Lorgan gives a swift nod of acknowledgement at the information. "Good to know. We should move on, before we attract their attention." He turns away, readying his gear to move on... and stops. Turns back towards Ólneth. "Any decision can be criticised, afterwards. It's easy to do. But they are birds of prey - they could have spotted us trying to avoid them, and pounced." He gives the Elf a slight half-smile. "At least this way we got our shots in first. We're never told what would have happened. It's something I forget, on occasion." Another smile. "Please feel free to remind me if I forget again."
There's more than enough blame to go round, when things go wrong. The smart thing to do is not to hand it out and hope that nobody else does, either. He looks to Agnar. "How goes it? If she will not wake yet, I will carry her gladly. But we must away."
Wihchever direction you try to wade in, the current draws you further and further from your brother, his calls become harder and harder to hear. You get closer and closer to the dark-robed thing that crouches lurking and waiting ofr you, but as you get closer it becomes more and more indistinct, and by the time it is close enough to grab you it is no more than smoke, its arms wrapping round you to no effect as you hear a frustrated hiss and the word ssssoooooooonnn
And you wake up. There's pain and blood and hurt and blood and a lot more blood besides, but you're awake and alive and there's oh so much blood everyhwere.
Either hobbits are extremly tough, or Agnar is a master healer, or a bit of both, but Faem is quickly well enough to travel and you keep moving.
Lorgan
Lorgan
Lorgan
Ólneth
Faem
White-hari
Red-hair
Red-hair
Black-hair
The rest of the day does not go well. Weary atfer so much travel, all you are looking for is a spot to rest, but the land here is too claer. What was helpful when you were travelling is a porblem now you are looking to avoid whatever it was that killed the other travellers. Still moving forward towards Forest Gate, yuo cut across land slightly, headin back for the cover of the treeline. Partly this is to find concealment but also shelter. Whatever good weather you were enjoying passes with the day, and by late aftrenoon a thunderstom breaks over you, showering you with water and the rlentless crash of thunder in your ears and the electric flash of lightning. Hopefully, if there is anything pursuing you it will lose the trail. Some hope.
Eventually, the day fades and it starts to get dark. Heading for a stand of trees, your luck changes again and you find yourselves in a clearing that is a perfect spot for a campsite. Trees crowd in close, shielding you from most of the rain, and there is a large fallen log which would make a windbreak and allow a fire. It is so perfect a spot that it is already occupied. Three dwarves are tending a fire, over which is roasting a pig, its smell of roast pork fills the clearing. One dwarf has a white beard and an eyepatch, another has black hair and blue cloak and the third has red hair and a green cloak. All three are sitting by the fire, but they stand and look at you as you enter the clearing. White-hair looks cautious. Black-hair looks grim-faced. Red-hair smiles and is about to say something-
-when the air is filled with shrill shrieks and a rasping horn-blast as a dozen or so small, vicious-looking goblin creatures rush into the clearing from both sides, cutting you off from escape! The only option is to fight. unfortunately, though you were expecting trouble thanks to Ólneth's warning, they are still faster than you. They close to attack with rusty, bent swords and crooked spears. Lorgan is surrounded by three of them, but his armour and shield keep him from harm. Ólneth and Faem are not so lucky.
Ólneth's nods absentmindly at Lorgen when he tries to reassure her. While she appreciates the thought, it was not him who'd suffered the most from her reckless decision. Faem's form still lays motionless on the rock, and although Agnar is trying his best, she fears the hobbit might never wake.
Her relief when Faem does awaken is palpable. "Faem! Are you well? I feared..." She is reluctant to even speak the words, and so awkwardly changes the subject. "The battle is won. Fewer grim-hawks will harass travelers in these parts, and we have learned that these people were killed by a large pack of goblins." She hesitates. "I am...sorry...that you and Agnar were hurt."
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Despite knowing the goblins were around, Ólneth is once again surprised by how fast their enemies can move. The goblins surround them before she can even draw her sword. She hisses as a rusty sword scores a nasty wound on her arm, and from the sounds Faem is also injured.
Not again...
"Berio den!*" Her voice rings out in the darkness as she pulls out her sword. Faem's own sword suddenly feels lighter, easier to wield.
Meanwhile Ólneth strikes viciously at the nearest goblin, teeth bared. "Not this day creature!"
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"Oh dear," is all Agnar gets out before the voice-part of his brain just gives off the whole thing and takes off early.
The earlier bird wounds still throbbing, he quickly loses his taste for combat and jaunts off, scrambling on top of the nearest bit of tree.
Seeing the elf quickly dispatch a monster, he decides the dwarves might could use the most help right now. That may change, but it seems a good idea now.
He quickly puts arrow to bow and pulls back, firing down and at point-blank range.
Faem fights the current with everything ounce of her flesh. She reaches and cries out for her brother, Gael! and he does the same, but the figure which separates them is like a wall of cold black glass. The vision fades, and she wakes, tears streaming from her eyes. Agnar's healing has saved her life, but no such feat can mend her damaged spirit.
Dwarves and Gobbies. What a strange intersection of creatures that she continues to cross paths with. This time the Gobbies get the jump on them, and there is no time for a better plan. The first cut nearly puts her down again - and she almost wishes for it, to see Gael once more.
But her courage is not yet bled out of her body, and she slashes back with her sword, her vengeance swift and final.
As the gobbie falls in a spray of dark ichor, she follows Agnar to the top of the stump, where she pivots to shoot the remaining gobbies.
Lorgan gives a weary smile as he draws his sword for the second time that day. Tired and soaked to the skin he might be, but his spirit is not daunted. "Three on one? That hardly seems fair." He launches into an attack that looks over-done, but recovers instantly when the goblin gives him an opening, and cuts it almost in two. "I'm worth far more than that."
LORGAN
LORGAN
White-hair
Red-hair
Red-hair
Black-hair
Three goblins are cut doen in moments, but they keep attakcing. Lorgan again dodges the attacks, but all three dwarves are now hurt. They draw weapons, ready to attack. Eyepatch draws a sword with a gold hilt, Red-beard carries a 2-hnaded axe and Blac-beard uses an axe and shield.
