would catch a glimpse of The Axe stalking nearby; Faem would launch herself at her sparring partner in a furious assault, expending all of her energy in a moment of maximum force, to try to gain the older woman's attention. A passing glance with that one steely eye would be nourishment to fuel a week of spirited swordplay.
And so to be given a task by this living legend made Faem feel proud. To finally journey beyond the Hedge, with a proper company, to another far-off town seemed a wonder, and the hobbit brimmed with purpose and high spirits.
Faem knew that Agnar was of Lake Town, and Ólneth was of the wood, so the company needed no other guide. And Lorgan was both sturdy and resourceful, so they would be capable in a scrape, which seemed unavoidable.
On the other hand, this was no small request, and a lot depended on their success.
Faem looked to the Speakers one by one, then back to The Axe. She Swallowed and raised to her voice to speak, her brogue thick. "I know not what I don't know, and perhaps tha's fer t' best. But should we fail in this 'ere task, what of these towns?"
After barely a month in Rhosgobel, Lorgan still feels something of a stranger here. But what was he expecting, exactly? It's not as though he has anything in the way of proof of his tale, beyond a few trinkets of his mother's that could have belonged to anyone. But could this task be the Forester way of testing him out, seeing if he is worthy? On the other hand, everyone else summoned here is an outlander. Maybe that's the way they see him, too - the way they will always see him. But that's a problem for another time. He gives the others his usual warm smile. It seems that they are to be in one another's company for some time to come, and that thought is a good one. There are already the beginnings of friendship with Faem and Ólneth, and possibly the chance to share experiences with Agnar. He is aware of the man's apparent dislike for him, and hopes to remedy that.
As he listens to the Axe, Lorgan carefully doesn't smile, although her brusqueness is refreshing in its own way. It reminds him somewhat of home: she would fit in far better with the Dúnedain, his own people, than he did himself. He lets Agnar's tongue run its course before asking his own question. "What are these arrangements? Where do we get the salt from once we reach Lake-Town?"
He leaves the questions Where IS Lake-Town? And how do we get there? silent in his own head. He is a stranger in these lands, but among his companions there is presumably someone who knows the way.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
As for the questions she does want to ask, most of them concern the practicalities of carrying several large heavy barrels across the forest. Particularly given her own lack of strength. "Are there any ponies we could take with us that would be willing to go through Mirkwood?"
The Axe gives the elf a snort of dersision and a roll of her one remaining eye. "Do I look like I'm made of ponies? The only horses this side of Mirwood are Beorn's." She gives an evil grin. "If you're gonna ask him to borrow some to take through the forest, then I wanna be there to watch. The salt will be on donkeys, we won't ask you to ccarry that back, but you're gonna have to get yourself there, Mighty Swíðan." She leers at you. "Might put some muscle onto them scrawny limbs."
"I know not what I don't know, and perhaps tha's fer t' best. But should we fail in this 'ere task, what of these towns?"
The question gets a shrug in reply. “Then we send someone else. Or we make do.” She grins. “Don’t worry, Cutie-pie, the fate of the world isn’t on them tiny shoulders. This is a chance for you to pay back the hospitality we've given you, and maybe impress me. Yep, I see you when you're training, throwing yourself at people every time I walk past. Training is training. Even I lose sometimes, if I’m trying something out. Means nothing.”
She just watches Agnar as he sputters, waiting for him to talk himself out. “When your mouth is open and sounds coming out, Wolf-Bane, you might wanna look into it not happening.”
Lorgan’s question gets a nod. “Right. Not a bad qusetion, Fosterling. Practical. To the point. We gotta friend in Lake-Town, one of her lot.” She juts her chin at Ólneth. “His names Calanthas. Bout yay high, silver hair, good sneeze would knock him down. Look him up when you get there.” Or if. She doesn’t say it, but her body language infers a lot.
The Axe looks the lot of you over. “Right, less you got any more questions, best get going. Do’t wanna lose the best part of the day.” She nods. It’s as much thanks as you’lll get from her until you’ve actually succeeded. “Come back with all your limbs.”
(The Foresters dont’ have the expression ‘safe journey’ for obvious reasons. This is the closest they get.)
