Lorgan has also noticed the craftsmanship of Agnar's weapon. He nods in agreement with Guthrim. "Indeed, that is unmistakably Elven work. It would not look out of place in Rivendell." He claps Agnar on the shoulder. "A fine weapon, I would guess it is more ancient by far than even these ruins! May it serve you well."
He does not sleep well that night. Normally suited to outdoors, the time spent in Rhosgobel has clearly softened him.
Lorgan is able to tell that Agnar's sword is indeed old, but not that old by elf standards. It's not from the lost forges of Gondolin or Nargothord, but was most likely forged at the Last Alliance, which still makes it 3000 years or so. As to who wielded it then, what deeds it saw or how it edede up here, who can say?
The next morning you load up the mules once again and continue your journey. Soon after lunch, with the ground getting boggier and marshier with every step, you see them: several clumps of reedmace growing on floating ilsands in the water. You tehter the mules to a nearby tree and walk carefully forwards, trying to avoid getting sucked into the muddy swamp. Faem and Gutrim suddenly shout a warning as the water around you erupts in a spray! Four vile crateaurs with leaf-like hair and long arms with iron-hard claws spring out at you. Faem identifies them as marsh-hags, orc like creatatures that hide in watery chambers beneath deep stagnant pools, waiting for an unfortunate traveller to stumble upon their hiding place. When a victim is within its reach, the Marsh-hag emerges to drown and devour its victim, and then retreats to its subaqueous haunts.
"Bah! More foul friends of the shadow. Well, no better time to test the prowess of this fine blade." Guthrim shouts, shifting to the northeast as he draws the short sword from its makeshift scabbard. The swampy ground slurps and sucks at his boots but the forester manages to keep his footing. The dwarf blade is light and easy in his grip. He feints, fends off a slime coated claw, and then drives his own blade forward. At first his attack seems to be off the mark, but the dwarf-crafted steel knows its ancient enemy and the blades balance and craftsmanship allow him to adjust and open up a slice across the hags outstretched arm.
A spike of terror grips Faem when the Marsh Hags burst from beneath the murky water. She knows this is an especially deadly enemy.
"Don't le'them work t'gether! she shouts as she brings a fury of blades down on the nearest hag.
The split secodn of warning that Faem gives is enough time for Guthrim and the hobbit to sink thier blades into one of the marsh-hags. It snarls in furious pain and sinks below the water rather than keep fighting. the other three lash out with their claws, hurting Lorgan and Faem.
The hag screams and flails, then falls beneath the surface of the murk. Faem can only hope they dealt a killing blow to it, but in the space vacated, the other witch of the waters cuts her deeply with its claws. The hobbit recoils, seriously wounded. Another swipe like that will send her to a watery grave.
As deftly as possible, she disengages from the Marsh Hag and moves to the nearest dry ground near a stand of reedmace.
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While the group hand loaded and unloaded the ponies, walked along, high and low, and went about the business of being on a journey, Agnar just...stared.
He had taken the blade outside and knelt down, almost in prayer. He used his own tunic to clear off most of the muck, and then used generous handfulls of sand and water to wash, almost scour, his new blade clean until it shown. His fingers trace the runes, finally reading its name. Holding it up in the light, his eyes devoured the sight, taking in its every detail, it's every line and edge. He had not seen many things, and he had never seen something so beautiful.
He acted almost mechanically, and when he wasn't looking at the blade, he was thinking about it. To say he felt drawn to the blade did not fully articulate what he was feeling. It was as if he had been born without an arm, and now he found it, and wondered what he had done all this time without it.
That night, as he tried to use it at swordplay, did not go well.
After nearly cutting off his own foot, he decided he'd need more training before using it in combat.
The irony that it was the first thing he drew when the hags attacked did not, just then, strike him as ironic.
"Ah-HA!" he yells, broadsword leading his charge as he, perhaps recklessly, rushes into the melee and HACKS for all he is worth.
