Scene 1: The Way to Dorwinion
In
the aftermath of the battle against the brigands, Rard and Vornmir gather up
the salvageable gear. Vornmir angrily snaps the whip, destroying the foul
implement he decrees suitable only for slavers and Orc-drivers. He and Rard scoop up the spear, the mace, the
scimitar, and the small shield, carrying them to the anchored sailboat and
storing them in your part of the hold. Perhaps they will fetch a good
market price somewhere in Dorwinion.
Finbor,
meanwhile, speaks with the grateful merchant-captain and his equally thankful
crewmen. Shaking their hands, the Gondorian warrior states, "I'll
tell you this, captain, we Men of Gondor are truthspeakers, we do not boast, or
die trying. We have taken it upon us to make sure you,
your crew and your cargo are safe during travel, even if it may cost our lives.
Such is the power of a Gondorian's promise." The Lake-men reply that
they doubt him not, that evermore will they trust the Men of Gondor.
Noting their good will, Finbor fishes for some additional information.
"Captain, back in Laketown, I've told you we were traveling to
Dorwinion. The truth is we are searching for a minstrel named Wogan who is
known to hail from the town of
As
the others clean up the battlefield and set up camp on the beach, Frolin spends
many minutes attempting to care for the stricken brigand. He cleans off
the wounds, tries to stem the bleeding from the mortal injury, but finally
shakes his head in resignation. “I have eased his suffering as best
I can,” Frolin states to the rest of you as you gather around, “but
he will not last the night. Vornmir, lad, your spear struck too well and
true.”
The
merchant-captain spits on the ground and says, “This thief is not worth
your compassion, Master Dwarf. Vornmir did well to strike him down and
would have done better to slay him outright. It was Lord Finbor who
struck truest, to my mind.”
Though
Frolin is unable to save him, the Dwarf’s ministrations have brought the
dying man around to faint consciousness. Vornmir kneels down next to him
and asks him his name and his desires in death. The man mumbles faintly
in a harsh, guttural language, hissing a few sharp words that must be a
curse. He then sighs and utters a final phrase that sounds like hopeless
resignation, even weariness of life. Vornmir turns to the captain, asking
him to intercede and translate. The captain seems shocked by the
suggestion: “You think that I know their foul tongue? This man and
his kind are remnants of the dark armies from the Great War, dispossessed
mercenaries who have troubled Wilderland these past fifteen years. They
speak an Easterling tongue that few Men of the West know, and certainly not
I.” Whatever final words the man cursed you with remain unknown,
for a few minutes later he passes into unconsciousness and breathes his last.
Using
the Dwarf’s healing kit acquired in Mirkwood, Frolin and Finbor next look
to the lighter wounds of your Fellowship. Finbor is better trained in the
art of binding wounds, and Frolin assists him as he can. Cheerful little
Rard betrays remarkably little pain for having suffered a couple dazing
lacerations, but they are very typical battlefield injuries that Frolin is able
to assist Finbor in bandaging; Rard admits to feeling better, and only mild
lingering soreness remains (7 damage). Vornmir suffered only scrapes and
bruises, easily treated with a careful washing and a cold compress and quickly
forgotten (0 remaining damage). Frolin refuses to let the physician he
himself, insisting on treating Finbor for his wounds. Finbor’s
injuries are severe enough to challenge even a trained battlefield healer, so
Frolin decides not to rely on his hands alone. Calling upon the magic
learned among the Elves of the Woodland Realm, he chants a healing incantation
as he binds the wounds; Finbor’s bleeding stops, and the warrior is left
only dazed and sore (19 remaining damage).
Before
night falls you complete decency’s somber obligation. Your
Fellowship does not leave the bandits’ corpses to rot in the wild: wood
is chopped from a nearby fallen tree, and a quick pyre is heaped together upon
which to burn the remains of the two brigands.
Afterwards,
Rard sifts through your party’s supplies, choosing six arrows from the
spare stores to refill his quiver, topped of at 20 shafts. He then comes
back to the campsite, curling up in his bedroll to sleep the night away after
his turn at watch his through. When he awakes at dawn, he is delighted to
see that Vornmir’s words to him were true: the magical Elf-clothes in
which he is garbed have repaired themselves, the threads of magic running
through them recreating severed threads of cloth, and wiping away all signs of
dirt and blood.
On
the 13th of June your Fellowship continues its journey to the east
aboard the Esgaroth sailboat. Your campsite the previous night was less
than a league from the confluence of the River Running with the Redwater, and
so very soon after departing in the morning the boat enters rough rapids as the
swift River Running bends sharply to the southeast, pouring into the cold,
ruddy waters flooding down from the Iron Hills far to the north.