Ólneth greets Agnar's smile with one of her own. There is a world of difference in his demeanor between now and the first time they had met, and she is happy to see him looking more at ease with himself. "There are those among my people who specialize in creating various musical instruments, and there are also those who pride themselves in crafting their own. In this particular case however neither of those options are correct." She gently pats her flute, (which, as usual, hangs from her belt). "This was a gift from my father, Tirron. It took him many months to finish perfecting it." There were no doubt countless flutes of higher quality in existence; much like Ólneth herself Tirron was far better at playing instruments than making them. But he had created it as a gift of love, and therefore it was worth more to her than any magical flute made by the finest of elvish craftsmen.
The conversation is cut short by the arrival of the Axe and Ólneth's own ill-received question. By now Ólneth views being mocked for her lack of strength as practically a sign of endearment, so she does not mind the ridicule. "No doubt if I tried to carry one of those barrels, it would crush me so far into the earth that neither I nor the barrel would ever be seen again. However I would rather carry one hundred barrels than ask Beorn to part with one of his steeds. Your foresight in arranging for donkeys has saved me from both those fates, and I thank you for it." That last part is not a mocking exaggeration. She is genuinely thankful to find that the difficult task of procuring beasts of burden willing to brave the forest has already been done.
Her only other question was one Lorgan already asked, so she merely nods a farewell to the Axe. "Na lû e-govaned vîn."*
Looking at her new companions, she smiles at all of them. "Well friends, it seems we are to undertake a journey together. The fortunate part of being a messenger is that one is always packed, but do any of you have pressing matters to attend to before we leave?"
|
|
"So is that a 'no' on the boiling idea?" Agnar murmurs as the Axe continues continues her uninterrupted streak of replacing brash un-thinking hostility in place of reasoned debate.
"I do have a question," he states. 'And you'll find this one harder to dismiss out of hand.' "How long is the journey and can we get some rations for the trip?"
He made a mental note to ask the elfess about her father after certain people and not about and yelling at them.
Beyond the (foolish) question of where exactly Lake-Town may be found, Lorgan has nothing further to ask the Axe and when she dismisses them he gives her a quick nod (a gracious bow would be overdoing it, he feels) and gets out of the Great Hall before laughter can overtake him. Once they are all outside, he sits down on the warm grass and gives full vent to his mirth, which is mostly at Ólneth's expense, although it is not unkindly meant. "By the Valar, did you see the look on her face when you asked about ponies?!" He spends some more time in laughter, before collecting himself, although his grin is still broad. "It is just as well perhaps that we already have our nicknames, because I feel sure she would have come up with one for you on the spot."
When the Elf discusses more serious matters however, he gives her his full attention. "Likewise we of the Dúnedain are no strangers to moving on rapidly. I have what I need, more or less. Although a good map and some directions would be welcome. I am willing to go to Lake-Town, though I do not know the way. Perhaps you could give us your thoughts, friend Agnar?"
The Axe shrugs off Agnar's attempt at more questions. "No idea, never been there. Month, probably, maybe two there and back. Maybe three. Depedns how quick you walk, how much troulbe you run into." She shakes her head in disgust at his talk of rations. "You've no idea what a month of food even looks like, have you? You couldn't carry a week of food, much less a month." She points at teh door. "Go on, get outta here, Wulfshéaf. Stop wasting my time."
Faem walks out of the chamber smiling from ear to ear. She did see me! Aad she fails too, sometimes! And she wants me o impress her! The hobbit is tickled by the interaction with The Axe, and can think of little else as the company makes final preparations for their journey.
"A month?" she finally thinks to remark to Lorgan. "I've fishing tackle, fo' when we cross streams, an' we may've luck with t' odd squirrel, but this journey may be lean times." In truth, lean times are nothing new to Faem, but she wonders about the larger folk.
|
|
Although he gives no sign outwardly, having no further mental energy to react, inwardly he throws his hands up, resigning himself to this plan-with-no-plan.
'When you fail to plan, you plan to fail' the tutor had told him several times, so this taking on a major undertaking without so much as spare pair of boots seems folly.
But he had not had his druthers in, O some time. So now seemed like no time for it to start.
"I have everything I own with me," he says simply, slapping his pack. "So now is as good a time as any.
And, aye, Lorgan. As much as anyone, I guess I will always know at least what general direction my hometown is. I should be able to guide you without overmuch trouble."
'Eh? There's one thing I know that the super-man doesn't. And I'm about to lead him there so I won't even have that.'
