The golden-haried elf listens to you in silence, although she nods at Lorgan's comments. Her interest is most in wat Agnar has to say. "You have seen where they attacked the path?" She gives you a sharp glance. "How then did you survive? And could you find your way back there if I accompany you? It would save time if you take us straight there."
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Agnar was a bit startled, suddenly thrust in to the center of attention. "Um....yes?" he cunningly begins.
"Well, it's just that, ah, there were a lot of felled trees that were dying, and overcome with rot. And they were all securely and thickly bound with webbing.
Not wanting to bother with either the cursed trees or the web-spinners, we just went around them."
No need to bother them with the details.
"It was about a week ago. But, yes, we could probably get back there, if that would be helpful?"
Faem had been content to drift among the legs of the taller folk, looking upward at the elves and not catching herself before staring for too long. But at the suggestion that the company retrace its steps and then have to travel the same ground for a third time, she purses her lips and clears her throat.
"Hav'n ya got enuff elf-kin to take care o'spiders? We're on an urgent mission from Rhosgobel. T'we would help on the trip home, if'n you still need it."
For the young hobbit, it was one thing to heed the call when a fellow traveler was in trouble, but another to go looking for danger when it could best be avoided.
Lorgan considers carefully. On the one hand, it means losing more time and they have lost plenty of that already. On the other hand, doing a favour for someone who is clearly considered to be great among the Silvan Elves is probably worth the inconvenience.
"As my companion says, we are already on a quest for the Foresters. But we can take some time to show you what we discovered, if that would be of help to the Woodland Realm. I take it you would not need our assistance in dealing with the spiders once you have located their nest?"
The shortbow that Ruithel carries is known as Penbregol, one of the great treasures of the Silvan elves. It is strung with mithril, which explains why it is silver and is a relick of a past age, when the dwarf smith Gamil Zirack was considered a friend of the elves.
Ruithel nods at Faem's question, giving the hobbit a slightly suspicious look. (There are still rumours within Thranduil's court about Bilbo's activities there some years ago, not that Faem would be aware of that). "I am confident that we do not need the help of outlanders to kill spiders. All I ask is your aid in finding it, to save me searching the lenght and breathet of the path."
As Lorgan and Agnar agree, the scarred elf gives the faintest smile. "My thanks." She pours out a glass of wine for each of you from a bottle she has stored in her backpack. It is a rich deep red, with a smell of autumn fruit and a lingering, bitter aftertaste. The sort of wine you drink slowly. With the help of the wine, and the company of the elves, you sink quickly inot a dreamless sleep that night and wake feeling refreshed.
It takes you a week to retrace your footsteps along the path, bringing Ruithel and her company back to the obstaclle you had to travel carefull around. The elf's eyes gleam with anger as she looks at it with scorn. "This is not a trap. it is a challenge. Well, I for one accept it." She looks at you. "My thanks for bringing ths to my attention. If you plan to return this way, stop by the court of the Elvenking."
With that you are free to return to your own business.
Ólneth keeps surprisingly quiet during the conversations with Ruithel, mostly out of concern that she might accidentally say something to offend the older elf. Offending a mortal was one thing, their lives were short enough that they forgot grudges easily, but offending one so close to Thranduil's ear could have repercussions for centuries to come.
(Also, her first instinct is to immediately agree to whatever is asked of her, but she's self-aware enough to know that her companions might not agree. Best to let them state their opinions first.)
While it is good to be in the company of her own kin, she remains somewhat tense until they reach the fallen logs once more. For the first time she speaks directly to Ruithel as they prepare to depart for their own task. Bowing low, she says, "It was our pleasure to offer what assistance we could. May you have a good hunt under the stars."
She once again returns to silence until they are far away from the other elves, then releases a deep breath all at once. "Never did I think I would see the day when Ruithel would ask for my- our help. And we spent an entire week with her! She even invited us all to the court!" There is a distinct look of awe on her face.
Lorgan carefully savours the wine, finding it not altogether to his taste. Perhaps the bitterness of the aftertaste is something that only mortals experience? He looks to Ólneth, trying to see if she finds it bitter as well; but the thoughts of Elves are not easily discerned by other races.
As they take their leave some days later, he bows low to Ruithel. "It is we who are grateful. Without your people's work in keeping the path clear, there would be no safe passage through Mirkwood. May your arrows ever find their mark." (He delivers this last in Sindarin).
