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Finding the under-water cave was a good stroke. He felt happy, having read of such things that he was able to see one up close. If all the rest of their trip was thus they should have a fine time indeed!
Alas, as they pass the odiuos markers Agnar shivers. Knowing so much about anatomy, he can not but think on how long, how painful, such torments were. These practices are oftimes meant not to kill--O, they do kill, over time--but to hurt, and leave the dying to time and blood loss.
To see such callous disregard for basic human suffering leaves him feeling chilled and lessoned.
shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
Lorgan's expression is grim as the group wanders out of the mountain narrows and back into the lands of Men. "Keepers of slaves! That is the work of the Orc-minded, if ever I saw it." He shivers, and picks up the pace of his steps to be through this foul land as quickly as possible.
Unpleasnt though the way may be, the Viglunders keep the land under their control safe and your journy back to the Forest Gate is without incident. A week or two after that, and you are back within the safety of Rhosgobel. Violet the mule gives you all a balefulr stare and a heavy sigh as you enter the bounds of Mirkwood - what sort of place have your brought me to? Have I not suffered enough fo you, o mortals? - while Nestor perks up - so much evil here. So much suffereing has occured. How delightful - while Jasper is just excited to see somehwere he has never been before.
The three mules are taken to one side and unloaded, with the packs of salt on their backs being quicly removed and redistrubeted to several waiting messengers. You are taken to another side, where the Axe is wiating for you. She gives you all a nod. "You did it, then. Got there and survived. Grown a bit, too, maybe. There's an edge you didnn't have before. I like it."
Guthrim (who wasn't part of this expedition) gets a nod and the greeting of one Forester to another: "I see you." The Necromancer has been gone 5 years, but Mirkwood is still a deadly place. Foresters don't wish one another luck, or safe journey, or to "take care" or any other sort of meaningless pleasantry. "I see you" means you're still alive, so by definition you've done good. It's (almost) the highest form of praise/encouragement one Forester can offer another.
The Axe claps her hands together. "Right. Enough small talk. Take some time here. Relax, do whatever is you outsiders do in your spare time."
The wooden walls of Rhosgobel are a welcome sight to Guthrim's eyes. Looking forward to a warm meal and soft bed, the woodman smiles and offers greetings to those who meet the group at the gate.
"I see you, as well." He says to the old warrior woman. Stifling a heavy sigh. The woman was a mentor and friend, but the jovial woodman hadn't missed the dour stoicism which seemed to infect her and so many of his fellow forest dwellers. Truth be told, it was one of the reasons he spent so much time on the road. Better to spend the days alone in the wide open then huddled near a hearth fretting whatever inevitable doom awaits.
Still he couldn't help but care for his mother's old friend. Before he and Grimm set off to find a bed and meal he is sure to share news of his travels with the Axe.
"Laketown continues to thrive and Calanthas sends her greetings." He says. "For the most part the journey was uneventful, although goblins are still active along the Narrows. Ran into a caravan that had suffered an ambush. We did what we could to aide survivors, but most of the damage was already done by the time we arrived."
"And it looked like Viglund's folk had a few more markers along the road than I've seen in the past." He emphasizes the word markers and gives the Axe a knowing look. "Best to warn folk to steer clear if they can. If they can't then they should hurry through. We didn't have any trouble, but it left a few of us feeling a bit more on edge."
His report shared, he then retires to find an ale, a hot meal, and a night of revelry.
The journey was long indeed. Circumnavigating half of Mirkwood forest felt like a trip around the whole wide world, and to be done on hobbit legs, no less! But the last stretch of miles along the Great River raised Faem's spirits considerably, and as the company entered Rhosgobel at last, it felt almost as if she had never left.
Her reunion with the Axe was brief and to the point. The job was completed, they had traded one companion for another, and gained three mules and a vast store of reedmace in the exchange. Profitable, sure, and the young hobbit was a little wiser to the world than before.
She resumed her routine in short order, training, now with two weapons, and spending too much time in the kitchens. Life was good again, but always, in the corner of her mind like an itch that could never been satisfactorily scratched, was the nagging responsibility to her family and the future of her tribe.