Lorgan is still seated on the grass, which means he's at eye level with the Hobbit. Her ear-to-ear smile brings out an answering smile of his own. There is one who has seen too much grief already. It is good to see some joy. He had been worried that the Axe's words would be crushing, but it seems that Faem took them in good heart. It is a good start to the day.
As her talk moves to practical matters and supplies, he gives her a more serious nod. "I think we shall be very grateful, by the time our journey is out, for your fishing skills. But I am not too concerned. The Winter is gone, and this forest is grim indeed, but the lands I walked through to get here look to be well-stocked with rabbits, hares, wood-pigeon." His eyes gleam. "Even the occasional deer, although that would be rare feat indeed, to bring one of those down. Times may be leaner than here, but we shall not starve."
The elf and Ranger are both well travelled and know the importantce of keeping up with events in and around where they are, although telling the differecne between truth and rumour is not always easy. The pair have heard from Amaline, a Forester trader arrived from Mountain Hall, that the Beornings are keeping watch over the Old Ford and keeping travellers safe, although the old road through Mirkwood is still totoally unsafe. (Ólneth remembes that this is the old road Thorin and co. travelled on before ending up in Thranduil's court). Old Ingund, local charcoal burner who has spent far too long wandering in Mirkwood, mutters about spiders and eyes and goblins and wolves. Hylda, the old guide who sits by the Hedge Gate, asks after your destination and offers you her opinion on how you should get there, although it's not clear that shes' ever actually been to Esgaroth or Dale.
Agnar has been in Rhosgobel for longer and knows to talk to the travelling merchants to get the news of what is happening further away. He has heard that King Bard plans to send emissaries this year to Dorwinion, a land to the east that is famous for its wine. The king hopes that this will lead to a treaty of some sort or at least a border that he doesnt have to worry about defending too much. Agnar has also heard that there are more dwarves of the road about than usual, presumably heading to Erebor.
Dwarves of the road are the ones who adapted. When they lost their mountain strongholds, they didn't make war to try and get them back (Moria, Erebor), they didn't head for other strongholds (Iron Hills, Blue Mountains) to join the dwarves there, adn they didn't sit aroudn brooding (dwarves of teh Grey Mountains). They have taken on a wandering lifestyle offering services from town to town. usually smiths or tinkers, relying on the reputation for dwarven quality. Most dwarves of the road are honorable but there are a few who rely on the fact they won't be in taht town again to take the money and do shoddy work, perhaps even commit a theft or two before moving on.
"There is game enough in the forest," Ólneth concurs. "Also many of the plants are safe to eat if one is careful. We should be in no danger of starvation."
She closes her eyes for a moment while she mentally maps out their route. "Goblins will be our main concern as we make our way to the path. Many of the foul creatures fled into Mirkwood after the Battle, and the ones smart enough to stay close to the edges still dwell there. I move quietly and avoid them when traveling alone, but that will be more difficult with a group of four, and likely impossible when we return with donkeys."
Lorgan nods, with a smile at Ólneth. He has no trouble at all believing that the Elf can move like a whisper through the leaves. "If stealth should fail us, we must trust to cold steel and courageous hearts." He lifts his sword a fraction out of its scabbard, checking that the blade will move freely when he needs to draw it, before letting it drop back. chk-chk
He thinks on other news. "I have had dealings with Dwarves of the road before. The majority are honourable, but as ever there are a few who sully the reputation of the many. A polite caution should serve us well, if we encounter them." An encounter that could prove interesting when we travel with an Elf. He pushes that thought away. Each day has enough trouble of its own.
Once you have made your final preparations, you leave Rhosgobel through the Hedge Gate. Hylda, the old guide who seems to sit there almost constantly, advises you that your best route is to avoid going through Mirkwood, but keep to the forest's edges where food and shelter are easier to find. If you break your journey at the Forest Gate, the elves will shelter you before you make the final part of your trip along the elf-road to Lake Town. The first part of your journey is tehrefore to get to the Forest Gate. Putting Rhosgobel at your backs, you embark with light hearts and a sense of hope. The weather is fine, and at least at first the miles simply seem to disappear.