She once again returns to silence until they are far away from the other elves, then releases a deep breath all at once. "Never did I think I would see the day when Ruithel would ask for my- our help. And we spent an entire week with her! She even invited us all to the court!" There is a distinct look of awe on her face.
Lorgan looks mildly amused at the Elf's expression of awe. "I take it she is considered highly among your people? Certainly that bow of hers is magnificent - strung with Dwarven mithril, if I'm not mistaken. Penbregol. A relic of a time long past. Only one of the great would have the right to bear such a treasure."
The delay put Faem in a grumpy mood. They could'na find them spiders wit'out us? We nev'r left th'trail... But all is forgotten once keen-looking high-elf invites the company to the "court of the Elvenking." To the young hobbit, that sounds pretty grand.
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Agnar nods in a friendly manner as they are thanked for their assistance, and overall he decides on holding his tongue, unsure that giving his own voice free reign might not make a mis-step.
He had little ken of the elder race as a whole, and they still yet were a mystery to him. First the borderline juvenile taunting of the wood elves, and now asked to lead to a landmark that they might have just as easily given directions to. It all does seem quite odd.
The invitation to Court is, at least, intriguing. Although from what he's seen he's unsure if such a venture would be a worthwhile one.
"Penbregol, you say? And strung with a rare metal? That is certainly a fine weapon! If she has power enough to draw it she must be an archer of great talent!"
With that he turns his attention to his feet, trying to make up the week they spent getting here.
About a day or two after you have parted company with Ruithel, it becomes clear to you that the path moves and changes over time. You have walked this part of the route twice now already, but instead of seeing familiar scenery you find youseleves walking a route that looks completely different from what you remember. Afeter another day or so, you stumble into a vast clearing, over 100 feet across, wide enough to allow the spring sunshine to reach the ground. At the centre of the clearing, basking in the sunlight, is an enormous holly tree. Not especially tall, its trunk is huge, wider across than the tree is tall, and twisted and gnarled with great age. The weight of eons seems to radiate from its twisted, almost arthritic branches. How long has it stood here? Does it perhaps remember a time when this was not Mirkwood, a time before the Necromancer and the Shadow currupted this forest?
Its presence sseems to provoke an awed silence, the same reverence you might show in a temple. Speaking in anything abouve a whisper seems almost like sacrilege.
Faem had seen trees that looked like this but much smaller, sort of overgrown bushes with tart red berries you could put a pestle to and liven up the rare cut of mutton. They sprag up from the marshes and in the winter time, after losing their leaves, the trees appeared bent and twisted, like a worn down old hobbit who'd seen too many seasons in the punishing land.
But this is different. The tree is massive. Faem's home back in the Vale could fit easily within the circumference of its trunk. She is filled with the urge to climb it, and she begins to cross the clearing towards the tree.
Logan is silently awed by the ancient tree, but unlike Faem his instinct is to stand back from it and try and take it all in - its breadth as well as its height. But it is the dimension he cannot see - its vast age - that is the sticking point. It simply seems to be too old to be allowed.
Ólneth nods in response to Lorgan's question. "She commands the guard, and is one of King Thranduil's close counselors. Even before she rose to that position, she was greatly respected as a hunter. She is...not nobility as the race of Men would consider it, but still one of the most important elves in Mirkwood. Certainly far above my own status." The awestruck look remains on her face for quite some time.
Ólneth is at first silent as she gazes at the tree. Then she approaches and very, very gently lays a hand upon its trunk. "One of the great watchers," she whispers, but does not elaborate further.
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"Then do you know," Agnar rejoinders at Ólneth, "how it is that it keeps all other flora from crowding about it? Does it have some silent pact with the other trees to keep it clear and give it sunlight?"
For scientific purposes Agnar wonders at the logistics of taking some of the holly branches with him to see if its magic has any effects away from the tree...but he somehow thinks that would not go well, and squashes the thought.
The timlesseness of this tree reminds you of the way you had to start seeing things when you moved from Dale to live with Kara and see life the way the Foresters do. The city's rush of day to day and hour by hour gave way to the long, slow turn of the seasons. This tree has seen so much, lived so long. Grief and sorrow and joy are all past and present. The grief you have for Kara is still there, will always be there, but perhaps as time passes it can become less of a wound and more something that is yours to carry, like the sword-belt that weighs you down, or the marks on your thumb from using a quill pen.