Lorgan nods in acknowledgement of The Axe's praise. Truth be told, he rather felt he already had an edge, but then it is just possible that life in Mirkwood is even more deadly than the life of the Rangers in the wilds of Eriador. Certainly his memories of the Sarnlug they encountered in that bleak glade occasionally creep into his darker dreams. He looks slightly crestfallen as The Axe dismisses them and calls them "outlanders" - but he supposes they have much still to do before the Woodlanders accept them as one of their own.
However much time you were hoiping to get to relex, you get less. Much less. But this is Mirkwood, after all.
The next morning sees you back in front of The Axe, who is looking even less cheerful than normal. "So. We have a problem. Everyone wwo was supposed to come and pick up some of the salt has come in and taken it back, apart from Woodsedge. They haven't sent anyone, and that salt isn't going to walk there by iteslf. Needs a team, you can't get mules into the forest that far. I need some volunteers to go to Woodsedge and see what's taking them so long to get here."
Faem takes a break from her morning routine of futzing in the kitchen and then doing some light training, now with two small swords, to heed The Axe' summons. At the call for volunteers, she looks around grimly at her companions, wondering if they are also thinking it unlikely that anyone would reject such a request.
Somehow, the hobbit has heard of Woodsegde; probably picked it up in the past year since she arrived in Rhosgobel.
Guthrim knew Woodsedge. His family had fled through there on their way to Rhosgobel after the east was overrun. He hadn't been back there for years, but he still held fond memories of the lake and its cool waters on hot summer afternoons.
His brows furrow in concern as The Axe speaks of no one coming from the settlement to pick up supplies. "It is a dangerous country there along the Narrows. Let us hope they have not fallen to the shadow in some way." He says.
He nods at the woman and gives the big dog sitting at his side a ruffle on the head. "I'll go. It won't take long to gather my things. Just need to replenish a few rations and supplies. Then Grimm and I will be ready."
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Agnar had used every spare moment he had to race into the woods and hack down a small army of vile, evil, trees that had encroached too close to his protected village. "Take that! Aaaand that! And that! Ha!" He worked furiously on his blade-work, feeling alive, feeling the rush of the blood through the body as his hand and blade felt like one, slicing through wood and leaf with equal abandon.
So too, The Axe, ever as watchful as frugal, had given him a cast-off linwood shield. Much hacked and much used, but the bindings on its planks were still good, and painting on its front still resembled a wolf head. Or was it a chicken? Could be either.
He hacked and dashed and defended himself from the invading evergreen army until at last it seemed that duty again called him from his training.
"Woodsedge. Very dangerous. Ever is the Shadow balanced on claws to fight them back. They could all be dead, or just besieged. Both are equally likely."
He drinks water copiously before breaking to get his gear ready. To him it was no question that he would go. His eyes had been opened to life on the road and we was ready to take to its ever-waiting bosom.
If Lorgan was hoping to get a little more time to relax after their gruelling expedition, he doesn't show it. The life of the Dúnedain teaches you to be accustomed to both hardship and disappointment. He hasn't heard of Woodsedge, but that isn't a surprise: the Woodmen have dozens of small settlements across their realm.
He nods along with his companions as the Axe requests their services once again. "Of course. I am ever at your service."
He follows Guthrim to the armoury, where they both replenish their arrows together. He also takes the time to sharpen his dwarf-forged blade on a whetstone. After that, he is ready.
The Western Eaves ar the 'tame' bit of Mirkwood, meaning that it won't immediately kill you now that you have some experience under your belt. Step off the trails that the Forestsers do their best to maintain, of course, and you'll probably never be seen again. It just won't be a spider that kills you, it'll be something 'natural' like a wolf, or starvation or thirst. Although the combination of the season and your clever idea to bring supplies with you mean that food is not a problem. Teh Forester's rations of salted, smoked venison and dried fruit is far better than what you ate most of your last journey.
You are six days out from Rhosgobel, doing your best to keep to the edges of the Forest where it joins with the Anduin Vales when Faem, the sharp eyed hobbit, suddny holds up her hand and stops you in your tracks. About a dozen metres away, hidden by the trees, you hear a dreadful growling and snuffling and the earth-shaking footsteps of a great beast. Slowly the noise gets louder as it approaches you, nearer and nearer until it comes into a view - a vast, no wait.