It helps that you are getting out of Mirkwood, even though the part of the forest in and around Rhosgobel is tamed. Parts of it are almost pleasant. The Foresters have thinned the trees, over the years letting a little sunlight filter through the canopy. They made clearings as woodland pasture for their herds. Children play in the bushes near the villages. Still, the pall of darkness hangs heavy, even under the noonday sun. There is no safety in the forest, ever. One of those running children might stray five minutes walk from home, and find herself utterly lost amid unfamiliar trees. Mirkwood will alwasy be dark and hateful. As you reach the eaves of the forest, you encounter more breathable air and actual sunlight, which makes your steps go faster and further just by themsevles. Nearly two weeks into your journy, you make camp by the side of a stream. This is a regular river crossing and the Foresters have marked the shallower points with boulders. It is still potentially, treacherous though and best crossed in the light of morning. You have fresh fish for supper that evening, thanks to Faem and her fishing skills. You wake bright and early next morning, ready to make your crossing.
There is a certain pleasant-ness to being on the road, and there are times when Lorgan understands more fully the Dúnedain way of life and the attractions of living in the wilderness. He smiles. Of course, it's easy to have that perspective after almost a month of idleness. Not luxury, of course, the Foresters could never be described as decadent; but a roof over your head and the certainty of regular meal-times is easy to appreciate. It also helps, too, that the weather is cooperative and the food is abundant. There really is nothing like fresh fish that's in the pan the moment it comes out of the river.
The next morning finds him in a more contemplative mood, sizing up the nature of the task ahead. River crossings can be perilous, but he has rope and confidence both. Making sure to keep to the boulders where the Foresters have indicated the crossing-point, he makes it to the other side of the river with his rope, which he ties to a suitable point. He then rejoins his companions, with a cheerful smile. "There. That should make it easier to cross, for those of us who don't like getting our feet wet." He grins at the Wood-elf and the scholar.
Ólneth greatly enjoys the trek through Mirkwood, dark though it might be. It is rare for her to have companions on the road, (notwithstanding the times Rhossolas drags her out on one adventure or another), and it's pleasant to have company.
Particularly when said company includes a fisherwoman. There are few streams in Mirkwood and Ólneth had never bothered to learn how to fish herself. Therefore she sees the meal as something of a delicacy.
"This was wonderful Faem, thank you." Ólneth's smile is bright, and she is in the mood to provide a little musical accompaniment for dinner. For a short while it is almost like being in the middle of an Elvish feast, with light and song and laughter.
She is somewhat less cheerful the next morning as she eyes the rocks. Stream crossings are something she never looks forward to, given how many times she's slipped and fallen in. Nothing sours a journey like wet boots.
(She is also not eager to fall on her face in front of her new companions. She is less proud than many of her kin and freely acknowledges her own lack of strength, but she would prefer not to fail at such a task this early in the journey.)
Fortunately Lorgan crosses first, and is perceptive enough to throw a rope back across the small stream. Even with the rope Ólneth nearly slips on a particularly treacherous boulder, but she is able to catch herself in time. "Thank you."
|
|
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
"Hmmm. I do find a bit of this familiar. Perhaps I passed this way on my way here? It seems so long ago."
With a solid road in front of him, and a Task Worth Doing on his mind, the constant and rhythmic pattern of walking and hiking and walking some more focuses his mind. All his former cares and concerns seem to drift away. He gazes about the surrounding foliage and finds more of it familiar than unfamiliar.
"They say the same man can not pass over the same stream twice. For, just as the stream changes with the passing of time, so too does the man.
I wonder if this journey will change us? Indeed, I wonder if it already has?"
With game and berries and roots aplenty, some of which he even takes a hand in gathering, he sees now how foolish--indeed, 'naive' is the better word--was his question about rations. How low would a dry crust of dry bread taste, when put next to a hot stew of groats chased by clear stream water? Why gnaw a leather-hard strip of jerky when a fresh rabbit steak can be had for the taking?
The strong river brings him out of his reverie, and the nimble work of Lorgan once again emphasizes his lack of things which others have in surplus.
"Gratitude, Lorgan," Agnar groans in a monotone. "You have seen to our safety with your strength and forethought. We should not expect any different."
As the rest of the party make their way over, he is determined to not be the only fool face-plant into the swift-flowing water.