For some reason, the sight of this tree fills you with hope for the future. You have lost much, and many things have happened to you but you endure. This tree too has seen the fall of the forest to darker powers but it still endures.
This tree is all that is left of a great forest, now fallen to darkness. In the same way, your people are all that is left of Westernesse. Driven from their homes, they skulk in the north, regarded as vagabonds and bandits. The sight of this ancient tree remids you of the fleeting nature of life, and the fall of all that is good.
Leaving the forest clearing and the great tree behind, you press onward towards your destination.
"There are those among my people who can speak to the trees, but I am not one of them." Ólneth keeps her voice low as they exit the clearing. "However I suspect it does have such a pact. Trees as old as that one are respected by the entire forest. Even the darkest shadows cannot overtake them."
Lorgan seems to be the only afflicted by a sense of gloom rather than uplifted. The sight of the tree does not stir his heart with anything other than the crushing burden of the weight of years. He is uncharacteristically silent while they are in the presence of the tree and is the first to pick up his backpack when they get moving once more.
Faem presses her palm to the thick bark of the ancient tree. She feels a kinship to it - a familiar soul. Like her folk in the Vales, this tree had persisted against the encroaching darkness, and created a special place for itself. She knew she could do the same.
"I wish I could talk t'trees," she responds quietly to Ólneth. "I bet this'n have stories t'tell."
It is with reluctance that she departs the clearing, and she keeps turning to look back at the old holly until the Mirkwood again hides it completely.
After weeks of travel through the forest, your journey is nearly at an end. A few days more, and you will surely pass through Mirkwood and out the other side. Unfortnunately for you, the elf-king's is not the only will at work in this place. There are other, darker purposes that can bring their magic to bear upon the path, trying always to twist it to their will, leading travellers astray into the dark places of the wood where the shadows lie.
For several days now the path has led you south rather than east, taking you in the direction of the darker, more dangerous parts of Mirkwood. The trees here seem menacing, filled with hate for all things that walk. The birds do not sing and even the black squirrels that have driven you almost crazy with their endless chattering are not present. The silence is everywhere around you, and spider webs cling to the trees overhead. Turning back would seem sensible but easier said than done. Whicheer way you seem to walk, the path turns back on itself, making the way forward seem muddled in your minds. All you can do is put one foot in front of the other and hope for the best.
Ólneth maanages to fight off the enchantment that lies on your minds and makes it hard to see the way out, but despite her best efforts as the scout, you have now wandered deep into the heart of this forsaken area. The trees start to thin out a little, and you end up in a glade that was clearly once a pleasant spot. A small spring bubbles up from the eearth, its waters now tainted and foul. The air is heavy with the smell of rot and mildew and worse. The rotting carcasses of two of the great spiders of Mirkwood, now long dead, lie where they fell.
Worse still, a sly tree root wrapts itself around Faem's feet, tripping her up and sending her rolling into Agnar. The scholar loses his footing and goes flying down the slope, his pots and pans coming loose from his pack and crashing into a nearby tree with an echoing crash. There is a horribly silence, long enough for everyone to regain their footing and Agnar to collect his things, before you hear a laughing sound, like a friendly chuckle, just human enough to be horrifying. Part of a tree, or what looked like a tree until a moment ago, about a hundreed feet away from you, opens its eyes and its jaws as it mocks you. Slightering down to the ground, you see it is a huge serpent, although it moves forward on short clawed legs, dragging itself slowly across the ground towards you, still making that laughing noise.
As the company continues going south instead of northwest, Faem begins to wonder if the trail is purposefully misleading; those tricksy elves might have no qualms about leading them in circles, or worse. But then when the path veers into this dreadful part of the wood she becomes more fearful that it is the forest itself which traps them. The tree root which snags her otherwise sure-placed foot antagonizes her even more, as does the tumble into Agnar. She can't help feeling as if this very moment has played out between the two of them once before. Middle-Earth can be a maddening place.
She spots the serpent and immediately feels the urge to flee. "We need t'be gettin' t'Lake-Town. This ain't'r fight."
Lorgan's bow is drawn and arrow nocked even as Faem and Agnar pick themselves up off the ground. He blinks in surprise - and no small amount of horror - as the snake-like thing uncoils and moves towards them. "This foe is beyond any of us. Run."