Lorgan risks a quick glance behind him to see how his companions are doing. His expression is one of concern as he sees Ólneth's and Faem's new injuries. He presses the attack, with his words as much as his sword, trying to keep the goblins' attention focused on him.
He side-steps their clumsy attacks, and mocks them: "That's just sad. I'm not that old, but I can remember when your kind was feared. You? You're not scary." He grins at them savagely. "Go on. Prove me wrong."
Even if they don't understand his words, he hopes they understand his tone. If he can keep them away from his companions, that is a victory all by itself.
With enough goblins dead that she can move freely, Ólneth joins her companions on the stump. The advantage of high ground is not to be denied.
Ignoring the dwarves for now, she pulls out her bow to fire at one of the goblins attacking Lorgan. He has avoided injury thus far, but how long can his good fortune hold?
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First Agnar notices he is still alive, and feels lucky for it.
Looking around, he sees the gobbos around his friends are handling them nicely. Indeed, it now seems the uber-man stands amid a pile of corpses, sword bloody, cutting a fine image as a hero of old.
Turning away in shame and envy he sees the dwarves hard-pressed. Thinking they need the help most, he keeps trying to make friends by feathering the other line.
In a smooth action Faem drops her sword and pulls her bow from across her chest with one hand while drawing and nocking an arrow with the other. With Lorgan swinging freely and cutting down gobbies with astonishing speed, she pivots and sinks an arrow shaft into the next gobbie harassing the poor dwarves, who are not fairing well at all.
"Hold out fer as long as you can!"
She is rewarded by the sickening sight of the gobbie's head whipping off-kilter.
Lorgan and Ólneth combine forces to take dwon another goblin, while Agnar and Faem manage solo kills. The dwarves were slow to realise they were under attack, but now joing the fight with a cry "Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!" Thier weapons slay the two remaining goblins. The last surviving goblin tires again to hurt Lorgan, missing again before howling in fury and running away.
Red-beard is the first to react, putting away his axe and giving you all a big smile as he rushes forward and shakes everyone's hand. "Hello, hello, that was great the way you helped us out! Thank you all so much! I am in your debt." Up close, you see he is the shortest of the three, barely even four feet in his boots. "I shoud say, we are in your debt. I'm Borri, Borri the whittler, woodcarver, carpenter. This is my cousin-" Eyepatch interrupts him, not looking up while he cleans his gold-hilted sword. "who can talk for himself, thank you Borri." He puts the sword away and takes off his hood, with a bow in the tdraditional manner. "Snorri the blacksmith, at your service." His white beard and dignity suggest a great age. Snorri indicates the other dwarf, who hasn't spoken yet and deosn't seem likely to. "This is my friend, Hár, the stone-mason." Hár keeps his hands tucked into his belt and doesn't bow, although he gives you all a deep look and a very, very small nod. Snorri continues as he is obviously the leader. "My cousin is right, we are grateful for your hlep. Please join us. Borri, you should keep an eye on our supper." Borri nods, with another smile, and goes back to turning the roasting pig on its spit. Snorri invites you to sit by the fire and warm yourselves while he and Hár remove the goblin bodies from the clearing.
Borri is obviously the most talkative of the three, adn peppers you with questions while he turns the spit. "Gosh, what a varied company, I havne't seen and elf in a good long while! I'm guessing you're a wood-elf, is it true your people put the great Thorin Okenshield in prison? I'd have liked to see that, he was no friend to us wanderers." This comment gets Borri a grim look from Hár, and he quickly changes the subject. "And a, I'm not sure what you are, but you are the best shot I have seen, that was a clean kill you made right through that goblin." He gives Faem a smile, before nodding at Agnar. "That was some good shooting as well, a kill all to yourself!" He looks at Lorgan "and a great swordsman you must be, not even a scartch on you. What brings such a variety of friends to this place?"
Lorgan neatly side-steps the attack and cuts the goblin down as it turns to run "Wherever you were planning on running to, you're going to be late, goblin. As in, the late goblin." He cleans the black blood off his broadsword, before presenting it in a brief salute to Ólneth: "My thanks." He grins at her. "Kill-stealer." (Ólneth would definitely realise this is a joke: from their weeks on the road together, the others would all know that Lorgan's philosophy of combat is that you gratefully accept whatever help you can get.)
He is somewhat bemused by the red-bearded Dwarf's obvious display of friendliness, but it's better than Hár's grim-faced hostility and he gladly shakes Borri's hand, before returning Snorri's bow.
"Borri, Snorri, Hár, it is good to meet you. I am Lorgan, of the Dúnedain, at your service." He doesn't expect them to know who the Dúnedain are but that's not the issue. It's the way things are done. "I have spent all my life until now on the other side of the Misty Mountains, although I have some heritage among the Foresters and have spent the last month or so in Rhosgobel." He lets his other companions introduce themselves. "If you are willing to accept a few more guests at your feast, then I think we would gratefully accept a chance to rest and recover from today's events." He looks at the others, to see if they are willing.
He really, really hopes that the smell of roast pork is just as tempting to them as it is to him.
Ólneth pauses, bow still in hand, as she quickly surveys the battlefield to be sure all the goblins are dead. Only then does she hop off the stump.
"I am called Ólneth, of the Woodland Realm." She inclines her head to the dwarves but does not bow. "My people did imprison Thorin Oakenshield," (and even with everything that had happened since his escape was still a sore point), "but I myself was not in that company."
The dwarves seem friendly enough, or at least Borri does, but Ólneth maintains a certain distance. Even aside from the ancient history between Elves and Dwarves, (which she recognizes as a bias but cannot easily rid herself of), there is also the far more recent matter of Lorgan's warning to be politely cautious of wandering dwarves.
Although he did say the majority were honorable, and the roasting boar did smell very nice...
Ultimately she decides to follow the lead of the rest of the company in this matter. They will likely be far better at dealing with dwarves than I!
With the gobbies killed off, Faem drops her bow and looks at her own grievous wound, a proper gash down onto her collarbone that nearly took off her head. She winces and does her best to stop the bleeding with pressure and a scrap of sweaty cloth torn from her armor - an old pocket.
Sitting gingerly beside the fire, she turns her attention to the pig on the spit, eyeing it hungrily. The names of the dwarves run together in her head - such funny names!