Fortunately he makes it, though by skill or luck he knows not.
| 3 people marked this as a favorite. |
She fishes and sprints and skips rocks and provides, and she can be heard mumbling lyrics to pass the time. Whether sense can be made of the riddles and rhyme, is a subject of secrecy, loosely composed in Faem's mind.
A forest,
A grove,
A stand,
A tree.
By choice or by chance, where there's one there are three.
A tree,
A stand,
A grove,
A forest.
Listen, lost fools, to the Mirkwood's first chorus.
What is meant, s'pose you, by these trite little verses? Nothing yet, you might think, though perhaps they are curses.
Lorgan carefully conceals a smile as he offers Ólneth a formal bow and the politest form of "You're welcome" that his Sindarin can manage. He looks puzzled at Agnar's statement about not crossing the same stream twice - indeed, has he not just done that when securing the rope and returning back to this side of the river? He gives the man a friendly smile as he expresses his gratitude. "I have no doubt I will be in need of your healing skills at some point! The road makes us all equal, all dependent on one another."
His mind gnaws over and over on the riddles that Faem has set, but he is none the wiser. Still it gives him something to think about in the days ahead.
You work well together and succeed in crossing the river with nobody getting wet boots in the process. Less hardy travellers might have struggled, but you gain a sense of satsifaction from working together with unity. A week or so later, you are well past the halfway point to Forest Gate. The easy miles are behind you. Now every step seems to bring you no clsoer to your destination. The forest here has thinned out, and while leaving the trees behind allows the sun to shine on your face, it means you have no shelter from the rains. It is raining, the sesonal spring rain that keeps the land here green but which soaks your clothes and makes themn stick to your skin. It is a relief when Ólneth spots a location that has the potential to be a safe and comfortable place to make camp: an ancient, ruined building, prehaps a farmhouse once. Now tumbledown, but easily defensible, and with plenty of fallen wood for a fire within.
Sadly it doesn't work out that way. No mater how you try, the smoke from your fire seems to find its way back in under the roof, making you cough and your eys water. Sleep is hard to find. Faem is reminded of the hobbit holes she has left behind, and memories of her people by the river. Her dreams ar troubled. Agnar and Lorgan find it hard to rest on the ground - however they place thmeselves, there is a bit of fallen rubble digging into their back or their side. Ólneth's wakign dreams are disturbed, too often she seems to see eyes looking her from the dark, but they vanish the moment she tries to spot them. The next morening you are all weary and dispirited.
Three days after that, things take a turn for the worse.
It's impossible to travel in a straight line in the wild. Even finding a path is difficult, therea are lots of things that look like paths that prove tricksy and lead to nothing. You may have intended to stik to the treeline of Mirkwood, but bit by bit you have been drifting closer to the banks of the Anduin river. At least with it in sight you have a frame of refernece to navigate by, and the land here is flatter and less hilly so progress is not only easier but more obvious to see.
Faem spots them just before you were about to wander inot them: ahead of you, a group of five grim-hawks are feeding on the bodies of several unfortunate wanderers and a pack horse or two. Grim-hawks are vicious, stork-like birds of prey - almost 8 feet tall with beak and claws capable of killing an armed man. Faem's people hunt them with arrows and stones, not for the flesh (which tastse terrible) but to drive them away from their burrows. Also, their beaks and claws make great decorations. They haven't spotted you, so there is a chance you can sneak around them. Or you can use the advantage of surprise to attack them.
Grim-hawks can kill a lone person, but they mainly eat carrion. It's almost unheard of for them to attack a group of people. It's more likely that what they're feeding on was killed by someone or somethign else.
Ólneth eyes the birds, considering. "I am not one to call for battle when there is no need, but I do not like the look of those bodies. They were killed by something. A far more dangerous predator than grim-hawks may well be lurking nearby." She keeps her hands on her bow. "I think we should try to figure out what happened before moving on. If that requires killing the grim-hawks first, so be it."
Crouching low to try and avoid being seen, Lorgan listens to Ólneth and considers the options as he watches the birds consume their grisly meal. "You may be right, but if we attack those birds we risk drawing the attention of whatever it was that killed those travellers. There is a saying about curiosity being bad for the health." This last is delivered with a smile, but the Dúnedain knows that five Grim-Hawks is a perilous prospect.
However, it doesn't look like he is going to change Agnar or Ólneth's mind. He sighs and puts an arrow to his bow. "Battle it is then."