Assuming the others agree, he covers them with his bow as they run past him and then turns tail himself, following his companions in running as fast as they can away from the laughing lizard.
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"GARGGGHHHhhh!" Agnar yelps as he suddenly goes crashing down. "Confound it, Half-girl! A pox on thee and thy ever-leaving foots!" he calls out uncharacteristically. These woods and their eternal games have made him shout not in his usual calm demeaner but in the words of someone else. Someone of a shorter temper and greater girth. Such are the ways of the world now.
He calmly restores his kit before ominously looking up at the new threat. But his recent mal-treatment by the woods and the world have brought to life an ember of malice that, though his legs carry him away from it for a spell, do not carry him all the way out of the woods. Not yet.
"Imladnîr," Ólneth whispers as they spot the glade. "We should leave this place at once." Not that she's entirely certain where to go; the forest has been twisting around her and concealing all of the paths she knows.
Mirkwood is a dangerous place even for the elves that live there. This glen serves as a grim reminder of that.
Her fear spikes when the laughter starts. "A Sárnlug! Basilisk!" Seeing Agnar hesitate, she calls to him specifically. "That creature could easily kill us all. We must go now!" Like Lorgan, she draws her bow as she backs away, ready to cover their retreat.
With Ólneth's knowledge of what this place is and the creature you are facing, the decision to turn and flee is an easy one. The ground seems to be trying t stop you from escapign, whichever way you run seems to be the upward slope and the grass tries to wrap round your feet and ankles, while the basilisk has no difficulties in following you. Slowly, slowly, it seems to be catching up with you despite its obviously slower speed, until you reach the edge of the glade and keep running. It does not pursue you, although its chuckling laughthter follows you for a long while after. Once out of immediate ddanger you try to get back on the elf-path and you do your best to get back to the relative saftey of the trail, but time passes and it is not unitl almost dark until you have found your way again. The dusk has one last surprse to throw at you however, atlhough you do not discover this until Faem gives a sharp cry of pain as something swoops down from the trees and bites her. Two more somethings, bats the size of swans, fly down and strike at Lorgan but his shield protects him from danger once again.
Lorgan whirls around just in time to 'bounce' one of the bats off his shield. Drawing his sword, he slashes at one of the two creatures that is menacing him; although in his haste his balance is off-centre.
Faem almost shouts for joy when the company reaches the clearing, but the excitement is short lived, and that sword in her hand is going to be into use afterall.
Faem cuts a jagged wound into the bat she is fighting, and Agnar finishes it off with two quick strikes. Ólneth fires an arrow but it misses, and Lorgan is too busy defending himself to be able to hit his opponent. In return, one of the bats manages to bite the Dúnedain.
Lorgan winces as he discovers how difficult it is to protect oneself against two flying opponents. He swings his sword at the first opponent that ends up within reach of his blade.
With one bat destroyed, Faem hurls herself at one of the winged monsters attacking Lorgan.
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"Ha! I killed it!" Agnar happily shouts as the bat attacking Faem breaths it last. "Huzzah! Glory to the house of Valbrandr! All and every fear my mighty blade! My it drink the blood of all who--oop, we're still fighting are we?"
He immediately races over to Lorgan's Fight and starts flailing about, a stupid grin plastered on his face in his new-found honor.
Ólneth's arrow hits one of the bats, wounding but not killing it. Agnar, Lorgan and Faem combine their efforts to bring the other one down. The wounded bat bites at Lorgan again, but failes to draw blood this time. It shrieks in anger and flies away, dripping blood. A wounded predator in Mirkwood is prey. It will not last long.
Lorgan cleans his sword before pressing one hand to the wound he has received, giving a nod to Agnar and Faem. "My thanks for your aid, it was timely." He looks around, clearly eager to be somewhere - pretty much anywhere - else. "Shall we press on?"
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"Yeah you better run!" Agnar jeers at the last foe as it runs away, it's tail proverbially between its legs.
He bounces on his feet for a time, relishing the feeling as adrenaline rush wears off. He then shrugs and wipes the gore from his blades on the swiftly-cooling corpse at his feet.
At last sheathing his twin knives he takes a deep breathe. "Aye. No sense in staying here."