Her thoughts wander back to the poor fellow who got himself trapped in the web, and who served as lunch in her stead, although she wouldn't have got herself caught if it weren't for him. But still...
Did they ask her a question? Better say nothing for now, but if they don't offer her a hunk of that roast flesh soon she'll take it!
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'Borri, Snorri, and Har? Hmmm, that would follow typical conventions,' Agnar thinks.
Of course, then he's of such a shock that the dwarves are continuing to speak that he's not sure how to respond.
He ponders wishing them a 'Gamut Manan'--a good day--but then he recalls that the few scrolls he enjoyed on the dwarf language also mentioned they were a bit odd about their own tongue, so he decided against it.
Of course then the elf and the uber-man--not a scratch on him and his sword well blooded because of course he is--had taken up the conversation and relieved him of the burden.
As two of the dwarves made to take away the bodies, some festooned with his arrows, he realizes he has no way to get -more- arrows and might try to retrieve the ones he shot.
"Um, hello. Terribly sorry, but do you mind if I try to pull our arrows out of corpses before you dispose of them? Sorry, it's just that these are turkey fletching and very hard to come by," he says to Snorri and Har.
Without really waiting for leave he approaches one of the bodies they're not currently moving and tries to remove an arrow. His gentle prodding moves it not at all.
'Idiot. This hunter-barb isn't going to come out. You'll have to cut it out.'
Shrugging at the inevitable, he drops to his knees and takes out a knife. Working quickly and with the stoicism of a trained doctor--when he puts his professional eyes on, he bows to the reality that we are all, just steak--he starts cutting into the muscle and viscera, trying to retrieve as many of the fragile, valuable arrows as possible
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Wether by luck or esperience, Lorgan has said exactly the right thing to gain the trust of the dwarves. Hár gives ihm a proper nod of respect, and a single word "Welcome." With a gesture, he invites you all to sit by the fire with him and dry yourselves out from the rain. The camp has plenty of logs and stones on which to sit. After several minutes of companionable silence, Hár suddenly delivers a riddle in his deep sonorous voice: "It cannot be picked up, but if you put it in something, you make it lighter." He glares at you all, daring you to answer, before a smile cracks his stern face.
Snorri gives Agnar an approving nod. "Waste not, want not." His voice is deep and gravelly, after too many years working a hot forge. He watches the scholear remove the arrows and realises that Angar is a healer. This skill wins him high praise from teh three dwarves, all of who were hurt in the fight with the goblins. Eventually the roasted pig is ready, and it is the highlight of the evening. Cooked over the fire, and well-tended by Borri, and eaten under the open sky, the pork is absolutely delicious. This is by far and away the best meal you have had since even before you met at Rhosgobel.
As you eat, the Dwarves produce a small keg of ale and open it in celebration. Borri passes round wooden cups for all of you, and offers the first toasts. "To victory over the goblins! And to friends made on the road!" Snorri offers another toast – "to Borri, for catching the delicious pig! Borri gives a shy smile and mutters about "snares" and "practice makes perfect" before offering another toast, with a nod to Ólneth: "To the evles of the forest for taking certain people down a peg or two!" Hár looks at him through narrowed eyes, but is too busy enjoying riddles to make somenthing of it. Borri hastily moves on. "And to the race of men, good allies in a fight!" Snorri offers another toast, with a laugh: "And to the dwarves, the heartiest drinkers of all!" He gives you all a smile. "No offence if you can't drink to that, nobody can match a dwarf for drinking!"
After several cups of ale have been enjoyed, Hár produces his drum, and Borri his whistle. They strike up a tune, and Hár and Snorri sing this song.
The world was young, the mountains green
No stain yet on the Moon was seen
No words were laid on stream or stone
When Durin woke and walked alone
He named the nameless hills and dells
He drank from yet untasted wells
He stooped and looked in Mirrormere
And saw a crown of stars appear
As gems upon a silver thread
Above the shadows of his head
The world was fair, the mountains tall
In Elder Days before the fall
Of mighty Kings in Nargothrond
And Gondolin, who now beyond
The Western Seas have passed away
The world was fair in Durin's Day
A king he was on carven throne
In many-pillared halls of stone
With golden roof and silver floor
And runes of power upon the door
The light of sun and star and moon
In shining lamps of crystal hewn
Undimmed by cloud or shade of night
They shone forever far and bright
There hammer on the anvil smote
There chisel clove, and graver wrote
There forged was blade and bound was hilt
The delver mined, the mason built
There beryl, pearl, and opal pale
And metal wrought like fishes' mail
Buckler and corslet, axe and sword
And shining spears were laid in horde
Unwearied then were Durin's folk
Beneath the mountains music woke
The harpers harped, the minstrels sang
And at the gates the trumpets rang
The world is grey, the mountains old
The forge's fire is ashen-cold
No harp is wrung, no hammer falls
The darkness dwells in Durin's halls
The Shadow lies upon his tomb
In Moria, in Khazad-dûm
But still the sunken stars appear
In dark and windless Mirrormere
There lies his crown in water deep
'Till Durin wakes again from sleep!"
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The fire warms her bones and mends her spirit, and when the pig is carved and offered - a generous portion - Faem begins to feel the aches of recent battles fall away. She fills herself so completely that afterward, having eaten an entire leg almost as tall as she, the young hobbit slumps against the log, unwilling to rouse herself, and listens to the big folk exchange pleasantries.
She perks up at the riddle, and sits to accept the first drink.
Faem pokes her finger through the tear in her shirt. "A hole!" she answers immediately to the first riddle. She'd heard that one a hundred times.
Then, once the cavernous mug of ale washes down into her gullet, she belches loudly, as is her custom - a mark of fine food and drink - and repays these dwarven companions in kind.
"Today it will trip you up and it will torture you in the morrow, yet it will also ease your pain when lost in grief and sorrow."
Indeed, the game was not merely familiar, but an act of ceremony to her people, and this act of kinship was repeated weekly back home, although rarely with such a fine meal. Mm, back home...
Faem empties her mug and accepts the next round with rosy cheeks.
Round 1
The ale is sweet - not the bitter varnish she had grown accustomed to and wary of in her village. No, the distillation of fermented marsh grass yielded a strong drink with a severely spoiled flavor, and the preference for more head and tails, for lack of wasting anything, made for rough mornings the following day.