What you'd assumed was a vast hulk of a bear is instaead the vast hulk of a man, although too tall and too wide to be a man. He wears a set of furs, which adds to the confusion. He is in the middle of wiping dark blood off his face and hands when he suddenly looks up at you, as if he as caught your scent. None of you have met him, but you have heard of him in deed and song and legend. Surely this can only be Beorn, the skin-changer. His dark eyes, sunk deep into that huge face, stare at you. There is no hiding. After a long few seconds, he speaks. His voice is soft, but deep, and it carries. The nearby trees seem to shiver.
"Well met?" It is something bewtwen a question and a statement and a greeting.
Lorgan is still taken aback by just how hostile even the supposedly 'tamed' part of Mirkwood is to their presence. He is no stranger to the wilds, but this is something altogether different. He makes a point on their journey of keeping close to the others and paying attention to the things they might spot. He therefore freezes into immobility when Faem sends her silent warning, and he is ready to draw blades when the stranger appears - at least until he recognises Beorn (by description and reputation only: he has never encountered him until this moment).
He gives a respectful nod - "Well met, I hope, my lord Beorn." - and waits for one of the others to make introductions. He is aware that his own voice sounds thin and reedy in comparison to Beorn's rumble.
Guthrim doesn't mind being back under the green leaves of Mirkwood, especially after walking the road past Viglund's lands. Sure there were spiders, wolves, and worse creatures best left undisturbed in their shadow filled lairs. Sure thirst and hunger are ever a travelers companions. But it was home and wasn't lined with staked out corpses.
He and Grimm keep a steady, watchful pace during the first days. When Faem signals her warning, the forester's hand immediately jumps to the handle of his sword. He stands ready to strike whatever lumbering beast had decided to try and make a meal of him and his hardy companions. But then Grimm's tail starts wagging with a vigorous enthusiasm. Guthrim relaxes knowing the hound would never react that way if an enemy were near. His faith in Grimm is proven true when the big man steps from the undergrowth.
He had never met Beorn before, but he'd certainly heard tales of the shifter. Surprised to see the Beorning ranging this far from his home Guthrim sheathes his sword and offers a quick nod to the warrior.
"Yes. Yes. Well met." He says stifling a laugh as Grimm barks his own greeting to the well known animal friend. "It is not often we encounter such friends of the free people on these trails in the wood." He adds calling Grimm over and scruffing the dog's head. " Being nearly a week on the trail, we've only humble fair to share, but if would you care to sit a spell and share news we'd be more than honored."
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"And greetings unto you, O Beorn! O Northman! O Skin-changer and the Beorning chieftain of chieftains!
As having been said we are but humble travelers making our own way in the harsh way of things.
So too, we head for Woodsedge, for they have not yet made their way for their share of the most precious cargo of salt, without which life itself is not worth living, being needed to make all things worth eating, excepting, of course, for honey cakes, which neither require nor suffer any competition.
Ah, know ye aught of Woodsedge or its fate?"
Beorn appears pleaseed with the respect that Agnar is showing him, although he shakes his head slowly. "The towns of the Foresters are not within my knowing or my realm. But, come and see." He becknons with one huge arm, and leads you back the way he has come. Sevealral minutes later, you find yourselves in a clearing where the corpses of several large creatures lie dead, their throats torn out. The creatures are much, much larger than a man and have rough, scaly hide and ferocious features. Even dead, they are still intimididating.
There's no history of them every being found in Mirkwood.
Beorn looks at you as he speaks, his voice stilll rumbling in a way that makes the nearby trees shiver. "These were not my prey and I was not expecting to find them in these woods. Many evil things seem to have come down from the Misty Mountains of late, crossing my lands and headine east and south. One such I have been pursuing, a gaunt creature that has left a trail of sneaking death in its wake. Hens from their coops, lambs from their fields and even babies from their cribs on occasion. But never a trail I could easily follow - and I have senses keener than most. It has a scent like nothing I have ever found, and it knows how oto hide. But here its trail ends and I must return to my holdings."