"Take THAT! And THAT! And especially THAT!" he yells in drunken joy as the eldar blade seems to leap into battle of its own accord, and for a moment it's hard to tell if Agnar wields the sword, or if the sword wields him!
Lorgan barely has time to blink before the marsh-hags are on him, slashing with their claws. Badly wounded, and dripping blood into the water, he scrambles out of the marsh and back on to dry land.
"Get out of the water!"
Seeing the wounded prey flee, one of the marsh hags follows Lorgan.
It moves easily through the mud. It lashes out at the Ranger with its claws, but Lorgan defends himself easily now he is back on dry land. the other one stays where it is and slashes at Agnar, opening up fresh wounds.The last one swims after Guthrim, marking the Forester with its claws.
Seeing Lorgan's plight, Faem pivots and fires an arrow at the evil shrew across the water.
Her hands are wet, and the arrow slips from her fingers and flies wide of the mark.
With Grimm at his side and his feet upon solid ground, Guthrim decides not to turn his back on the nearest hag. Besides he was much more afraid of what the hobbit would do if he trampled the reedmace crossing their little island. So instead he plants his feet and readies himself for the inevitable charge from the hag.
Unfortunately, the comes in low when he had anticipated high. His own attack misses and he is rewarded with a new series of deep scratches across his leg. He whistles Grimm into the fray. The snarling forest hound splashes in the mud and sinks its teeth into the hags leg, payment in kind for the damage to its human companion.
The forester continues to duel the hag. This time he manages to slip the fine steel blade past the creature's defenses, cutting deep into the slimy flesh. He whistles again for Grimm to attack, but this time the hound slips and slides through the murky mud with a startled *yip*. Returning to Guthrim's side he performs a vigorous shake that sends mud and water showering everyone and everything for several feet.
"Woof!"
"Here now, you mangy mutt! I'd rather have my bath after the fighting's done." Guthrim hollers, keeping his eyes and blade focused on the hag.
Faem's arrow might have missed, but Lorgan gratefully uses the distraction it provides to plunge his new sword into his opponent. The Dwarf-wrought steel bites deep, cutting flesh and sinew.
Bitten by dog and stabbed with blade, the marsh hag screams in fury and pain but decicdes that living to fight another day is the smart move. It rapidly sinks below the water and swims away. The other two decide they are'not going to let this meal go without a fight, but their hunger has got the bst of them and they fial to land a hit.
This time, Agnar hits, the elven=crafted weapon slices through the water hag like a hot knife through butter. It flops to the ground, flopping like a landed fish before finally diying.
Lorgan gives Agnar a grateful nod for killing the enemy who was about to disembowel him. Sheathing his sword, he draws his bow and fires at the last remaining marsh-hag.
Faem shakes her hand and reaches for another arrow. This time the hag in her sights is only ten feet away. She can't miss again, can she?
Guthrim turns a drives his blade toward the one remaining hag but his foot slips in the mud throwing his stroke off. But seeing the threat to his human, Grimm snarls and lunges forward. The hound is a black, mud covered flurry of snapping teeth the grabs and rips the flesh from the hag's leg trying to get to the crunchy bone in the center.
Mortally wounded, the last of the marsh hags retreats, splashing through the mud and into the deeper water. You have won the day, but at a cost in blood. Your reward is a rich trove of reedmace. all you need to do is harvest it.
As you work busily, the blood starts to dry on your wounds and you start to realise how muhc you have grown and learned since you set off from Rhosgobel all those months ago. You feel more powerful, more cofindent.
Still a bit wobbly from the battle, Guthrim uses his dagger to harvest some of the reedmace from the nearest patch. He's sure to not take too much from the plant, leaving plenty behind so that it continues to grow and be available to others who might need it in days to come.
Lorgan wipes his sword clean on the nearby rushes, and gives Agnar a grateful smile. "That was some fine work with the Elven blade, my friend. Thank you."