AGNAR, FAEM & LORGAN
Ólneth is still pale, even as the fight ends and the remaining bat flees. Her eyes dart around nervously as she looks at the rest of you. "I think - I think I should leave, unfortunately. I know what that thing was, and that place." She shudders. "If the Sárnlug has truly woken up, I need to warn my people as soon as possible. That means my path lies that way." She points along the elf-path, before pointing in the other direction. "Your journey will go that way. May the Valar shine on you, and may our paths cross again." With one last look at each of you, she fades into the surrounding forest and is soon lost from sight.
The next morning brings drizzle and mist, although your way forward on the elf path is clear. A day or so later, and you are out of Mirkwood, on the shores of the Long Lake, staring across the water at the city of Esgaroth. Rivalled in the North only by the city of Dale, Esgaroth is a unique sight. In a region where most populated settlements are no larger than a group of farmsteads surrounded by hedges, Lake-town is an island made of timber rising from the waters of the Long Lake, and crowded with roofs, streets and towers. These days, Esgaroth is a thriving port, measuring almost thrice the size of the town that Smaug destroyed. Beyond the falls to the south of the Long Lake, the Celduin River runs for many leagues, until it reaches the great inland Sea of Rhûn, past the land of Dorwinion. From there and beyond, travellers arrive in Lake-town aboard trading ships and rafts, bringing wares and goods for sale at the markets of the city. Before the dragon was killed, Esgaroth sat in the middle of the lake as an island, but these days there is a long bridge from the shore into the town.
After your long journey, you feel every mile you have walked in the aches and pains that beset your bodies. But the aches are good ones, the legacy of a path well walked to a worthy goal. As you walk over the bridge, and pass through the gate (the guards give you a brisk look but don't stop you or ask any questions), your fatigue seems to slip away like mist on a summer morning, leaving you feeling refreshed and invigorated.
Your instructions from the Axe were to find an elf named Calanthas (her description: silver hair, yay high, a stiff breeze would knock him down). In a town of over a thousand people, where will you start looking?
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"Wait! We need you to point out Calanthas!" he calls impotantly after the fleeing Ólneth. 'Stay here! Stay here and marry me....'
But there's nothing for it. Oft times beseems that which we pursue the hardest is the thing that evades us most of all. We are it seems play things for forces beyond our ken and outside of our control.
Agnar keeps his own council, retreating to a favored past times of recalling tales of old and debating with himself minor and arcane points.
"But if being evil makes you disqualified, then why did they burn Maedhros and Maglor, yet Melkor was able to wield them?" he is known to mutter to his shoes.
Arriving in the big city, he is anxious to be about their business. "Why don't we just find the first barkeep and ask where the elves are? It's not like there will be so many about that. Any well-informed inhabitant should have an idea. I just...someone other than me should ask. People sometimes find my words...hard to follow."
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"Haloo Guthrim!" Young Kori shouts. "Catch anything this morning?"
"Nary a nibble." Replies Guthrim. He flips his pole back and forward quickly sending the thin line arcing out into the waters of Long Lake. Satisfied with the cast, the lanky Woodman props his fishing pole against the rail and leans back to grab the piece of pine and small carving knife resting at his side. As he does so, the boy joins him, dropping his own line into the lake.
"Whatcha working on today?" Kori asks, his inquisitive eyes scoping out the half finished eagle carving. "Another eagle?"
"Same eagle." The woodman says as he runs the small carving knife carefully along the wing to remove another thin curly strip of wood. "Takes a bit of time to get the Lord of the Sky just right." He adds with a chuckle continuing to work the knife along the wood.
Guthrim had come to enjoy these late mornings fishing, talking with Kori and some of the other regulars who spent much of their time along the wharf fishing and sharing the latest news and gossip. He'd been calling Esgaroth home since autumn when he'd been marooned here by an early winter storm. A fairly long stretch for him to be in one place given his usual love of the road.
Yet, the break gave him a chance to rest, relax and get to know a few folk like Kori. The boy's father worked at the docks for one of the big merchant families that had grown wealthy since the dragon's death and the return of the dwarves. His mother cooked for one of the equally busy inns which left Kori to find his own way much of the day. The two hit it off when Guthrim arrived one morning with his fishing pole and his last carving of a mighty bear. Bear's tended to be popular among the local children following the Battle of Five Armies and the storied exploits of Beorn. Guthrim traded the bear for a good spot to set his stool.
These times were a welcome relief from the small room provided by Calanthas. He was grateful for the elf's hospitality to be sure, but staying inside all winter would have driven him mad for certain. But as they do, the seasons had turned and he'd recently received word that strangers were arriving and that soon enough he'd be on the move again. Welcome news for certain, although he would miss these friendly moments on the wharf.