"It seems likely that this is not the only band of trolls in this area. If your town is in trouble, I would guess that these creatures are resposnsible. But keep an eye out, strangeness is afoot and it can thieve and prey with the best of them. Tehre are few indeed that have escaped from me when I have put my mind to hunting them. If I were you, I would warn your elders to keep vigilance. More so than usual, I mean."
He gives you all a nod. "Fare you well and may you find what you seek."
Guthrim sucks air through his teeth seeing the monstrous bodies of the creatures Beorn calls trolls. He shakes his head thinking on what could have killed such creatures. Neither wolf, spider, or man would strike in such a way.
He bows his thanks to the big warrior. "I thank you for this warning and will certainly share it with any other Free Folk we encounter on our journey." He looks again at the grisly remains. "It is true that whatever did this is no friend of the Light, despite having take out its ire on such creatures as these."
A lot happened in a very short amount of time. First there was the emergence of the bear who became man, mighty Beorn. A creature so renowned in the Vales that the fables of his powers had penetrated even the bogs of the Gladden Fields, and to the Hobbits therein. And so startled was Faem to meet a character from tales told to children at night that she stood dumbly before him as he went on about hill trolls, and then off he went, as if this small group of adventurers with a single journey's worth of experience could fend for itself just fine.
And then there were the dead trolls. Each foot was taller than she, and they lay there, arranged by Beorn or whatever still greater thing it was that killed them, like fallen timbers, as tall as the forest and twice as ugly.
Finally, some other prey thwarts the bear-man, such that even his keen senses cannot detect it. By her count, Faem understands there to be at least three foes in the immediate vicinity: more trolls, as Beorn has advised, the thing that killed these trolls, and the thing which the greatest human warrior of the Middle Earth cannot find.
"We're outta r'depth," Faem says weakly as she watches Beorn disappear into the dark wood. "We have good information. Let's go back n'report wha t'we found."
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Agnar had not been much of a one for books that didn't relate to his major interests, but on occasion he read outside his comfort zone, and one of those rare works had indeed mentioned the unusual habits of Hill-trolls.
"Hrmmm," he mused, recalling what he knew of trolls. "If it is these that fell upon Woodsedge then things are grim indeed. They are brutes of the lowest and most common sort.
But soft! You have answered a question and made another in turn. Is the shadow-creature of which you speak also the same one that slew this warband of hill-trolls? Or was this work done by some other, even fiercer slayer that we must needs fear even more?
Aye, friends, aye, beseems ill work is afoot. But still, how can we turn back now? For all we know Woodsedge is upon the brink, besieged by fell forces and only wishing that a hale and hearty band of brethren would come upon them and attack the foe in the rear!
Or, if Woodsedge is no more, shouldn't we at least confirm its passing before returning? I mean, if we come back with naught but airy tales of shadow-things that -may- or may not be stalking the woods, they will laugh at us and say 'so you are afraid of tales now? We should send adults then and not children scared of the first shadow of the night!'
Who among you will want to face The Axe without proof of what is going on here?"
Faem draws her dagger and approaches a hill troll. A minute later she returns and tosses a troll thumb as big as her forearm to Agnar.
"Tha' look like a shadow t'you?"
Guthrim listens to Agnar and Faem debate the merits of going forward to Woodsedge or returning to Rhosgobel. His own mind weighs the potential dangers to himself verses the thought of the villagers who may or may not know of the current danger. With a heavy sigh he shakes his head. It did not feel right to turn back now.
"While the prudent choice might be to turn back, I do not think it is something I can do." He says quietly. "The forest harbors many threats to life and limb. These...." He taps one of the corpses with the tip of his boot. "...are just another to add to the list. Courage, strength, and a healthy dose of caution will see us through as it has done for me many a time before while walking under the eaves of the great wood."
"But more importantly, there are folk who may be in great need or may not know of the danger. At the very least, the folk of Woodsedge need to be warned. At the most they need aide fending off this new trouble. At the worst, they have fallen. If that be the case, then I will return to the Axe with that known fact rather than rumors and tales that will still need to be investigated."
"We are already six days on the road. Woodsedge is not much further if memory serves. Better to continue on rather than waste precious more time going back only to be sent out again by the Axe. An Axe who most likely would be none to happy with what scant news we've to share at this point."