This was like honey by comparison, and Faem quickly drank much too much.
Round 2
Round 3
Round 4
Round 5
Round 6
At last, when she had stayed mug for mug with Snorri, Borri, and Har, and her head is full of misremembered riddles and thoughts of her family and new friends, she smiles and enjoys this moment of laughter. There have been too precious few of these in her life, and beneath the shadow of the forest, fewer still remaining.
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Agnar nodded thanks and recognition to Snorri as he continues his gruesome work. Such practicality is always welcome. His cutting motions are quick and efficient, and so used is he to such work that he feels himself gaining strength from it.
Agnar never cared for riddles. The only thing he could think of to the hobbit's riddle was 'reedmace' for the herb made a potent tincture that took its price later, but the way of the hobbits probably did not include arcane usage of rare plants, so he held his tongue.
After so fine a meal it seemed that a wee bit o' th' creature was called for, and he heartily accepted a drink.
At this point he starts to imagine himself some kind of pirate and breaks out into song.
Piracy's a crime and crime doesn't pay
And we go home poor at the end of the day
But I'd rather live my life in rags
Than be taped to a desk with a wife as a hag
We live each day like there's nothing to lose
But a man has needs and the need is booze...
He had had all he could handle on this trip so far, having saved someone from what very nearly was certain death, and having come much to close himself. So he abandons himself to fates and tries to match the dwarves drink for drink.
He finds himself doing reasonably well, but he's no dwarf. Well into his cups he feels the dark cloud muffling his mind and at last gives himself over to oblivion, accepting a well-deserved sleep of the just.
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Lorgan greatly enjoys riddles, seeing them as a way of holding memories and folklore in a way that doesn't require them to be written down. He suspects that if he is ever to find the lost settlement of Trelawgun, it will be from clues found in snatches of rhyme or verse rather than in any parchment. Sadly for him, he lacks all talent in deciphering such cryptic word-puzzles. He gamely offers guess after guess to both the Dwarf and the Hobbit, and he laughs aloud when Faem answers Har's riddle. "Of course, so easy to see once you know it! A hole." He shakes his head, with a rueful smile. "There must be a hole in my wits, not to be able to see these."
He does his best to keep up with the drinking, but after several toasts he has to concede defeat: with a smile, he holds up his hand over the mug to prevent the next refill. In truth, he should have stopped some time previous to that, but the hot pork in his belly and the good company has made him drop his guard in a manner that no Ranger ever should. He stares in awe at Faem as she continues to eat and drink. Where does she put it? She must have hollow legs.
The Song of Durin is one he has never heard before, and he listens absolutely spellbound as Har and Snorri's voices combine with Borri's flute to evoke images and memories of the Elder Days. When the song ends, he applauds warmly. Well aware that he has fallen short in the matters of both riddling and drinking, he makes a different offering. "I have neither flute, nor drum, nor even a song of my own composition. But since you offered a toast to the Elves of the Woodland Realm, I sing a song of the Elves of Rivendell, West of the Misty Mountains."
It is a song that needs no accompaniment, for the Sindarin tongue is music enough. Beneath the light of the stars, he sings of she who kindled them:
"A Elbereth Gilthoniel
silivren penna míriel
o menel aglar elenath!
Na-chaered palan-díriel
o galadhremmin ennorath,
Fanuilos, le linnathon
nef aear, sí nef aearon!
A Elbereth Gilthoniel
o menel palan-díriel,
le nallon sí di'nguruthos!
A tiro nin, Fanuilos!"
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Ólneth gamely accepts the first cup of beer, although she can't keep her nose from wrinkling slightly. When Borri starts toasting people she raises her own glass. "To hobbits, among the stoutest and most hardy of people!" She then takes a sip of her beer and nearly spits it back out. How do the dwarves tolerate this stuff! Nevertheless it is only polite to finish what is given to you, and she manages to choke down the rest without any obvious grimacing.
She does however shake her head with a smile when offered a refill. "No thank you. I concede defeat in advance; I could never match a dwarf in drinking." As the beer continues to flow, she notes with amusement that her toast was not wrong; little Faem is the only one among them able to fully keep up.
Riddling has never been one of her strong suits, and she finds her own guesses are all wrong. Bowing out of that contest as well, she is relieved when riddles are replaced with song. She has never heard the song sung by the dwarves, and does not wish to possibly offend by attempting to add her flute to the tune, but she listens with great appreciation.
When Lorgan begans singing of Elbereth, she does pull out her flute to accompany him. She closes her eyes as she plays and for a moment can pretend that she is home, her family and friends around her, enjoying one of the Elven-King's fabled feasts.
She opens her eyes again to see Agnar snoring, Faem laughing, and Lorgan still singing elvish songs. She smiles around her flute. This may not be home, but I believe I am still surrounded by friends.
Once the song has finished, she shifts smoothly into a brighter tune that she thinks will go over well given the current mood. She cannot both sing and play, but hopefully one of the people present knows the song and can provide the lyrics.
Faem's skill with riddles and ablity to hold her drink amazes the dwarfs. Borri in particlar seems to find her adorable and keeps refilling her cup and plate, mainly out of a harmless curiousity to see just how mcuh she can eat and drink. Accepting defeat and unable to solve her riddle, Hár wordlessly gives the hobbit an ornately carved pipe.
Lorgan's singing (wth elven flute accompniment) is as spellbinding to them as thier singing was for him. When he finishes there is a long moment of silecne before any of them speak, and Snorri wipes at his one good eye, before speaking gruffly. "Damn woodsmoke. Nice song. No idea what you were singing about, lad, but yes. Can see the point of elves, sometimes. No offence intended to present company of course." As the fire dims and the food and drink are finished, the night closes in. The dwarves wrap themselves in their cloaks and start to snore. As the rest of you (aprat from Ólneth) sink into a beery sleep, you seem to hear a distant angry howling, too far away to be a danger tonight, but enough to invade your dreams.
Only Ólneth is left awake to keep watch, which she does in her usual elf-draem state.