The Dúnedain draws his great bow back and fires at the target.
You catch the grim-hawks by surprise, and Lorgan shoots one dead before the others can react but they are surpsirngly fast. You had better make your shots count because they will be on you quickly.
Ólneth is startled by how quickly the hawks move, and her initial shot flies over the head of her target. Grimacing, she moves down to the outcropping in the hope that climbing it might help her gain some advantage.
|
|
Agnar initially shakes his head at Lorgan's line of thought. "If such a predator were still anywhere near, why would he leave so much good meat? Either it...or they...cleared off in search of some other sport, or they ate their fill and went away to sleep it off. Nay, I'd say the original killers are the least of our worries."
As the battle is joined Agnar whistles softly as the uber-man effortlessly draws, aims and fires all in one smooth motion. And the cloth-yard shafts quickly and silently snuffs out its target.
'Of course. Of course he would.'
"Oop, here we go," is what he says.
Surveying the landscape, he quickly decides that smarter, and not harder, is how he should apply his meager-but-budding skills.
He quickly shuffles over to the respectable pile of rocks and, sliding, skipping and sloughing, he manages to end on the top of it.
There was a sound that always alerted her people of grim-hawks. The way they shuffled and clicked beaks and talons, and especially when they ate; it was a disgusting, hair-raising alarm. Small flocks like these were commonplace in the fetid marshes. All too often, a dumb oxen would get separated from a farmstead and become prey, and then the village gathered with whatever weapons were available to kill the grim-hawks or, more likely, drive them off. Faem's bow was drawn as soon as she heard the first unmistakable click.
What she was not prepared for was the automatic decision to fight them off. Was this risk necessary? She did not see anyone alive that needed help. Faem grimaced as the arrow sprung from Lorgan's bow, but the first grim-hawk fell with one shot - an impressive strike!
Emboldened, she joins the other two and scrambles up the scree to the higher ground.
Grim-hawks are big and tghey look clumsy but they move very, very fast. Their wings don't let them fly much, but they can make long hopping moves and effortlessly climb up rocks. They are on you in a flahs, stinking of rotted meat and wet feathers, beaks and viscous claws ready to strike.
Lorgan gives Agnar a quizzical look and a raised eyebrow. "Not all predators eat their prey. Bandits, for one. But I see I cannot dissuade you or Ólneth, so let us be about this."
He is completely unprepared for the speed of these things - he's about to reach for another arrow when a Grim-Hawk is suddenly right in front of him. Caught off-guard, however momentarily, he quickly drops the bow and draws his sword but his attack is more of a hasty attempt to fend the thing off than a serious attempt to wound it.
|
|
"GAH!" Agnar cunningly yelps as the bird-thing is on him in a blink.
"I did not expect them to be this fast!" he needlessly observes.
'Well, I wanted to come out here. Now what?' he thinks, only now pondering what his close-in battle plan should be.
Bowing to the obvious, his right hand quickly draws one of the long-bladed daggers at his belt.
Then, his left hand feeling empty and useless, follows suit and draws the weapon's brother. The knives themselves were but common things that, only a year ago, gathered dust on his mantel and only saw light when taken out to cut a fine bird at HarvestFest or MidWinter. They had ridden here in a purely utilitarian purpose, and Agnar only carried them as he felt more comfortable with them then he ever did with proper tools of war.
What happens next is more a wild, desperate flailing of blades than weaving a deadly web of death and steel.
Faem is not surprised by the grim-hawks fleet feet, and she is already dropping her bow and drawing her sword as they leap onto the rocks.
+
Ólneth wants to get onto the high ground, but before she can even attempt it there is a grim-hawk in her face. With no time left to climb and no space to shoot, she too drops the bow and draws her sword instead.
Lorgan misses but everyone else hits their targets, although nobodiy gets a kill. Lorgan and Ólneth are both experienced in fighting for thier lives and neither is harmed. Agnar is badly wounded but Faem is almost killed as a grim-hawk pounces on her and cuts her down with beak and claw.
Agnar 2/10 hp
Faem 0 hp
Lorgan 10/10 hp
Ólneth 9/9 hp
Hawk 1
Hawk 2
Hawk 3 -7
Hawk 4 -9
Hawk 5 -10
Ólneth's eyes widen at the sounds coming from the rock. "Faem! Agnar! Are you well?" She can't see the hobbit, but perhaps it's just because Faem is so much shorter than anyone else. Please let it be because Faem is too short for her to see.