Suddenly noticing the height of the sun in the sky, Guthrim curses mildly under his breath and rapidly pulls his line in. "Blood and ashes, but I'm late!" He says. "The elf'll never let me forget it if I'm late and these guests she's expecting show up."
Reaching into his pouch he pulls out another small carving, this one of a charging Rohirrim. The boys eyes light up as Guthrim hands him the darkwood knight.
"Take good care of him, lad." He says as Kori carefully takes the carving his eyes sparkling and a big grin on his face.
"Whoa...thanks Guthrim!" Kori exclaims. "And don't worry about Calanthas, she'll understand."
Gurthrim laughs. "Aye, she likely will lad. But still I'd better get going." With his pole broken down, he claps Kori on the shoulder and then hurries off toward home and whatever adventures the strangers might be bringing his way.
Faem had looked east her entire life, and when the high summer winds or cold winter air diminished the mists from the lowlands around the Great River, she would see the thin brown veil of trees marking the entry into Mirkwood. Curioursity motivated her to explore that dark like, like a cut across her world. But now she had been there, and done that, and was quite relieved to be through it. The prospect of the return trip did her nerves no good, but at least there was a brief respite while they searched for their quarry.
Lake Town was nother wonder; she had never seen so many men, or some many anybody. A thousand people! What could they possibly all be doing here in one place? And how would anyone find anyone else?
Agnar's suggestion seemed as good as any.
Lorgan is dismayed to see Ólneth depart from their little group, but he understands her priorities. He wonders if their paths will ever cross again, or whether in a century or two from now she will still remember the journey they took together.
His mood of slight melancholy lifts when he sees the curious wonders of Lake Town. "This is a fine place indeed to find beyond the edges of Wilderland!" He looks around. "Well, even in a place this size there can't be that many Elves, surely?" His eyes brighten as he spots a nearby tavern. "I suggest we take a hot meal and lodgings while we enquire about elves. I would imagine a tavern-keeper can tell us a little of the people here."
AGNAR, FAEM AND LORGAN
The tavern Lorgan has found is called the Piping Salmon, and it is a home from home to a rioutous mix of different cultures - but it is the tavern nearest the gate so that is perhaps to be expected. A few dwarves of the road sit in a corner, talking in low tones with their cousins from teh Blue Mountains far to the west. Men and women from Dorwinion and beyond rub shoulders at the bar with people from the more local environs, including a few tall, hulking Beornings. Nobody throws a glance at either Agnar or Lorgan, although Faem gets a few double-takes as people initially mistake her for a child before realising that she isn't.
The barman introduces himself as Munan, a slightly hunched middle-aged man with oily hair and a pockmarked face. He is a smooth talker with a polished sales patter, managing to extract your coin, pass you keys to your rooms and get you sat down for supper with a practiced economy of motion.
Later on, with more time to spare, he makes a point of visiting your table. "All well, good masters both and good lady too, I hope? Where do you be from?" As Lorgan asks after Calanthas, Munan squints and looks into the distance. "I don't know that name, but for sure there are elves in town. They have a corner of the city to themselves, but they aren't that keen on visitors at this time of day. You're best to try your luck tomorrow mornig."
GUTHRIM
Calanthas is waiting for you in her usual manner, a slight amusement in her eyes. She finds the mortal way of rushing around and fear of being cooped up to be incomprehensible, but she accepts it for what it is. "Did you have fun today? I'm afraid our guests will not be here if they haven't arrived yet, I've just come from the closing of the gate." She means the gate to the elven quarter - the gates to Lake Town itself are almost never closed. That would be bad for busiiness.
"Nary a nibble today." Guthrim says to Calanthas. "But that mix of mint, willow, and lavender tea seemed to agree with old Paldrake's stomach. He was up and about again this morning, telling stories of living life under the eye of the dragon...again." He adds with a wry smile.
"Gave young Kori that knight he'd been eyeballing. Haha! I thought his face was going to split, his grin was so wide."
Upon hearing that the travelers haven't arrived yet, the woodman's shoulders droop a bit. "Aye, well perhaps on the morrow then."
He grabs one of the days morning biscuits from the platter on the table and downs it in a couple of quick bites before reaching for the broom. "Guess I'll do a bit of the sweeping up and take a pipe on the porch before turning in. That's unless you've need of anything Calanthas?" He adds over the *whisk*whisk* of the broom running across the floorboards.