It might be the rich food after so long traveling, it might be the beer, it might be the memories you stirred up of the Elven-King's court, whatever it si doesn't matter. Yuor attention wanders, not long but enough that when you refocus there are strangers standing at both ends of the clearing. No escape. They're humans and they don't look like bandits. Bandits have weapons, tehse people have a couple of hunting bows but otherwise farm implements. They look fearful, but determined and when they see the remains on the fire they look angry. One of them points a finger at you and puts it to his lips. You could call out but looking at your friends it's not clear if they'd wake and even if they did, how would they stop the arrows that would be fired at you?
The strangers creep forward but when it's clear you aren't going to raise the alarm, they hurry before you can change your mind. The dwarves and Faem, Agnar and Lorgan are trussed up and sacks put over their heads. They don't wake up. Not shouting was probably a good idea. Finally, three of them move to you, not looking in your eyes to avoid being magicked. One of them, the one who pointed at you, hands you a sack. You can put it on yourself or have it put on. Easy choice. Blinded, you feel your hands being grabbed and tied behind your back, before being led away with the rest of your group. By the sound of it, they are slowly waking up!
Your beer soacked dreams about howling wolves are invaded by a much more realistic dream of having a sack put over your head and your arms tied behind your back. It's very realistic.
It's real. You wake up slowly and there is no chance of excape. Rough hands are upon you and you are bound hand and foot!
While you are treated with rough hands, you are not hurt or mistreated in any way. Nothing is taken off you, you aren't robbed. With your hands tied, your weapons are useless to you anyway. You are pushed and pulled and prodded slowly forward. There's a murmur of voices, enough to know that it's a large group of men and women that have caught you. They are clearly annoyed and aren't afraid of telling you what you did wrong.
"Stole our pig."
"That was our pig, shouldn't have eaten our pig."
"What did we do to you? Life not hard enough for us already?"
As dawn comes up, the light of day means you can see a bit through the sacks over your head. Not much, but enough to confirm that yes, you're outnumbered and yes, the otehrs are with you. You are approaching a small, fortified farmstead, like one of many in the area. there's a simple palisade and enough buildings inside to suggest maybe 6 or 7 families in total. The place looks poor and the wall is broken in several places. Some of the buildings are clearly empty, from the lack of smoke in thier chimneys. You are all pushed into an empty building and left, tied hand and foot, on the rush strewen floor. The sacks are removed from your heads, at least eventually. The villagers spend several minutes in (not very) hushed argument about whether to keep it on Ólneth, clearly afriad of elf magic. Eventually, they agree to remove it because all you have to do is not look into her eyes.
The villagers don't say anything to you, apart from that Gailavira the village elder will see you when she's good and ready. Then tney leave you alone with your thoughts.
Ólneth sees the men only after they approach, a lapse of attention she berates herself for. They look like Foresters though, not bandits, and so after a brief but fierce internal debate she chooses to allow them to bind her friends. (Along with her, eventually, no matter how reluctant they were to approach.)
The mutters as they travel cement her decision not to fight, and she casts several dark looks towards the dwarves as they go, (not that they can be seen underneath the sack). When they are finally shoved into the empty building and left alone she does not hesitate to let her annoyance show. "You stole that pig? From a group of poor Foresters?" She shakes her head in disappointment. "And here I was thinking my people were wrong about the stinginess of dwarves."
She takes several deep breaths, then lets them out in a sigh as she forces herself to calm down. "I apologize for not waking anyone. There were too many of them, and I was not certain anyone would be aware enough to make reasoned decisions. Given their appearance and demeanor, I thought it best to play along and see what they wanted." She casts another dark glare at Borri, this time visible. "Which is apparently justice for their stolen property."
Faem's joy at receiving such a precious gift as the riddle pipe is short-lived, as are so many joys for the Hobbits of the Anduin Vales. It's not the part about getting hauled away in a sack that bothers her so much - if the foresters wanted to kill them they could have done so. It's that the dwarves either stole the pig or were careless with their choice of hunting grounds.
Theft was among the most serious crimes a hobbit could commit, since there was so little to go around. At least when you killed someone there was one less mouth to feed.
"Snorri, is it true?" she asks, still hopeful that this is all a big misunderstanding.
Meanwhile, whenever the guards turn their heads she attempts to wriggle from her bonds. Not all the way - just so she could slip them quickly if need be. She rubs her palms, using the sweat of the moment to create a little flexibility.
Lorgan's first instinct is to struggle - but it lasts only as long as his realisation that the captors are not Orcs. Even with the after-effects of the beer, he can tell because he's not being stabbed or tortured and he still has his weapons. After that, it's a matter of keeping up and moving and not drawing attention by asking questions or trying to escape. He keeps his ears open and does his best to see through the bag when the light permits. He spends the rest of the time berating himself for drinking too much and being caught off his guard. You can never, never, never relax when you're in the wild. Not even for a second. He begins to understand why his fellow Dúnedain are so grim and unsmiling.
When they finally end up on the floor in the empty building, he shifts himself around until he can personally see each and every one of his companions and reassure himself that they are all still with him. The relief in his eyes is obvious. He nods at Ólneth. "No apology needed, you did the right thing. Or rather, it is I who should apologise for not being aware enough. I assure you it will not happen again."
Having established that everyone is unharmed, he turns his attention to the Dwarves, although he winces inwardly as the Elf tars them all with the same brush. "Borri, I appreciate the hospitality you showed us last night. But, in spite of all the beer I drank, I seem to remember you talking about 'snares' and 'practice makes perfect.' I don't remember you saying anything about a stolen pig. It seems there are two stories here. I should like to hear your thoughts on this." His tone is pleasant, and his voice is friendly. But there's the very faintest of edges to it which suggests that unpleasantness, and unfriendliness, are both available if needed.