Fortunately, the sailboat’s crewmen are adept at their trade and
negotiate the rapids without trouble, guiding the boat safely into the
southerly flow of the Redwater, the river straightaway that will carry you to
Dorwinion. The merchant-captain informs you that Winburg is the
westernmost of the three Dorwinion towns, around eighty miles from the coast of
the
The
merchant-captain orders his boat to sail for the riverfront wharf along the
town’s northern facing. The docks are close to the palisade but
outside it, leading up to a wide gate guarding entrance to the town. The
wharf is fairly busy with river traffic, and no effort is made to intercept the
boats before they dock, but the captain still seems to be upset with the state
of affairs. “Business here is half of what it used to be,” he
discourses to you as the boat is preparing to anchor at dock. “Used
to be this stretch of the river bustled with boats plying trade from Lake-town
and the Iron Hills all the way across the
With
the sailboat docked, the crew helps you carry your stockpile of gear and
supplies out of the hold and deposit them on the wharf. Each of you packs
away your own share of the rations, a fairly burdensome weight, and the
party’s gear and captured goods are split among those who still have
strength to spare. Only Vornmir possesses the strength (and free hand,
since his buckler is strapped to his arm) to carry your heavy water
barrel. All of you are encumbered with an average or moderate load,
uncomfortable but not unbearable. The merchant-captain and his men bid
you farewell, turning back to their boat to unload their trade goods and see to
their own business. Your Fellowship makes its way down the docks, toward
the palisade that surrounds and defends the small town, no larger in size or
population than Esgaroth. The northside gate, wide enough to permit a
wagon-team to enter and exit at the same moment, is currently open but
watched. You spot three spearmen in the breach, one of them halting
individuals entering and interrogating them. Standing atop the palisade,
each behind a fixed pavise, are three longbow-archers. The Dorwinions
looks like common, peaceable Men of
Scene 2: Dealing with the Dorwinions, and a
New Presence
>Once
in Winberg, but before reaching the palisade, Vornmir would like to talk to
sailors on the docks.
[Inquire
skill test, untrained, failure] Vornmir attempts to speak with some of the local
sailors hanging around the dock, but his brooding presence scares most of them
away before he can approach. Those who do stand their ground turn out not
to speak Westron, and they quickly prove themselves unwilling to help Vornmir
find anyone who does speak the tongue.
>if
he overhears a particularly interesting conversation, he is not adverse to listening in with his far better observance
talents.
[Observe
(Hear) skill test, superior success] Vornmir, always sharp-eared, overhears
many interesting conversations…all in the Dorwinion tongue.
[Language: Rohirric skill test, complete success] Surprisingly, Vornmir thinks
he actually understands a little of what is said. For some reason (he has
no idea why, as his knowledge of history is non-existent), the Dorwinion speech
is distantly similar to Rohirric. By carefully listening to the threads
of conversations among the sailors, he is able to piece together that local
river trade is apparently depressed because of a fear of war. Only foreigners
from the west dare sail the Redwater now, because sailing any further east
toward the sea is considered dangerous for some reason. He also overhears
much talk about the nobles of this town, including Hengel. Apparently
they run Winburg. They are all wealthy men who own many vineyards and
villas in the countryside to the south and east, and it is they who stand to
lose the most if war sweeps across the land.
*
* *
After
Vornmir shares what he has learned by eavesdropping with the rest of you
(unfortunately, he cannot ask any clarifying questions of the sailors, since
they are declining to speak with him and would not understand his speech any
better than he understands theirs), your Fellowship makes its way toward the
north gate in the palisade. Once you are out in the open and heading
toward the town, your company begins to attract a great deal of
attention. Vornmir, impressive as he is in height and virility, is no
uncommon sight – the Dorwinions are somewhat similar in appearance.
The tall, grey-eyed Dúnadan Finbor is more curious, but as a Man he does not
draw excessive attention. Frolin the Dwarf draws some stares, but Dwarves
are hardly unheard-of in these parts, since traders from the Iron Hills surely
come here. It is Rariadoc Brandybuck who stuns all onlookers, a
fairy-tale creature the likes of which these Dorwinions have never seen, and
only heard about in ancient, forgotten legends. Everyone gawks at the
Hobbit, but no one dares approach. Rumor flies ahead of you much faster
than you can walk.
The
wharf is only a few score yards from the palisade, and
within moments you have reached the gate. Finbor removes his helm and
drops his gear, handing over his spear and shield to Vornmir. He slowly
walks toward the gate, holding his right hand up with the open palm outwards,
showing his good and peaceful intentions. "Good day, Men of
Winburg! I am Lord Finbor of Gondor. My friends and I wish to enter
this town. Can we pass?"
The
guards stare at your Fellowship in stunned disbelief, eyes locked on
Rard. So surprised are the men that the archers even forget to draw their
bows! Finally, the sergeant of the spearmen steps
forward and barks a response to Finbor in a language he does not
understand, even distantly. [Debate (Parley) skill test, Intimidate
affinity bonus, failure] Finbor draws on his full majestic presence to assist
his attempts at parley, but it is not enough to cross the language
barrier. Fortunately, despite the confusion the guards do not seem to
regard the Man of Gondor as imperious, and they do not grow any more
hostile. Frolin steps forward, trying to use charm where parley has
stalled. Vornmir is called forward to translate, as best he can.
[Persuade (Charm) skill test, assisted by Vornmir’s Language skill test,
marginal success] Frolin good-naturedly talks to the guards, claiming that he
is a Dwarf very much like the peaceful traders from the Iron Hills, assuring
the guards that his companions are no threat. He gestures to Rard, the
obvious source of attention, and explains that he is a little resident of a
distant land far to the West and that he is no more malevolent than his little
stature suggests.