He gives Grimm a pat on the head and turns his eyes in the direction of Woodsedge. "No. I simply can't go back. Those are my folk. I have to do what I can to see them safe or properly know their fate."
Faem drops the big thumb with a thud. "Let's be on w'tit, then."
Lorgan nods, slowly, as he looks a the corpses that Beorn has felled. "We could not stand against so many as this, for sure. But let us hope that whatever has befallen Woodsedge is not so perilous. I don't think that we can go back just yet - let us at least try to get sight of the town and its fate." He gives a grim smile. "The single advantage we have is that these things are unlikely to be able to creep up on us..."
Leaving the evil trolls to lie where tehy fell (the forest will reclaim them soon enough) you keep on to your task, despire any temptation to fall back. Your reweard several days later is that the trees stop pressing on you so closely as the land gets soggy beneath your feet. You are appoatching the Black Tarn, a vast inland lake. On the far shore, still some distance away, you see the town of Woodsedge. It is eerily still, only the smoke rising from the chimneys gives you a sense that it is still lived-in. The gate is barred and locked, and shows clear signs of someone, or something, haveing made a serious attempt to bash it down.
You do not have time to admire - or think about - the view, however. Only Faem's sharp eyes prevent you from becomeing the next snack of two vast spiders the size of horses as they jump out at you from the shadows! These are not the web-walkers of North Mirkwood, but fierce, intelligent hunting spiders. They noremally prey on the orcs and goblins that still fester in South Mirkwood - exactly why they are here is a question taht will have to wait. Assuming of course that you don't get eaten first.
The smell of the Tarn, and the fresh breeze that brings it, is a relief to Lorgan's senses after the oppressive, almost airless, closeness of Mirkwood. Lost momentarily in staring to the horizon, he is almost caught flat-footed by the would-be arachnid ambushers - in Mirkwood, even being lost for a moment risks being lost for good.
Grateful for Faem's warning, he gives the Hobbit a quick look and a nod of thanks before he draws his sword and moves to intercept the spiders. The Dwarf-forged blade strikes true.
Used to the oppression of the great forest, Guthrim is less disheartened by its overbearing and constant presence. Even still, it is a welcome feeling when the ground beneath his feet turns a bit soft and even squelches once in a while as he continues to place one boot in front of the other. Upon reaching the lakes edge his initial happiness at seeing the village intact and with smoke still swirling forth from the chimney's turns subdued when other signs of life appear to be missing. The damage to the wooden gate makes his stomach churn even more. If it weren't for Faem's shouted warning and Grimm's sudden snarl, the forester would have been caught flat footed for certain.
As it is, he is a step or two behind his fierce canine companion whose jaws snap and grab at spider legs. Bringing his dwarven blade to bear along with his trusty scimitar, the forester follows the lead of dog and Dunedain slashing first with dwarven steel and then that crafted from men.
No sooner had the group bid farewell to Beorn and the pile of dead hill trolls than Faem had that tingling up her spine. She heard them before she saw them, all rickety rickets and chittering dread. Then there were the near score of legs and the giant spiders were nearly on top of them. She called out and readied her bow, aimed, and fired, following Lorgan and Guthrim's lead.
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Agnar kept thinking about the trolls. Could they, the four of them, have stood against even a single one of them? What if they were all together. Or had spears? What if they were behind a wall. Or had bows? How many arrows would it take to slay so great a beast?
In this he entertains his mind until at last the city, the point of the journey, comes into view. 'Oh good! If there are fires in the chimneys then some people still yet live! I see that the gate has held. Surely all must be well. Unless they are all afraid of something on the outsi--'
"AIIIIEEE!" Agnar's musings are turned into shouts of surprise, and perhaps an attempt to get his own small-but-growing bravery up in response to their brief but timely warning.
'With all of them rushing to one side...' Agnar doesn't have time to complete the thought. There are two spiders, and one is engaged.
He knows what he has to do.
Hefting his shield he RUNS at the remaining spider. "Death and GLORY!" he shouts, trying hard to cover up his kernel of fear with enough bravado to make do.