The dwarves have been having a furious muttered argument between themselves. As you interrupt them, the whitebearded dwarf rolls over to give Faem a sorrowful look. "Yes, girl, I'm afraid it is. My cousin here stole the pig. All I can say is that Hár and I didn't know anything aobut it, and I ask you to believe us. I'm sorry you have been dragged into this." His one eye gives Ólneth a quick glare. "Now, we can redo the old petty arguments between our people, or we can work out what to do next. I'm willing to pay whatever fine is needed, and tell them you had nothing to do with it. Only, we could do with someone to speak for us. I'm not a great talker." His voice is getting more croaky by the moment. "Nor is Hár. Borri's normalluy our speaker and in this case I don't think"
He is interrupted by Borri. "Hold on, I'm still here, you know." He gives an embarrased laugh. "I didn't steal the pig. I found it. Someone had left it tethered in the woods, they'd clearly forgotten about it. They were never going to see it again, if it wasn't me it would have been a wolf - or a goblin, can you imaging that, the gobins feasting and us going hungry?" He smiles at you, and laughs the same laugh he did last night. He clearly expects you to see the funny side, but he falls back under Lorgan's stare. "What? Oh, come on, it was just a pig. They've got more. I didn't expect to get caught, but like my cousin says, we'll pay the fine and be out of here."
Snorri gives him a furious glare. "Be QUIET." He looks at the rest of you. "You see my problem. If that's what Borri is going to say, we need someone else to speak to this Gailavira for us."
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Agnar is especially slow to grasp the new normal. Deep into his cups, deeper than he's been in some time, he reels in and out of consciousness, only half-listening to the on-going argument. However when he's dumped down unceremoniously he mind decides that's a good time to come to and begin to react.
'Really?' is his first coherent thought as his feelings of bon hommie turn to confusion, and then rage, and then a reluctant acceptance.
"You can't cheat an honest man," are the first words that his not-fully-awake brain deems pertinent. It seemed like -some- widsom should be disseminated onto this situation. "Had you sought out the owner, and explained you found a forgotten pig, in gratitude they might have let you have it. Or, at least, some measure of it, mayhap half, in obligation for returning it."
That was all the dispersions he felt like casting about. His mind was now moving on. Working on a plan.
"Beseems they might frown upon coin offered by thieves--no offense intended, it is simply how they will see it--or they might ask for more than you can provide, as they will no doubt demand the value of the pig -and- some kind of werguild for a life taken without permission."
He pauses to catch his breath and for his slow brain to catch up with his fast thoughts.
"I may be of some assistance. Out-country settlements like these always have hurts and sores. I could generously offer my services for a day or two as remuneration for the offense. This practice is frowned upon by the elders in the city, as for every balm offered freely that makes one less someone would be willing to pay for, but in this instance, since they have already paid the price of one unit of livestock, I think we will be amenable to it."
He didn't need to address their request for a spokesman. Obviously either the honey-tongued elf or, of course, the uber-man will be-spell the commonfolk with a web of silver-gilded words.
Ólneth closes her eyes, then sighs. "You are correct. Now is not the time to bring up old grudges. My apologies." Borri's story makes her feel slightly better; he may have been a thief, but it was due to foolishness rather than maliciousness. If he truly believed the pig had been left unattended in the forest, she could understand, (although not excuse), his reasoning.
Of course, the fact that they were here meant the pig had not been completely unattended. Whatever reason the Foresters had for tethering it out there, they had clearly not forgotten about it.
"Ordinarily I would offer to speak for us. However these people, like many Foresters, are deeply suspicious of elf-magic. They were reluctant enough to approach that I ended up putting the sack over my own head. They were equally reluctant to take it off. Anything I say might be thought an attempt at casting a spell. Lorgan is likely our best choice for representative."
She looks again at the dwarves, this time without a glare. "Agnar is correct. I do not think they would be insulted by an offer of payment, but they cannot eat silver. It is far more likely they will want us to do something practical in exchange. They may well accept Agnar's services as a healer, but the rest of us will likely also be expected to do something useful as payment. A hunt, perhaps, to pay back the meat we stole."
Her use of the word 'we' is deliberate. While only Borri had actually committed the theft, the rest of them had all partaken in stolen goods without thinking too hard about where they might have come from. They were all responsible.
Lorgan tries not to look too relieved when it becomes clear that there won't be an imminent re-enactment of the old Elf-Dwarf wars; he gives Ólneth a nod of gratitude for backing down. "I will do what I can, if I am called on. However, you may recall it took some time for the people of Rhosgobel to accept that I wasn't just some bandit from over the mountains. Whoever speaks, I think the first thing to do is apologise and see what they would like in terms of reparations." Agnar's suggestion of offering his healing services is a good one and he gives the man a nod.
He gives Borri a thoughtful look. In some ways, he's more concerned about his behaviour now in trying to treat it as a joke, than about the initial theft, which was simple foolishness. "It's not just a pig, Borri. It was their livelihood. You've seen how poor these people are. They can't afford to lose anything. It was not yours - ours - to take from them."
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Borri gives another smile, although there's less good humour in this one and a bit more scorn. "What? You think they've lost something? You're talking to someone who was born on the road! My ancesters lost their homes in the Grey Mountains and we've been wandering ever since, without a home, and looked down on by everyone we meet. What would you know about that?" He asks the Ranger, unintnentionally creating a dramatic irony sharp enough to cut your ropes.
He laughs ."But yes, let us all feel sorry for people who have a home and a hearth and enough pigs to carelesssly leave them out in the forest."
Snorri and Hár cut in furiously hear, but since the conversation is in Dwarven you don't know what they're saying. From the tone of voice they don't seem to agree with Borri's opinon.
"Yer wrong, Borri," Faem says bluntly, her brogue thick with disappointment. "Jus' cuz' you lost somethin' in yer life doesn' give you the right to take from others. Many people come from nothin', and you can't make yerself better by blamin' those that got more. Do that, and you'll never be better than you are. No, silver won't do. I agree with t'others - we all got to chip in and prove to these folk we're better than this."
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Snorri and Hár cut in furiously hear, but since the conversation is in Dwarven you don't know what they're saying. From the tone of voice they don't seem to agree with Borri's opinon.
Agnar's pride takes a sour wound as the others think they all must needs contribute to pay the toll. Master Isagoras could make half a gold crown a day, so certainly saving half-a-dozen limbs should be worth the price of just a single pig.
But, trussed and bound so, now hardly seems the right time to voice so august an opinion, so he keeps that in the quiver.
What does pique him is the underlying pride the dwarfs have being--essentially--homeless. For one who scrubbed floors with brushes barely more than a toothpick all for the honor of being talked down to by a Master of Flowers and to sleep in a hard bed after a thin gruel, it hardly seemed a source of pride to talk poorly of those that avoided such things and had to steal another man's husbandry to eat good pork.