Vornmir
is able to convey the gist of the remarks to the guards, who regard
Vornmir’s speech curiously but are able to comprehend. The
Dorwinion sergeant, calmed by Frolin’s charm, relents and steps back,
gesturing for his men to let you pass. The sergeant waves you through,
growling a few more words to your group and pointing at your visible arms.
As you walk past through the gate into Winburg itself, Vornmir translates the
sergeant’s orders as much as possible. “I believe he told us
that there are some merchants in the town who speak the Western
language,” Vornmir says. “From what I gather, he also warned
us not to carry weapons openly in the town. We should quickly find an inn
and store them there.”
As
you walk into the town, you are struck how it is very much like Esgaroth.
Perhaps larger in size, since it is not built on platforms, but it is also
mostly built of wood and contains not too many more residents, probably only a
couple thousand. Your initial sight-seeing is interrupted by the
realization that someone is approaching you from behind. Someone from the
docks followed you through the gate and is coming up upon you now! You
all carefully turn around, itching to reach for your weapons (now all carried,
not worn) but daring not to do so, given the sergeant’s warning.
Approaching you is a tall, broad-shouldered man with thick golden hair and a
voluminous beard. He wears a corslet of scale-mail in the style of the
Men of Rhovanion, and at his side is a very fine scabbard that, presumably,
sheathes an equally fine long-hilted sword. He comes closer to you, hands
placidly at his side. “I must speak with you,” he says in
perfect Westron. “Are you Finbor of Lamedon, Vornmir of the Tower
Guard, Frolin of Aglarond, and Rariadoc Brandybuck? Given your
appearance, I think you can be no other. But, I do not see among your
company Belegil the Wood-elf or Barion of Dale, who was described to me as a
very young man…”
* * *
Herubrand leads the company of travelers
from the West to a middling-quality inn, where he and his men had stayed. Once all are seated at a private table in the
tavern, he speaks. "You sure are
the strangest group of travellers I have ever seen. But let me answer your questions. As I said
at the gates my name is Herubrand, and I am from Framsburg on the Vales. My men
and I travelled to Winburg to buy grain for the people of Framsburg and the
surrounding country. Heavy attacks from the wretched Orcs…" and as
he mentions the word his voice darkens and his eyes grow cold, “…of
Scene 3: Tales and Trades
>After
making sure to the innkeeper that absolutely nobody is to mess with their
equipment, he wants to arrange a meeting with someone of the Hengel family as
soon as possible. He will ask the innkeeper what he knows of the noble
house and of Wogan.
Finbor
extracts a pledge from the innkeeper that his establishment is a safe place to
keep personal property, and the man swears that most Men of Dorwinion are
honest folk. Perhaps some of the riff-raff who stay
at the pauper’s hovel are not to be trusted, he says, but he need not
fear thievery at this place. Finbor then attempts to interview the man
about the House of Hengel and Wogan. [Inquire skill test, complete
success] The innkeeper is a friendly fellow and very busy, but he spares a few
minutes to chat. He explains that Hengel is one of the highest
aristocrats of all Dorwinion, and long the leading citizen of Winburg. He
is frequently selected as the annual Master of the Town, this year
included. Hengel owns many vineyard estates in the countryside to the
south. Wogan of Winburg is widely acclaimed as the most talented minstrel
in all Dorwinion, and Hengel retains him in his household as a mark of
prestige. Wogan frequently travels about Dorwinion, and sometimes beyond,
during the summer and autumn months. Indeed, now is usually the time of
year that Wogan departs Winburg…but the rumor of war has kept him in
town.
>"Never
mind that," he says when someone suggests finding a merchant to serve as
interpreter. "I will be able to do the job
Very
quickly Frolin gains confidence in his ability to understand that Dorwinion
tongue. Though he does not know Rohirric, he has heard the speech of
Northmen in the past as they came to trade with Erebor and the Iron Hills.
Indeed, he believes he has even heard this tongue spoken before by
Dorwinion traders when he spent some time in the Iron Hills in his youth.
After confirming some basic syntax and pronunciation schemes with Vornmir,
Frolin is confident he can “get by” in the local tongue.
>"Of
Course," Frolin replies. He will go to the market and sell the
captured mace, scimitar and shield. He will also buy a javelin
>"Let
us see if we can get a mule or a pony. And a healing kit or two."
After
Herubrand reveals his story, that his presence in Dorwinion was achieved at the
behest of Rivendell through the agency of one of the Great Eagles, he is
welcomed into the number of the Fellowship. The party of five spends an
hour or so discussing the situation and making plans, while enjoying a mild
snack of beer, bread, and cheese. A few hours before sundown your company
rises from the table, most of individuals retiring to their rooms to wash,
change clothing (though the Elven-garb is unsoiled and as fresh as if it had
just been laundered), and rest. Frolin and Rard, then, make their way
into the heart of the town, locating the marketplace of Winburg. It is a
bustling trading ground much like the market in Esgaroth, and Frolin is ready
to do busy. He and Rard carry the mace, scimitar, and small shield taken
in battle, all lain harmlessly on the flat of the shield so they are not openly
born as arms. Winburg’s market is filled with craftsmen, mostly
peaceful carpenters, coopers, cobblers, and wainwrights, but also some smithies
and armorers. Indeed, the smithies and armorers are being hard-pressed to
beat vine-hooks into pikestaffs, for the hastily forming town militias are in
need of weapons. When Frolin begins to hock two weapons and a serviceable
shield, he immediately draws interest—even more than Rard, who is
forgotten for the moment. [Persuade skill test, superior success] Crowds
gather around, shouting out sums of silver coinage. Frolin competently
conducts the auction, though he is better at charm and flattery than at
price-barking. Nonetheless, the town’s need for armaments is its
own incentive, and a total sum of 60 silver pennies is earned from their sale
(somewhat less in value than the hefty coins garnered for the sale of
Frolin’s dagger).