S1 -33
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Getting attacked was not part of the plan, obvously. The first spider screeches and hisses in pain as your attacks land. But they aren't giving up just yet, not while there's still a chance of some jiucy feeding. The first spider lauanches itself at Lorgan, but his shield deflects the thing's horrible jaws - just, he feels teh impact against his arm. Wheeling around, it stings him!
The other spider is obviously surprised by Agnar's fierceness. It doesn't land a hit.
Lorgan winces at the bite, but he shrugs off the vile poison that works its way into his wound. "I will not fall this day!"
Keeping his shield raised, he hacks once more at the spider that is menacing him. The pain of his wound unfortunately throws off his attack, and he misses.
Finding strength from somewhere, Lorgan redoubles his attack and this time he hits! There's a satisfying *crunch* as the dwarf-forged steel cuts through the chitin, and when the blade withdraws it is covered with ichor.
Having caught the spiders off their guard with the sudden ferocity of the initial attack, Guthrim and Grimm continue to press the fellowship's advantage. The nimble arachnid manages to duck away from his first strike, but the whirling followup from his scimitar nicks the beast across it's big body.
Meanwhile, Grimm continues to growl and snarl his hatred for the eight legged skulkers of Mirkwood. The big hound's jaws snap around another skinny leg and several rapid jerks of his head leave the limb bent and bleeding.
Despite the agonoy of the poison that is spreading through his limbs, Lorgan holds firm to his cause and his strike is true. His sword almost severs the speider's thorax and abdomen, but - filled with a hate that sustains it - the horrid creature still twitches forward.
Enter Guthrim and Grimm. The Forester holds its attention and cuts it severely, while the faithful hound latches on and - like a rat with a terrier - shakes his head until the spider literally pulls apart in a fountain of gore and limbs. Grimm chews feveerishly on a severed leg, although the dog is disppointed to discover that there is no juicy, sweet marrow to be found inside. He whines with dispoointment.
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"Gah! BrmmhHAH! MWABABABaaaah!" Agnar spins and dodges, trying to both keep the spider busy, and see if he can spot any weaknesses. It seems like his luck is holding out as the spider first tries to bite it's own leg, and then it almost gets him but he manages to interposes his shield just in the nick of time!
"Ha! No longer do I merely fight with quill and ink! So I shall write a new sonet of my own choosing! What do you think, Panizagar? Shall we play a song on a lute of just...one string!"
With that he THRUSTS at the spider.
For whatever reason, he swears he can hear the sword purr. But, not as a normal housecat would. It sounds like some great, large, hunting cat. Something twice as big as himself, black as darkest night and with great, sharp piecing teeth, good for slicing open an exposed belly.
As odd as that sounds, the sword also -wants- to cut something. Even Agnar's lack of skill cannot keep the blade away from a soft spot.
Faem follows one arrow with another, targeting the last spider.
Not long ago, two spiders like this would have been death for you all. Even now, if they ha d cauhthg you alone, you would be in real danger. But yo are no longer alone - you have company. You mighth say thaty you *are* a company, (or possibly a fellowship). Either way, one spider lies dead, cut into pieces that stil twitch slightltly. The other, cut with sword and arrow, shrieks with a horrible noise as one of Faem's arrows goes straithg through an eye. Agnar's sword cuts out another one. It has had enough. With a speed that makes you jump, it jumps out of the fight before rushing back towards the cover of the trees.
Now all you have to do is reach Woodsedge, which turns out to be easeir said than done. One of its protectiones is that the path is hidden: the shore of the Black Tarn is boggy and full of hidden pockets of quicksand. Picking out your way has to be done carefully. Evey so often, you pass creatures part sunk into the bog, outsteretched arms or hands that look liek those of the trolls that Beorn killed. As you get closer to the gate, you see several corposes - more trolls, mostly sunk but not yet fully gone. They have arrows stuck in them and severl of them have been burned.
Your apraoch has been watched, it seems. As you get to the gate, a man's voice calls out fro inside and the gate opens a very, very small way to let you in. "Come in, you fools! It's death to be outside after dark."
Guthrim calls Grimm back to his side, ensuring the eager hound doesn't try and pursue the spider into the depths of the forest. For to do so would be folly. Instead, the forester wipes and then sheaths his blades, and then dishes out a few of Grimm's favorite jerky bits, a fitting reward, and much better tasting than spider flesh.