"Are you actually envious of these people, Master Borri?" he begins. "Look about you. Breathe in the air. Do these sumptuous apartments, or the odor of fresh dung and sparse washing make you thirst with desire to emulate this lifestyle?
And why don't you have a home of your own? If you follow us to Laketown, I wager my very word that before the sun sets on the day thy foot touches town, I can find you work--perhaps at the docks, or at least at the stables--that will stand you a good room and a plate of thick pork steak for every night until you breathe your last.
If that does not tempt you...then I call into question your list of priorities."
He made a mental note that if Snorri and Har are speaking Khazalid in the presence of the others, then he need have no qualms, limited as he was.
"I believe you when you say that you thought the pig abandoned when you took it. That you thought no harm would come of it." Ólneth's own voice is soft. "But if you did not know the action was wrong, you would not have felt the need to lie."
She doesn't say anything more on the topic. The others have already pointed out the flaws in both his reasoning and his self-pity. The dwarves may indeed have had difficult lives, but that was no excuse for theft.
"If everyone agrees, then I will speak for us once we are brought before the elders." She just hopes she doesn't say the wrong thing.
Borri tries to laugh off Ólneth's and Faem's comments. "It was just a pig." Agnar's offer makes the smile into a painful effort. "I appreicate the thought, but spending any time in the shadow of the Lonely Mountain with Thorin's company thubing their noses at me from Erebor every day isn't something I look forward to."
About an hour or so after you arrived, you are led from the building you were in and pushed into the centre of the smoky great hall. A dais stands before the hearth, and on it sits a tall wooden chair. Furs are laid over it, and on them sits a proud grey haired woman. Her clothes, while not fine looking to the eyes of an Elf, Barding or Dwarf, look impressive enough to a Beorning or Forester. The fabrics are died a deep red and orange, and they are edged with inkle loom woven designs. A fur-trimmed cloak with a fine square silver brooch sits on her shoulders. Her piercing grey eyes are hard to hold for long. Clearly this is a woman who has seen a lot, and lived to tell the tale.
She looks at each of you in turn, before turning back towards Ólneth. “Who are you to come here and steal our pig? Have we wronged your people or the Elfking in some way? You will tell me your names and intention here in our lands, and if I do not like what you have to say I shall keep your swords here, and cast you out without them. Speak.”
Ólneth steps forward slightly and bows, (lower than she ordinarily would). "Greetings. I am Ólneth of the Woodland Realm. With me are Agnar, Faem, Lorgan, Hár, Snorri, and Borri." She gestures to each of them in turn, but gives them a moment to make their own introductions if they wish. Once everyone has been introduced, she continues.
"The Axe of Rhosgobel asked my companions and I to fetch salt from Laketown for the settlements of Larchrise, Woodsedge and Pinemount." She mentions the names deliberately, hoping to impress upon the woman that they intend to help Forester communities, not harm them. "These dwarves are wandering craftsmen we met on the road."
She pauses. This is the delicate part. "Borri found the pig in the forest. Seeing it tethered with no owner nearby, he thought it had been abandoned. He also thought it would be better if it fed us, rather than wild animals. The rest of us were unaware of the exact circumstances behind the pig's procurement until after we had been brought here." She lowers her head again, then time in contrition.
"Borri's actions were due to a lack of forethought, not malice. None of us intended to cause your community any harm. However we acknowledge that we did steal from you, and wish to make reparations. Whether those reparations are in the form of silver or some sort of labor is for you, as the harmed party, to decide." Ólneth does not believe a woman with eyes like that would ask for something completely unreasonable, but they can always negotiate later if necessary.
"What? You think they've lost something? You're talking to someone who was born on the road! My ancesters lost their homes in the Grey Mountains and we've been wandering ever since, without a home, and looked down on by everyone we meet. What would you know about that?" He asks the Ranger, unintnentionally creating a dramatic irony sharp enough to cut your ropes.
"What indeed," murmurs the Dúnedain, scion of the line of Elendil, exile of the fallen kingdom of Arnor, and of Lost Númenor before that. With Borri's timely reminder that most strangers see him and his people as little more than vagabonds and bandits, he keeps his own counsel while Ólneth speaks.
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Agnar couldn't be afraid.
It wasn't that he thought he shouldn't be. On the contrary, this was exactly the sort of the thing he believed should send him trembling. It was just that the surreal-ness of the whole thing--the homeless dwarves, the penny-queen--touched not his brain as a thing to be feared. So too, that it seemed the only punishment was the loss of swords, he had no sword to lose.
And so, he had but two settings. If he was not afraid, that meant his inexorable curiosity was free to roam.
Something nagged at the back of his brain. Something that didn't make sense, but in the normal way. At the root of it all he believed the dwarves that they had come upon the pig thusly described. For it seemed the height of un-reality that these--three hobos--would have heart enough to invade a penned-in herd of abscond with a pig, risking a farmer's open wrath. Hence, it must have been how they said.
So these people, who lacked all things...why would they have acted thus and purposefully lost one of their flock?
"Why was the pig abandoned?" he asks before he can stop himself.
Gailavira listens carefully to what Ólneth has to say and gives a satisfied nod as the elf does not try to deny the theft and offers to make reparation. "That is well spoken, I expect no different from your peopel. But that pig was important to us." She sighs. "Last winter, goblins came out of Mirkwood and started raidig our farms. They are led by a fierce warg, named Greymuzzle Hob. We sent hunters after him, but he killed them all. Rather than fight the beast, we came to an arrangement with the monster. Each month, we leave a pig out for Hob to eat, and in exchange, the Warg spares us."
"That was the pig that you took."
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Faem was tempted to say, Will he eat a dwarf?
The young hobbit was a stranger to the economy of pig ransom. If this village could supply a plump, delicious pig every month, did they not have an endless supply of such animals? She had rarely seen more than one pig in an entire village, so the idea that this town could give them out so freely, and still feed themselves, was baffling.
Perhaps they were very well off, and this pig was no sacrifice at all, compared to protection against the jaws of the warg. Perhaps if they fed it two pigs every month it would agree to protect them from outsiders as well. Maybe they were being stingy. Could a single pig feed a warg for a whole month? She imagined it half-starved, waiting for it's monthly ration from the greedy townsfolk. Now she was sympathizing with the warg.