With
the party purse now holding enough silver to lodge the party in Winburg for a
few extra days, Frolin and Rard wander the marketplace to do a little
shopping. Rard is pleased to see that healing kits and beasts of burden
are readily available for sale in Winburg: a kit fully-stocked with bandages
and salves costs 5 silver pennies, and a mule can be
readily gotten for 8. Frolin looks about for a javelin, but now the
situation which previously so benefited him turns against him. Not a
single javelin can be found for ready money, as every spear pounded out in
recent weeks has gone to the militias. Frolin realizes that if he wishes
to acquire more arms or armor, he will need to craft them himself.
Fortunately, Winburg hosts several forges open to smithies who
can pay for the space: for one silver penny a day, Frolin can have access to a
forge. Of course, he will need to buy the raw materials to make and
repair arms, since the Men of Dorwinion are not hosts who eschew coinage like
the Elves. And again, anything that can be used to make weapons is
inflated in price in Winburg. Frolin shops around and discerns that it
would cost him 8 silver pennies to acquire the raw materials to attempt to
craft a javelin, and 6 silver pennies for enough steel to attempt to repair
Finbor’s armor.
>While
there he will also ply the merchants for news, and let it be known that the
Fellowship is looking for Wogan. He will try to find out if Wogan is
currently in Winburg or travelling.
>Frolin,
you seem to have a way with merchants, why don't you speak with them and see
what they know about the nobles and the potential war -- the sides, the cause,
things like that."
[Inquire
(Converse) skill test, Persuade (Charm) affinity bonus, Honey-tongued edge,
complete success] The merchants of Winburg are more interested in commerce than
conversation, but Frolin manages to endear himself to those he speaks with, and
they spare him a few moments time. Frolin inquires about the nobles of
Dorwinion and the coming war, asking why they are fighting and what is the cause of the strife. The merchants respond
ruefully, explaining the it is not the Dorwinion
nobles who are fighting each other. The nobles frequently compete with
each other for status and honor, it is true, but their common fiscal interests
bind them together more than their competition pushes them apart. The
rumor of war, they explain, comes from without not within. The wretched
Hill-goblins that infest the Rhun Hills some fifty leagues to the south have
been on the war-path ever since the winter, and only the coming of summer and
long hours of daylight has given the Dorwinion countryside respite from the
raids. Goblin raids have grown worse these past fifteen years, because
their numbers have been swollen by “Master Goblins” who do not flee
the sun. Though this tale is woeful enough, it is not their greatest
worry. The greatest military threat comes from the southeast across the
sea, from the land of the “Bolcoth” Easterlings. The last great war, they tell you, was nearly twenty years ago, when
the Bolcoth clans united under the “Black Empire” of the South and
swept across Dorwinion on their route to assail the West: the Dorwinion towns
submitted to the encroachments but closed up their towns, an uneasy neutrality
that subjected their countryside to deprivations but saved their
population. Presumably defeated, the Bolcoth limped back home and were
easily driven out of Dorwinion, and in the years since
the divided and weakened clans have been relatively quiet, preferring trade to
war. But early in the spring something provoked the Bolcoth, and they
have been threatening to attack the Dorwinion towns: Bolcoth ships have struck
across the waters, even blockading the southerly stretch of the
As
for Wogan the Minstrel, all of the merchants know of him but do not know him
personally. They all have heard him perform on some occasion, for he is
always eager to draw a crowd and increase his fame. Several merchants
know the Wogan currently dwells in the House of Hengel, for he dares not travel
the land when it is being pillaged by Goblins and threatened by the
Bolcoth. At this moment, Rard plays up his unique presence and gathers the
attention of a large crowd. “I and my companions, who come from
far-off lands, would very much like the meet the famous Wogan,” he says,
and Frolin quickly translates. “I have come all the way from The
Shire to hear this great minstrel of Dorwinion, and I would be happy to tell
him of my homeland so far from here that even he has never visited it
before!” With a crowd of at least a hundred men left jabbering
amongst themselves about this tiny man who speaks the Western foreign tongue,
Rard and Frolin hike back to the Green Vine Inn.