He sets about harvesting what reedmace he can find, but the sun beats down on him and he is hurt badly. The work is harder than it should be. But at the end, he has several handfuls of the valuable healing herb.
Seeing her companions set to work on the reedmace, Faem's heart sinks a little lower as she realizes they could have harvested more but for tired hands. She finds a stand of the prickly herb and tries to not cut off a finger.
Total of 3.
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As the battle-heart fades from upon him, Agnar nods in thanks at Lorgan.
"That was...that was something, eh?"
Agnar kneels and begins cleaning the sword with a handful of verdant moss. The tiny green leaves perform their job as make-shift sponge well, and soon the blade is shining again.
He thinks on the road that has lead him here. How he traveled away, first from his comfortable post in the city, and then, more recently, into the shadowed dale of the Mirkwood, through hardships untold and dangers uncounted.
His learning had helped, aye, but he sees now that most dangers care little for the flowers cycles of a deciduous evergreen, or the mating cycles of dragonflies. It is only the deft wielding of a strong blade that can see a man home safe.
A strong blade.
This blade.
He nods and stands. Where once there was only a scholar, now that man is joined to a warrior.
He blinks out of his reverie and sees that the others have already gone off and collected armfulls of the potent reedmace plants.
"Oh goodness gracious. Here I've almost missed all the fun. Have you checked near the banks, under over-growth? The rambunctious little scamps like to hide under there, drinking in their fill and laughing unseen at all the little mischief that goes on."
"Ah, here we go. A whole happy family just sitting and waiting to join us on our next adventure. What fun!" he says joyously, adding his pile to the growing bunch.
During the short break they take after gathering the herbs, Lorgan racks his memory for a suitable story to tell over lunch (hastily-cooked fresh fish from the marsh). "What do you know of the Last Alliance, the war for which Agnar's blade was forged?"
Time is pressing so he condenses the story slightly, and he doesn't mention the Dark Lord by name. He simply refers to him as the Enemy, with the "E" clearly capitalised. "...and thus the Enemy was vanquished, although at great cost. The last great kings of Elves and Men, Gil-Galad and Elendil, were both slain, and Isildur fell into shadow shortly after. And yet, they triumphed and won the peace we now have."
Follow the trials of the day, Faem rests heavily and takes solace in the meal of fish, which is a comfort of home. She assists Lorgan in the preparation and listens intently to his story. It is a great tale, and to imagine such a battle happened within a stones' throw of her family hovel...
While the others rest for a bit, Guthrim and Grimm move the animals a bit further away from the bog, so the hags can't easily slip back up and grab one for a healing meal. With that done, he keeps watch. Bidding the time by running his small carving blade along a piece of maple he'd picked up on the trail. As the hour passes the wood slowly takes on a feminine shape roughly similar to that of Calanthas.
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= 15 but I'm only down 5 so Imma good.
Agnar binds his hag wounds with a poultice of some kind of swamp grass and swamp moss and the alchemy between the two have an invigorating and homeostatic effect on him as a whole.
As Lorgan spins his lore, Agnar, normally one to sit in rapt attention to a story, no matter how interesting or arcane, finds that he can not sit still. He spends the time practicing with the sword. At first slow, and jerky, he eventually undergoes a personal journey that manifests in maneuvers more and more evolved and complicated. Eventually, right at the end, he performs a move called Falling Mountain by the fighting trainers, and at last stands motionless. Exhausted.
"It's like the sword wants to cut things," he says, sweating, allowing the sword to cut a circle in the air. "The weight is beyond perfect. Just holding it I feel a driving motive power to slice through something.
It is -almost- as if it's alive. I know that sounds insane. That an inanimate object could exhibit anything beyond simply existing. But this? Whoever forged it must have imbued it with a part of themselves.
Ha! No wonder the enemy was vanquished! With arms such as these could any agent of the the Enemy stand before them?"