Try as she might, this was a riddle Faem could not wrap her head around, so she let it go. If it was important, the elf would ask.
Lorgan listens respectfully to the village elder, before bowing and offering his modest proposal. "We met some goblins yesterday, and dispatched them handily. Perhaps if we were to track this warg and put it down, that would solve your problem? I think you could put your pigs to better use than paying a seemingly endless ransom."
Ólneth nods, finally understanding why the pig had been left alone in the forest. "I see. But surely you cannot have an endless supply of pigs. Did you have any plans in place for what to do when you ran out?" She realizes too late that the question might sound accusatory and quickly continues, "As Lorgan suggested, I would like to track down this warg and put an end to it. Such a foul creature should not be allowed to haunt this forest. However, I have never faced such a creature. Agnar, you are the most well-read of us. From what you know, would it be possible for our company to fight a warg and win?"
"I understand now the severity of our crime, but I would not see us throw our lives away in a battle that cannot be won. If this creature is beyond our power, perhaps we can return to Rhosgobel and petition for aid. Or look to my people, at the Forest Gate. There may be extra guards there that I could persuade into joining us. Or we could simply assist you with whatever plans you already have. But as for hunting the creature ourselves, I will defer to Agnar's judgment on the matter."
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From what you know, would it be possible for our company to fight a warg and win?"[/b]
Agnar wasn't even feeling his bonds. His head was bowed, his eyes closed, the masters in his head were all shouting answers to all the...wrongness that was being said about pigs. This had to stop.
And then the very pretty elf was asking -him- about things? And also stuff!
There was a lot going on.
"A female pig, a sow, can average two litters a year," he begins patiently, as a master lecturing a junior class, and not some outlander trussed up on an elder's floor. "A litter will average half-a-dozen pigs per litter, and it takes less than a year to raise a suckling to eating weight.
Hence, this arrangement uses up one sow's entire production, and represents a significant investment to fatten each up." He shrugs in his bonds. "Significant, but not overwhelming.
As to the crime, since the livestock was trussed well outside the village bounds, it does not fall into any controlling legal authority. Were this taken before the magistrate, the case as a whole is weak. In lieu of any signage proclaiming ownership and purpose, theft can not be proven by the government." He levels a patient look at the elder. "In light of the situation, the offer of effort to alleviate the banditry seems just. However, it should be looked upon with gratitude and assistance by the local constabulary, as it is good-faith remuneration in light of a magistrate's verdict.
And, yes, with the killing of a dozen goblins, one can surmise that the tribe as a whole is muchly weakened. I can say this because if it were so much greater, they would not have sued for peace, and would have just overrun the settlement as a whole."
Black memories of blood and screams crash against the door of the classroom, but now is not the time.
"Ergo, based on our stellar performance against the goblins, I would say that, yes, we could wipe out their band.
As for this intelligent warg..."
Lorgan gives Agnar a look of alarm as the Dale-man starts talking about magistrates and challenging Gailavira's authority. Nonononono, do you WANT her to lock us all up?!?!. He does his best to warn him off, but tied up as he is there's a physical limit to how emphatic he can be.
He coughs and hurriedly tries to smooth things over. "Please forgive my companion, esteemed elder. He is from the city of Dale and he means no offence to you or your people. He is a stranger to these ways. Of course we respect your authority and will abide by your judgement."
Ólneth closes her eyes for a moment, sighing. And it was going so well.
"As Lorgan said, please forgive Agnar's musings; he means no harm by them. We have already confessed to the crime and submitted ourselves to your judgment."
Agnar knows that wargs are varied, some of the older and more skilled/evil wargs are a match for the strongest warriors, while many of the younger whelps are little more trouble than the goblins they sometimes allow to ride them. This warg has some goblin soldiers under its command, so it's clearly of some age and malice, and it has the wit to extort payment. On the other hand, the fact that it is here rather than in Mirkwood itself suggests that other, stronger things have forced it into the open fields.
Gailavira's eyes flash with anger as Agnar contradicts her and (prehaps worse) makes her look potentially ignorant or foolish in frong of the villagers she leads. Lorgan and Ólneth’s words make her pause before she delivers her judgement, long enough for a shout to to up outside the hall, followed by the sounds of commotion and running feet beyond. All inside look around, suddenly nervous; all thoughts of admiration for their wise leader forgotten in a moment. Then comes a terrible sound of breaking timber and a baleful, roaring howl fills the air, chilling marrow-deep. A voice speaks from the darkness:
Greymuzzle Hob! Greymuzzle Hob is come!
Gailavira calls for you to be cut loose. “You say you can fight? If not, learn now! We draw swords together this day!” and in her hand is a shining blade of rippled steel. And from outside comes a dread voice in answer.
The doors of the hall burst open, and in rushes the night and with it Greymuzzle Hob, a fearsome black-furred Warg, with burning coals for eyes. Its coat is matted and slick with old blood. It reeks of death. Greymuzzle Hob is accompanied by many Goblins, who immediately swamr over the Dwarves and the fighters of Rowanhold. The fire in the hearth and all torches in the hall are instantly extinguished by the Warg’s entrance.
It takes Ólneth a moment for her vision to adjust the lower light, and in that time the Warg has already entered the hall. She nods grimly at Gailavira; like it or not the Warg has come to them. Now is the time to fight.
However her eyes fixate on the goblins first, not the Warg. While the cowardly creatures would no doubt flee once Greymuzzle Hob fell, in the meantime their harassment would be a distraction. In a low voice, barely audible over the din, she says, "I will be aiming for the goblins first. They are easy enough to kill, and denying him any allies seems prudent." Then she turns and quickly runs onto the dias, preferring to have her back to a wall.
Once in position, she turns, focuses on one of the goblins, and fires.
Lorgan is still annoyed with himself for being caught off-guard last night. He is therefore alert to the sound of splintering wood and by the time his captors release him he is already moving, drawing his bow and aiming at the warg.
He nods as Ólneth suggests her plan, knowing that his companions are wounded from yesterday. "I will hold this thing's attention while you thin the herd!"
He draws back an arrow and fires.