She focuses on the grim-hawk in front of her, face grim. The sooner she can take care of the ones down here, the sooner she can go help the others.
Ólneth and Agnar manage to kill thier opponents. With half the flock dead in moments the two survivors screech in fury and withdraw.
Lorgan sheathes his - unbloodied - blade with relief as the predators flee. He is unharmed and he gives a warm smile as he sees that Ólneth is similarly unhurt. The smile falls right off his face as he looks up to the rocky outcrop to see Agnar looking bloodied and Faem - Oh no. No, no no.
He hastily clambers up to the top, doing what he can to check Faem's injuries, his heart sinking as he gives Agnar a helpless look. "This is far beyond my skill." He feels spectacularly useless as he watches the small Hobbit hover between life and death, unable to intervene. This is why we avoid pointless skirmishes! He doesn't say anything out loud, though. Saying I told you so is a waste of breath.
Besides, the first arrow was his.
Leaving Agnar to do his work, he retrieves his bow and puts an arrow to the string in case the hawks, or anything else, decides to give them trouble. He nods at the Elf, although he has trouble looking at her right now. "You wanted to look at the bodies to figure out what killed them. I'll keep watch."
|
|
"Ha! Ya! You better run!" Agnar shouts in victory, with only a hint of disbelief. 'Hoody hoo I survived how about that?' he thinks.
"Yes, Ólneth, we are well! We'll be--oh boy" he stops as he sees the unconscious form of Faem.
"Ya, you-all can take your leisure examining the site for clues. We shall be here some time."
'Oh look, someone hard pressed by wounds. This, at least, I know how to handle.'
The first thing he does is apply a clean bandage to the greater of the wounds to stop the bleeding.
"Um, actually, if someone could give me a hand..." he shouts as the wound proves too severe and the copious bleeding overruns the bandage.
Ólneth quickly wipes and sheathes her own sword, then frantically scrambles up the rock face. "Faem-" Her words cut off as she sees the small form. No.
Ignoring both Lorgan and Agnar, she drops to her knees beside the hobbit. "Echuio, anin gell nîn echuio.*" When Faem does not respond, she looks to Agnar. "Can you help her?" Almost before he finishes asking for assistance her hands are busy pressing bandages against the wound.
Working together, Agnar and Ólneth manage to stop the bleeding. Faem is still unconscious, and Agna'rs best guess is that she won't wake up for several hours.
Searching over the bodies of people and horses, you would guess they were killed several days ago, less than 1 week. They were clearly attacked, there are wounds on their bodies that no claw or beak could make. The postion of the wounds on teh bodies and hte angle suggests that they were attacked by smaller creatures: goblins, most likely.
This is a rich feast of carrion. Even if the birds you attacked don't retrun, something will be here at some point. The longer you stay, the more chance you have of another unpleasant encounter.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
The water of the river is cold against your feet, you are standing ankle-deep in the middle of a wide shallwo stream. All about is haazy, like mist or the blur you get when you hit yuor head too hard. On one river-bank, someone is calling to you, stretching out their hand, urging you towards them. It's Gael. "Faem! ... this way... ovre here!" His voice is distant, much more than you'd expect from the distnace he is calling you.
On the other bank, also hazy with mist, something else sits. You've seen this figure before, cloaked and black and terrible. It doens't say a word. It just reaches out for you with one arm, its unseen gaze intnent on you beneath its black cloak.
With the bleeding stopped, Ólneth finally leaves Faem's side. She doesn't look at anyone. "Yes. I'll look over the bodies." It's a task that allows her to leave Lorgan's silent judgment behind. The guilt, of course, stays with her.
She silently examines the scene, trying to determine what might have caused so many deaths. When she returns, her face is grimmer still. "Goblins. These people died less than a week ago, so the foul creatures are likely still in the area." Had the information been worth it?
If their initial plan had succeeded, and they been able to take the grim-hawks down from range, then yes. It would have been worthwhile information to know a large pack of goblins was close nearby, so they could take precautions.
But her arrow had missed, and four of the creatures were able to attack, and Faem had nearly died. Agnar did not look to be in much better condition. What good were precautions with half the party already so badly injured?