The
Dwarf and Hobbit rejoin your company at dusk on the 16th of June,
meeting for a hearty dinner of beef, potatoes, bread, and most excellent wine
in the tavern. The four old companions, now with Herubrand of Framsburg
joining them, enjoy the feast, and Frolin and Rard use the time to report what
they learned in the marketplace. By early evening your bellies are full
and your palates whetted. You are about to rise from the tavern table and
retire to your rooms for the night when a commotion arises from the door, with
a crowd milling about the entrance in joyful surprise. A booming,
resonant voice rises above the clamor, calling out some happy words to mollify
the crowd. Frolin smiles playfully and whispers to the rest of you,
“I think our little ploy paid off.”
A
tall, handsome man with a shock of curled reddish hair and blazing green eyes
strides over to your table, the crowd parting in his wake. He is dressed
in elegant finery, obviously a man who enjoys high patronage; in his hands he
caries a silver lyre, itself a work of great craftsmanship. His
stentorian baritone rumbles across the room as he greets you in excellent
Westron: “So where is this famous little
traveler and his Dwarf companion? Dwarves are rare visitors in our town,
but we see them from time to time, and I have known many in my travels.
But this little man must be a Hobbit, so famed in the West! None in
Dorwinion knows of your kind, little friend, but I have heard much about your
kind in my travels to Dale and Mirkwood. The West is full of stories of
Hobbits, and I wish to learn more!” He then pulls out a nearby
chair and sits down, uninvited by any of you. “I am Wogan,”
he states, as if it were in doubt.
Scene 4: The Wizard and the Dragon
>When he
hears about the Bolcoth (or Balchoth?) his face
>changes
into a grim look, "Cursed be the Wainriders." he says fiercely,
>"Many
brave and noble Gondorians have died at their hands."
Finbor is
certain that these “Bolcoth” must be either the same clan as the
“Balchoth” of old, or at least very closely related. “Balchoth” contains a Sindarin
root, so perhaps it is how “Bolcoth” came to be rendered in the
West. Certainly, there is a logical
reason for the discrepancy besides the carelessness of some nameless scribe…
[OOC: D’oh! I have to double-check
technical references in my books!]
* * *
When Wogan
comes over to your tavern table, Rariadoc the Hobbit rises (as much as a Hobbit
ever does) to meet him. He cheerfully introduces
himself and his companions, and the effusive Wogan clasps his hand in the
Western fashion and greets him warmly, offering a respectful nod to the rest of
you in turn. Rard calls out for more
food and drink to be brought to the table, a sentiment the minstrel
echoes. Wogan’s celebrity and
Rard’s notoriety combine to ensure prompt, eager service for your
table. A silver piece (SP) handed to the
maid by Frolin provides your table with all the refreshment you desire for the
whole night. Herubrand makes it his
business to keep an eye on Wogan’s mug, refilling it whenever it is
drained (which is frequently).
>He sips
his beer and afterward and resumes listening intently to the conversation at
the table, watching the rest of the room closely for anything out of the
ordinary (besides us). He also takes note of any items the minstrel
carries or wears that become visible during the conversation.
As Wogan
sits down at your table and engaged in conversation with you, Vornmir studies
him carefully. He is dressed in great
finery, in silk and quality fur – raiment befitting a nobleman, though
not as wondrous as your Elf-enchanted garb.
He wears no armor, nor does he carry a shield, and he bears no weapon,
at least openly. He wears some jewelry,
though nothing strikes Vornmir or anyone else as unusual, and at his belt he
wears a fat purse of coins. The only
object he bears is his silver lyre, and his only defense seems to be his great
celebrity, for he is watched by crowds everywhere he goes.
>Wogan
looks surprised to hear that the fellowship is seeking him out, so Rard
continues. “We were in Mirkwood and the elves there are still talking of
your visit to them. They are quite the friendly people aren’t
they?”
Indeed,
Wogan is surprised to learn that your Fellowship has come to Dorwinion to seek
him out. “I am pleased to know I
have some fame in the West,” he says, “but it is a great honor to
be known even in lands to which I have not yet ventured.” Rard guides the talk toward tales of lore,
making sure that plenty of food and drink are available to heighten the
minstrel’s natural good cheer.
Wogan is also interested in hearing your tales. “I know many songs,” he says,
“but you are guests in my land, and it would be boorish of me to steal
the stage when your tales are yet unheard.
Come, sing for me your stories – then, perhaps, I will share with
you some of my lore.”
>the
warrior will make an attempt as well recanting the battle with the giant
spiders as he did with the elves
Vornmir
rises to the occasion, attempting to win Wogan’s favor with a recitation
of the tale of the spider-battle he gave to the Elves of Mirkwood. [Perform skill test, untrained, +2 situation
bonus for prior rehearsal, +3 for 1 Courage spent,
>“I
believe they said there was a tale of a magician and a great
Dragon?”
Wogan nods
and says, “Ahh, yes, ‘The Wizard and the Dragon’ is my
greatest work, a lengthy epic I have painstakingly learned from many teachers
throughout the years. But, I cannot
perform so long a piece whilst you still have stories to tell. Come, Rard, let me hear of Prince Legolas of
whom you speak, whose name I oft-heard in
Mirkwood…” Rard tells what
he knows about Legolas, which is quite a bit!
[Lore: Fellowship of the Ring skill test, complete success] Though not much of a storyteller, Rard is able to rattle off a list
of facts that seems to satisfy the curious minstrel.