Faem is used to the looks. When she'd first arrived in Rhosgobel the woodmen folk were constantly confused by her. But here it was different. There was something else in the eyes she caught looking longer than would be appropriate - as if they had seen her before. But of course no one here had ever laid eyes on her and what were the odds of another hobbit showing up in this far corner of the earth? O' course, maybe if it were one of Lorgan's fat Hobbits from the Shore, or the Share, or the Shire, or whatever it was called. Traders maybe, although by his description they sounded too fat and lazy to make such a long journey.
She enjoyed three mugs of ale, each the size of her leg, and a shank of lamb that would have fed her family back home for two days. Lorgan and Agnar would take care of any speaking need be done. And with the meal complete, Faem happily sprawls out on the foot of the bed in the guest room and falls blissfully asleep.
Lorgan smiles at Munan and answers a few of his questions as to where the party is from, although he doesn't give his life story, "I've been staying with the Woodmen at Rhosgobel, and they asked me - us, I should say - to do them a favour."
He thanks Munan for the information on where elves might be found, and then after supper he retires to his room and sleeps soundly for the first night in months.
AGNAR, FAEM, LORGAN
The next day it is raining, not hard but more the sort of soft rain that looks like fog until you step into it and realise you're soaked to the skin within 10 minutes. The locals seem to shrug it off, but then they do live on a lake so presumably this sort of climate is what they're used to. The Elven Quarter is on the southwestern edge of Laketown, not far as teh crow flies but the tangled streets and narrow, crowded bridges of Esgaroth don't make it easy to travel in a straight line. It takes you well over an hour to make the journey, and when you reach there you find that it is separated from teh rest of town by a wide canal.
There's a single bridge over teh canal, with a barred gate. The gate is currently open, but the way through guarded by a handful of visibly armed wood-elves. They question and turn away most people who try to cross. When you approach they look you over curiously, but the name of Calanthas gets their attention. With a polite bow, their leader, a raven-haird pale elf who doesn't give his name, instructs you to wait where you are while he sends a runner with a message.
About 10 minutes later, a silver-haired elf who is slender even by the standards of their own kind walks along the bridge to meet you all. She gives a warm smile, which falls slightly as she looks at you more closely. "Greetings, you are welcome here. But - was there not another of your number? I was hoping to speak with Ólneth."
She is not alone. With her is someone who is clearly NOT an elf but a Forester, grizzled and well-travelled.
GUTHRIM
The next day brings the sort of misty rain that is so frequent in this town. It also brings good news: mid-morning, an elf messenger arrives for Calanthas, who smiles. "Finally. It seems that those we expected are here."
Walking alongside her, you step across teh bridge to find your next adventure.
Seeing Calanthas thrown off by the newcomers being one short, Guthrim steps forward and introduces himself. Offering a quick bow, the woodman is dressed in simple the shirt, pants, and leathers, and furs so common among his folks. Less than usual is the curved steel blade slung behind one shoulder. A type of blade more commonly seen among the tribes of the east or far south. His dark beard and hair are coated with the days mist, but he ignores the damp as if he's been in Laketown long enough to become quite used to it.
"Guthrim Woodshaper, at your service. A pleasure to make your acquaintance my friends." He says with a wide smile. "It seems like ages since I received word to wait for you folk here with our good elf." Taking in the rain soaked bunch before him, his face grows worried and he turns back to Calanthas. "But where are our manners, why stand out here in the dank rain. I'm sure these good folk have spent plenty of days and nights in the weather. Let's get inside and in front of a fire, with a bit of spiced wine to warm the bones before we share news and tales of derring-do."
Lorgan returns Guthrim's greeting, with a smile of his own. "It is good to make your acquaintance, Guthrim. My name is Lorgan." His speech and clothing are not in the style of the Woodmen, although he looks well enough like one.
He bows to Calanthas, offering her a greeting in Sindarin. "Your information is correct, we were blessed to travel almost all of this way in Ólneth's company. Sadly, we ran into difficulties on our journey and she felt the need to report matters urgently to the court of your king." He is obviously leaving out quite a lot of the story; his encounter with the basilisk and that place of Shadow is something he is still having trouble dealing with. Even in the clear(ish) light of day, he would rather not speak of it.