Having traveled this land before, Guthrim recalls the treacherous nature of the hidden path and offers to lead the others. The grim signs of those who failed to find the path are seen as both warning and blessing to the young forester as he plots the course. Warning to guide his companions true, for he would not want to lead them to such a fate. But blessing because it seems the hidden defenses of the village did their work and kept most, if not all, of the minions of the shadow at bay.
Hurrying through the narrow opening of the gate, Guthrim offers a warm, friendly smile. "Greetings from Rhosgobel and the Axe." He says. "It is well to find Woodsedge still inhabited by good folk. Many feared you all lost when none arrived for your provisions of salt." He adds, removing one of the heavy salt sacks from his pack that he'd help carry all the way from Rhosgobel.
Lorgan looks relieved as the other spider flees. "And so perish all who stand against us." He patches himself up as best he can, but it was a nasty wound even without the poison. He is glad that Guthrim seems to be able to lead them through the path; as the inhabitants of Woodsedge converse with them, he stands by, ready to interject when needed but fully conscious that he remains an outsider here.
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"Run you coward!" Agnar calls at the fleeing spider. He knows that his words mean nothing to the retreating arachnid, but he feels better for shouting all the same.
As the others clean weapons and make ready to complete the final leg of the trip, Agnar takes pause. He walks over to the corpse of the spider and studies it with a student's eye. He had ofttimes read of such things, but to be able to really stand and look at one, with a band of allies at one's back and a truly epic sword in hand, was a moment to be cherished.
He thought back on what he had read of the beasts and wondered if anything could be harvested for either medicine or profit.
Having satisfied himself at his trophy, he follows Guthrim's sure steps toward the town and their justifiably frosty salutations.
"Ah greetings, Captain of the Guard!" Agnar starts out. Though not good with people, who knows that too much flattery is often the best sauce. "You are too true and too wise! For we have come all the way from the tender ministrations of The Axe and our hearts are muchly gladdened to hear your voice--indeed, any voice!--come from thy noble berg!
Let us in, indeed, out of this dangerous dark, and let us speak and rejoice at your continued life and thy plans from henceforth!"
"Alright, alright, enough chatter." The gatekeeper, a veteran of over 50 winters, scowls at you from under the bandages around his head. Hid injuries look raw and recent. He doesn't say another word as he shuts and bars the gate. A couple of warriors, too young for this duty, are only too glad to comapny you from the wall to the longhouse of Woodsedge where Amaleoda the Shield waits for you.
Amaleoda is young, barely 20, although Foresters grow up fast if they grow up at all. She certainly seems to have no dificulties commanding the respct of the Foresters of Woodsedge. From her seat on its dais at the end of the hall, she looks at you as you approach and listens carefully to waht you say. Dark circles around her eyes show her weariness, but her voice is steady. "As you see, we have been under siege here. We have lost many of our number, and have ahd to abandon our patrols of the region, which is why the spiders were able to reach this side of the shore." She considers her words carefully before she contintues, one hand toying with the locks of her long ash-blonde hair.
"It was some weeks ago that a darkness fell on this region - a sense of despair, an evil presnce that even our bravest of warriosr could not stomach. And with it came monsters of the sort we have never seen in these woods - creatures larger and stronger than even the vilest of orcs. Every time we mustered to drive them off, the dark chill would come upon us and most ran. Only our bravest stood firm, and well. Come and see what happened to them."
One section of the hall has been curtaained off with blankets, and it is here that Amaleoda leads you, pulling back one blanket so you can see inside. Almost 20 matresses of straw have been brougth in, although only around half are occupied. At first, you think they might be dead, they lie so still and pale. But they do live, just. Amaleoda looks grim. "This is how we found them, they have not woken or stirred even once. Every few days, one of them gives in and dies, although we do not know what the sickness is." Her cheeks redden as she talks. "I saw it, before they ordered me back, telling me that my duty was to live rather than fight and die. I hope never to feel that dread and terror again as long as I live. It was a shadow of death and evil, and its scream alone was enough to drop even the bravest of these."