Agnar lets the sword swim in the air once more before sheathing it and making ready to move on.
With the fish eaten and lunch over, and your fresh reedmace in hand it is time to start the long journey back to Mirkwood, travelling around the forest rather than trhough it this time. It turns out that early summer is the best time to travel: you haven't eaten this well in a long, long time. Fat, plump grouse nest on the moorlands, wild rabbits cavort in the meadows and green leafy herbs can be found in abundance.
About a week or so after you have left the Long Marshes behind, you hear it from over the next hill: a sharp cry. "Help! Help, someone please! Help!"
Violet's ears swivel as she hears the sound, and she gives a sigh. Yes, the world is burdensome and full of troubles, but you plod on anyway. Jasper looks eager, doing his best to strain against the ropes and move towards the new and interesting event. Nestor's eyes gleam with an evil light. Ah, the sufferign. It increases. All according to plan.
Hearing the cries for help, Guthrim hurries the mules train to the top of the hill looking for any sign of the person in need. Unfortunately, Nestor's constant cantankerous pulling keeps him from fully focusing his attention.
Though her belly knows not hunger in the early stage of the return journey, Faem feels constantly tired. Not enough that she falls behind, more that she is uninspired to converse with the others, sighs frequently, and wrestles to her feet with effort.
The weariness in her bones does not dull her senses as she spots the source of fear in the wilderness. She chases after Guthrim to the sound of the cry for help.
Lorgan catches the evil gleam in Nestor's eye. There's something wrong with that one. Drawing his blade, in case it's needed, he follows after Faem although he too feels the long weariness of many miles of travel.
Your pusruit of the noise takes you over the crest of the hill and you can look down to the valley below where a trail of sorts runs East-West along the Grey Moutnain Narrows. People who want to avoid Mirkwood prefer to take this path, but it is not that safe even after the Battle of Five Armies eliminated most of the threats in this region. From where you look down, you can see a group of travellers in distress. A great boulder has rolled down the hill, crusihing several of them. Many others are suffereing from cuts and here and there you see a body riddled with arrows. Some of the survivors wander around, dazed and bleeding, and others are scattering, running after the fleeing pack-horses.
One of them, a young man in his late teens or early twenties, is kneeling on the ground, despertly trying to tend to the wounded. It is him who is doing the shouting that you heard. He looks up and sees you. "Please! We were attacked by goblins or orcs or somthing, if they come back before nightfall we're all dead! Pleae help us!"
Faem decides to put her medicinal talents to use and help Agnar. He seems to have been caught off guard by the sudden intensity of this situation. If Faem had given it any thought she may have felt the same.
"This'll help, I'spect," she says while tending to the wounded.
The sight of those in need galvanises Lorgan despite his weariness. Hurrying down the slope as fast as he can, he tries to move the boulder out the way to clear the path.
Sadly the task is beyond him.
Seeing the wounded travelers Guthrim hurries down the road to offer what aide he can. Seeing Faem and Agnar tackle the worst of the wounded and Lorgan trying to move the boulder, the lanky forester does his best to gather up the horses.
First he hobbles Nestor and Jasper, giving them each a bit of grain to feed on, then he takes Violet and Grimm out after the horses. Unfortunately the skittish beasts are not as drawn toward the friendly mule as he might have hoped. Nor are they keen to mind Grimm's or his own machinations to herd them back toward the caravan.
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It's hard work, but you offer what assistance you can. Evenrually the horses are rounded up, and a team working together is able to move the buolder and get to the wounded. Faem's ability and sheer pluck are what makes the difference though, the small hobbitt works at full speed and bandages up the wounded to get them back on the move. Eventually they are able to get moving again and the youth who asked for your help approaches you. "Thank you strangers, we can never repay you for your kindness. But please take this." He reaches into one pocket and pulls out a small copper coin, old and dulled with age. "My da gave me this before he passed on, a coin from one of the lost dwarf cities, he said it was. Claimed it alwsyas gave him luck, and you finding us here is the best luck of all. Please take it and I hope it brings you luck too."