>If
Rard's prompting is not enough to get Wogan to tell the 'Dragon and Wizard'
story, Frolin will echo the request.
"The Shirefolk are quite fond of stories of Magic, Wogan. And any tale involving dragons is
particularly treasured by them. Can you
not favor us with such a tale?"
[Inquire
(Converse) skill test, +2 bonus for Vornmir and
Rard’s skill tests, superior success] Frolin’s honeyed words are
appreciated by Wogan, who seems to be greatly enjoying this evening spent with
you. His spirit cheerful, his belly
full, and his blood hot with plenty of sweet wine, Wogan readily consents to
perform for you…and does not hesitate to answer your questions on most
any matter. “It is curious that
you should request ‘The Wizard and the Dragon’,” he adds
off-handedly, “for it was warmly received when I performed it during my
last visit to the West. I had spent many
hours in conversation with a royal sage named Belemir…perhaps you have
heard of him? He was in Mirkwood on some
embassy for his king. When I described
the story to him, he was most intrigued and insisted that I perform it that
very night. The whole court of the
Elf-king enjoyed the performance, I think, so I am glad Belemir talked me into
it. Yet, I know not how my sagely friend
enjoyed it, for he suddenly departed Mirkwood that very night, without another
word to me.” He chuckles heartily
and quips, “I hope it was not my singing that drove him away!”
* * *
“The
Wizard and the Dragon” is a very old tale, Wogan explains to you. The legendary events described in the song
supposedly occurred some 1,000 years ago, and are now regarded by the Men of
this land as mere fairy tales. Wogan
recites the lyrics in his resonant baritone, chanted to the strum of the
lyre. It is a lengthy song, taking
nearly an hour to perform in full. You
are able to follow the storyline, and even a few of the lyrics stay in your
mind:
The song
opens with a passage describing the peaceful bliss of Dorwinion in ancient
times, a land of plenty flowing with wine.
Men did not yet live in towns, but instead lived in small, happy tribes
that survived off the land’s bounty.
The Elf-folk from the forest along the northeastern shore of the sea
were friends of Men, visiting often and sharing their knowledge. Dwarves from far to the north often came to
Dorwinion, giving Men gifts of precious metal in exchange for permission to
frolic in the vineyards. There were no
“wild men” yet troubling the shores of the sea, and the
Hill-goblins were few and paltry. But,
then came the Black Crystal, borne into these peaceful
lands by a Goblin-king from the West.
Exiled from his own empire, he came to prey upon happy Dorwinion…
Black
Ancient-forged by the Goblin-maker,
The Goblin-soul made hard and real.
The Goblin-king held it as the totem
for his kind,
And paraded it before their hillside
hovels,
Promising them power and conquest if
they followed him.
In its dark light they grew in
stature, roused by its black-night evil,
And poured forth across the land,
storm and darkness in their wake…
The song
continues with an account of the War of the Goblins. Led by this mighty Goblin-king, who wore the
Black Crystal upon his crown, the Hill-goblins overran the whole of the
region. The Black Crystal had the power
to turn day into night, so that the goblins could rampage across the land
unhindered by the sun. They marched far
to the east beyond the sea, there encountering a primitive tribe of wild men
called the Bolcoth, who eagerly submitted to the goblins and allied with their
forces. Together, the goblins and
Bolcoth shattered the army of Elves and Men that had gathered in opposition,
driving the Elves back into the depths of their woods and hunting down the
fleeing Men in their own homeland. Yet,
when all seemed lost, from out of the West came a pair of travelers called the
Blue-Robes…
The Blue-Robes came with staves in
hand,
In pursuit of the Goblin-king, their
foe of old.
Wizards of might and splendor, Men
they were but more:
Far-walker, the first in honor,
All-seer, who came after.
The Blue-Robes surveyed the land,
and saw its suffering,
Pity they felt for Men and Elves.
“O Men!” they cried,
“O Elven-folk! Submit not to this
evil fate!
Rise to battle, and trust in your
strength, and we will aid you as we may…”
The song
then explains that the Blue-Robes foreswore kingship, refusing to become the
leaders of Men. Broken and dispirited,
the Men refused to listen to them. The
Men instead gathered together, abandoning the ancient way of tribal life, and
built towns with walls to hide behind.
Next the Blue-Robes journeyed to the Elves, hidden deep in their forest
now overrun with a host of vile monsters spewed forth by the Goblin-king and
his Black Crystal. The Elves grew wary
of the Blue-Robes when they learned that they came from the West…
The land to whence our kin of old
departed and never returned, unhappy land of setting
sun.
Never have we sought its shores, and
we never will: leave us here to linger.
The Elves
rejected the Blue-Robes, proclaiming it was better to live in secret than to
die out in the open. Unable to persuade
the Men or Elves to fight, the wizards sadly watched the
Far-walker called on his animal
magic, to befriend the beasts of earth and sky.
“Go thither to the utmost
north,” said he, “to the land of wyrm and drake.
Spread word of the Black
On wing, on paw, through song, by
claw, the beasts obeyed their mystic summons,
And news came to the fearsome wyrms,
who quarreled for right of action.
Icáthax Blackwing, Lord of Dragons,
won out and claimed the crystal for his own.