She forces a smile. "So, you will haev to apologise for me to the Axe. We have been a litte busy of late."
Faem is dumbstruck. Outside the walls of the town lay the corpses of so many monstrous creatures - trolls and the like. Slain by the woodsmen of this impoverished hamlet! Yet even such incredible strength falls dead to a mysterious shadow, like a gust of wind scattering fallen leaves.
The memory of her brother's slow decay when met with the presence of pure evil, those few years back, fills her heart with despair.
She steps back, out of the ward where heroes rot and wait to die.
When the group returns she asks quietly, "We g'through. Come wit'us. Leave this wretched place be."
Lorgan is similarly awed into silence as he sees what the Enemy's arts have wrought upon the brave warriors of Woodsedge. He gives Amaleoda a bow. "I do not know what cold steel - even dwarf-forged steel - can do to aid you, but my blade, and that of my friends here, is at your service. More importantly, my companion Agnar here is a healer without whom we none of us would have survived our travels. It may be that he can bring your wounded back from whatever ill they are suffering from."
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Agnar was quite pleased with himself as he strode away from the spider's corpse, a messy but eminently useful spinerette-gland stuffed into a spare pouch. When it came to closing a wound up, you could spend hours sewing up the skin, or you could just pour a few drops of this grey ichor on it, and the skin would cleave together as if you'd covered it with molten iron.
Agnar was never good with words, and most of Amaleoda's briefing goes over his head. But when he sees the room filled with wounded, he mutters, "I may be a moment," and wades in to the room of prone bodies much the way a steel-clad warrior might wade into the enemy ranks. Except in the opposite way.
Guthrim solemnly looks upon the fallen folk of Woodsedge, his face filled with sadness and concern for those stricken with such a dark and puzzling sickness. Kneeling down to take a closer look he tries to recall any herb-lore or darker knowledge that might provide some kind of clue as to cause or potential cure.
Agnar is increndibly well read, and even among the wise his knowledge of cures and sickness would be noticed. He rembers some of what he has heard, and was mosty thoguht to be old wives tales, of the old wars against the Enemy long ago, many thousnds of years in the past. What he rembmers is that there were some terrible servants of the Enemy, called the - what was it, now? The Nizhny? The Novgorod? Whatever, there were Nine of them and they were known to be able to steal the will of even the strongest mortal and put them into a sleep that few could wake from. Teh cure for this sicnkess is athelas, nothing less than that will do.
Amaleoda the Sheild gives Lorgan a grave look. "My thanks, brave hearted one. We have killed many of the trolls, but have lost too many in turn to be sure of defending ourselves if they return again. As I see it, your arriveal gievs us some hope, but two choices. We can gather what strenght we have left and throw ourselves against the enemy at first light tomorrow. The daylight is our ally and we can try to use it. Otherwise, we can abandon this place and fall back to Rhosgobel. It will mean taking losses on the way, teh forest is an evil place when we are so weak."
She looks around. "I once thought never to leave this place while i had strength to defend it. And if we leave, I do not see that we can ever return, and one more part of this forest will be lsot to the darkness.." She sighs, running one hand through her long blonde hair as the other hand toys with the hilt of her sword. "It is my decision to make, but I will listen to your advice if you have any."
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Agnar is tired. He's tried everything he could think of. But, alas, without a steady supply of Kingsguard, a weed, he could do little to reverse the seige on the bodies before him.
"Do you have any food? Or ale?" he asks Amaleoda, heedless of if it is a politic time for such a request. His reserves are drained and he'll need to recharge before an iota of further action is taken.
Of course, drained as he is, his mind still can not square what he is hearing, and he must needs press on.
"I'm terribly sorry, I don't understand. I think the nine Novgorod," it was as good a name as any. And it sounded vaguely scary, "are gone. Perhaps, with a few days time and some dedicated hunting parties, we could scare up some athelas, and some of these folk would be returned to you. Surely with more bodies any martial attack would have greater chance of success?"
In truth he felt sorry for Amaleoda. She seemed to be in a hard choice and would get no thanks no matter which bad road she took. "So too, why the rush? Is there a troll warband close that you must needs contend with? Surely we would be able to smell them by now?"