He gives you all a bow. "I'm Domarr of Lake-Town, which is where we're headed. If you're ever there, look me up and I will do what I can to repay your kindness." The rest of the group, much smaller in number than they were but still alive at least, give you their grateful thansks.
The weariness of the company shows, but they are still able to provide assistance to the unlucky group. Faem accepts the coin with mild reluctance - how lucky could it be? But offers a grin and a short bow in return. Too bad they did not happen on this group on the way in; having a friend in Lake-Town might have come in handy. The young hobbit cannot imagine ever making this journey again in her lifetime, but who can say...
"If'n gobbies b'runnin' 'round, we best b'gettin' going," she says.
"No need to repay us." Guthrim says with embarrassment. "After all we'd be no better than those who attacked you in the first place if we didn't stop to offer what aide we could."
"Aye, we all best be on our way." He adds to Faem's voiced concern.
Guthrim readies the mules for travel and glances at the sun hoping there'll be enough daylight left to see them far away from this spot before nightfall.
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Agnar feels a but useless, unable to help even the most in need at the time they needed it the most.
Still, they seem to take it in stride, so, so be it. And, aye, would that they had met a few days hence. 'Twould have been nice to have already had a favor to call upon. Ah, well, such is life.
"Aye, it's best to be on the move, if there is more trouble about," he says, agreeing with the hobbit.
Lorgan returns Domarr's bow. "I am glad we happened across your group. We of the Free Peoples must stick together, or we shall doubtless all fall separately against the Shadow. May the rest of your journey be in safety!"
He nods at Faem. "Agreed, although I would hope goblins would steer clear of a well-armed group such as we are. But I have heard stories of them returning to the Grey Mountain Narrows. Let us keep our eyes open."
Domarr and the others don't waste more time in goodbyes and neither do you. WAry of goblins or worse, you make as much speed as is possible when you are travelling with three heavily-laden mules. However, either the goblins have moved on or you are in luck. The next few days pass without any trouble. One evening as you are ready to call it a day, Agnar spots an outcropping of rock next to a waterfall and a bit more exploration finds a cave. Perhaps a bear or other creature used it over the winter, but it is free now. It fits all of you, plus the three mules. The water is cold, but refresshing and you are able to refill your canteens which were getting a bit low. You manage an undistrubed night's sleep for the first time in a long while.
Fate gives, and it takes away. A few days later, as you make your way through the last stretch of the Grey Mountain narrows you reach the Vales of Anduin. This land is owned by a man named Viglund, and his people are named after him. They are known to take slaves, although they allow travellers to cross in peace - more or less - as long as they stick to the path. The land here is hard and unforgiving, and you frequently walk past stakes set in the ground with corpses impaled upon them - what their crime is, is untold. Perhaps slaves who tried to escape, or travellers who wandered off the path and were treated as spies. It is an evil place to be.
Reaching the Anduin Vales is a great relief to Faem, and even the dark tidings of slavery cannot dim her spirits upon seeing the mighty river valley that leads past her homeland.
With the long rest, her pace quickens, and there's a spring in her step. She can barely constrain herself from running all the way down the long glad to the rushing water far below.
Guthrim shakes his head sadly at the sight of so many grim markers along the trail. The Gray Mountains are certainly a harsh and dangerous place to try and carve out a living. Yet neither freezing winters or storm battered summers or even constant fighting off of orcs and goblins made this kind of law and corruption reasonable in Guthrim's mind.
Still he is only one man and has other duties and tasks to perform. Folk were depending on the supplies they carried and he'd not let them down. Justice would have to come another day and perhaps at the hands of another, greater warrior. So he does his best to hurry the mules along and get them to safer lands as quickly as possible.