Over many hundred leagues he flew,
from northern heath to southern sea,
And smelled the stench of
goblin-evil, and the Black
Icáthax
descended upon the fortresses of the Hill-goblins, smashing the goblin host and
toppling their towers. Eventually, the
Goblin-king himself was forced to emerge and do battle with the dragon. But, the Black Crystal sensed that Icáthax
would be an even greater holder than the Goblin-king, whom it betrayed to his
death. Icáthax seized the crystal and
began to fly back to the northern heath with his plundered trophy. But, Far-walker Blue-Robe knew that so
powerful an artifact could not be permitted to remain in the possession of so
great a force of evil…
Upon the western shore of the sea he
waited,
Far-walker Blue-Robe watching for the
Dragon King.
And far above, on darkened wing,
came Icáthax bearing the Black
“Wretched worm!” cried
he aloud, and his commanding staff broke the ground,
“Look upon me, and see the
truth of what I am! Your path ends here
with me!”
Venom-hate spewed Icáthax upon the
earth below,
And cursed the race of wizard folk,
and the Farthest West from whence they came.
Dragon-flame struck
Wizard-lightning, and battle raged for night and day.
So even-matched were wyrm and
wizard, victory came not to either one.
Far-walker, then, knew his fate most
clearly, to slay the drake at the cost of all.
He held aloft his staff of power,
and sundered it against the charging wyrm.
Engulfed they were in blinding
sunlight, a sacrifice of form complete and utter,
And never more did Far-walker live.
Icáthax perished in the
wizard’s light, and his carcass slammed into the
sands below.
A great mound arose over his
remains, Emon
Drakil, the Dragon’s Pit…
The tale
concludes with the fate of the Black Crystal: shattered by the explosion, its
shards were scattered across the land.
So long as the shards remain divided, the Black Crystal will never again
trouble the earth.
* * *
After Wogan
finishes his performance, the whole tavern erupts in applause. So great is the minstrel’s talent that
it enraptured the entire room, and all the people here were eager to listen to
the great Wogan perform his masterpiece. To them, it is just a story – it is
clear that neither the crowd gathered nor Wogan himself has any clue why your
Fellowship requested to hear the tale.
When the applause dies down, Wogan returns to conversation with
you. He is happy to answer your other
questions…
>the evening he will become more lively. While posing more intoxicated than
>he is,
he drinks with the now hopefully rather drunk and loose-lipped Wogan
>trying
to get more details on the local diplomatic activities and war
>preparations. If successful or after failing to get anything substantial
>out of
Wogan Herubrand will switch the subject and hear Wogan out about the
>geography of the lands surrounding Winburg. He will specifically inquire
>about
alternative routes, the risks of the area and other things a
>thoughtful
traveller would want to know.
Wogan huffs
somewhat sourly, complaining that the threatened war has kept him in Winburg
longer than he planned. He normally
winters in Winburg in the House of Hengel, and from May through November he
usually wanders near and far, plying his trade.
But, the goblin-raids in the hill-country to the south convinced him not
to travel to the rich rural villas to perform, and then the Easterling menace
has made travel to the other Dorwinion towns along the river too risky to
contemplate. He knows little of the
diplomatic wrangling, only that Hengel and the other leading merchants of
Winburg, Marsburg, and Dunburg has hosted emissaries from the one belligerent
Bolcoth clan, called Golaric’s Folk.
Apparently, it is only Golaric’s clan that is enraged with the
Dorwinions, and the other Bolcoth clans are, at least for now, neutral. However, Wogan is uncertain as to why
Golaric’s Folk are so angry – he suggests that the sea-traders at
Winburg’s docks who used to do regular business
with the Bolcoth might know. When
Herubrand asks about geography, Wogan is happy to talk about his homeland:
Dorwinion runs from the south bank of the River Carnen south across the hilly,
grassy, fertile countryside to the Rhun Hills, some fifty leagues to the south
of here. The three towns of Dorwinion
are centers of craft and trade, each home to perhaps a couple thousand
residents besides numerous visitors; the bulk of Dorwinion’s population
lives in agricultural villas in the open countryside to the south. It is these rural villas that have suffered
from the goblin-raids pouring out of the Rhun Hills – such raids have
always been a nuisance, but over the past half-year they have grown much more
frequent, more wide-ranging, and more destructive. Alas, river-travel is not a safer alternative
to overland travel, since the war-barges of Golaric’s clan are blockading
the Redwater and the seacoast. Wogan
also casually mentions that he owns numerous maps of the region.
>Finally,
if the conversation turns to the dangers of the region, Vornmir would ask about
any rumors or information about these master goblins. "Orcs still
plague this land it seems," he says solemnly. "What is known
about these master goblins? Are they Uruk-hai or some spawn of the
shadow's remains?"
“Orc?” Wogan echoes, pronouncing the word awkwardly. “Ah, yes, that is your name for goblins
in the high speech of the West. I do not
know much of these Master Goblins, only that they have become much more
numerous in the Rhun Hills since the fall of the Black Empire nearly twenty
years ago. I do not know of these
‘Uruk-hai’ of which you speak, but I presume they were in service
of the kingdom you call Mordor. If they
are one and the same as the Master Goblins of the Rhun Hills, that would go a
long way toward explaining their great increase in recent years. Fortunately, the Master Goblins are fewer in
number than their lesser folk, who have long menaced this land. It is the Master Goblins who have organized
the lesser goblins and driven them to raid deep into the countryside, bearing
far more of the sun which pains them greatly than they normally ever
would. It is rumored that a mysterious
leader has emerged among the goblins in the past year, stirring them up for
war. I dread to think that this leader
is one of the former Orc-captains dispossessed since the fall of Mordor!”
>Should
an all-out attack on Winburg be expected in the coming days the
>Gondorian
warrior will be in favour of staying and helping these people,
>in that
case he also wants to meet with Lord Hengel the next day.
Wogan
quickly clarifies that Winburg is not in danger of immediate assault. The goblin-raids have been ravaging the
countryside and pushing ever-closer to the towns along the river, but no
goblin-force has as yet been spotted from the walls of Winburg. The Bolcoth menace is serious, and
Golaric’s ships ply the coast and river, but they have not yet landed an
army on Dorwinion soil. Still, Wogan
laments, the near future does not bode well for Dorwinion. When Finbor mentions a desire to meet with
Master Hengel, Wogan boasts that he is important enough to secure an audience
for your party: “I will speak with the Master of Winburg on the morrow,
informing him that you wish to visit me again in his house. I am sure he will be willing to host you
himself. Perhaps on
the 18th of the 19th of this month. Yes, the day after tomorrow or the
next…I will send word to you here!”
When your
conversation is done, the night has grown very late. The minstrel rises from his chair, swaggering
in a slight stupor, and bids you farewell for now. He thanks you for your tales and your
hospitality, stumbling out the door with a crowd of well-wishers eager to
escort him back to the House of Hengel.
The rest of you, stuffed and drunk yourselves, turn in for the night as
well…
* * *
On the
morning of the 17th of June, Frolin sets off for the town forge
carrying Finbor’s punctured mail corslet.
He stops at the market first, quickly finding a buyer for the
Fellowship’s extra spear and adding 15 more silver pennies to the
party’s purse (for a total of 75).
He then visits the vendors with whom he previously negotiated for raw
materials, paying them 14 silver pennies for the wood
and steel; arriving at the forge, he pays out 1 more to rent space for the
day. Repairing the armor is a simple affair
that Frolin completes without serious effort in less than an hour. Crafting the javelin is a more challenging
affair, especially since Frolin has no particular experience working with the
wooden pole. By the Dwarven master-smith
calls upon his craft-magic, augmenting his considerable person skill [+20 total
bonus, -2 situation penalty for the javelin, TN 15, 8 (roll) + 18 = 26
(extraordinary success)]: the resulting weapon is truly a wonder, a masterwork
javelin (+1 damage) also imbued with a trace of Dwarven-magic, vastly
increasing the durability of the weapon.
Even with his tremendous skill, it took Frolin a full 16 hours to
complete his work. He returns to the inn
very late in the evening, weary but pleased.
He returns to Finbor his mail coat, good as new. He then hands the javelin (which weighs 2
pounds) to Vornmir. Furthermore, due to
his spate of generosity, Frolin overcomes the lust for treasure in-born in the
hearts of Dwarven [Willpower test, superior success, 1 Corruption point
removed, 0 remaining].
Scene 5: The House of Hengel
>Rard
joins them and heartily congratulates the minstrel when he is able to make his
way back to their table. “I enjoyed that last bit. Has anyone found
ever found one of these shards?”
Wogan
bows appreciatively, putting on the airs of faux humility. After the
accolades die down, he replies to Rard’s question: “Over the
centuries, there has been no shortage of black rocks pulled out of the ground
claimed by their possessors to be shards of the Black Crystal. Most of
these claims were long ago and forgotten, but two that I know of have
persisted. Golaric’s Clan has long claimed to possess a jewel shard
held as a totem of the tribe, but I have only heard of it and never seen it for
myself. The other supposed shard that I know of is held by the House of Galleth, master of a fine vineyard villa in the countryside
a day’s hike west of Dunburg. Galleth’s line has long passed
down the crystal shard as an heirloom. I have performed at Master Galleth’s
villa in the past, so I have seen his heirloom with my own eyes. It
seemed to me just a black rock the size of a man’s thumb. Old
legends have also speculated that a fragment remained buried in the
Dragon’s Pit where Icáthax fell, but the site is believed cursed and no
one who ventured to search the mound ever returned…at least that I know
of.”
>Tell
me, what was it about your tale that interested him,
other than than the quality of the performance, of course." After Wogan
(hopefully) answers this question, Frolin follows up by asking about Belemir
personally: what type of person he is, is there anything particularly memorable
about him etc.
“It
was so many months ago…” Wogan protests,
scratching his head. “As I recall, at first Belemir had no
specific interests. He and I merely spoke during dinners in the royal
hall, trading tales and lore. At some point, I do not recall when or how,
I mentioned some of my lore about the Wizard and the Dragon. Belemir was
intrigued and, over the next several days, encouraged me to tell him
more. He was clearly interested in this knowledge, for he paid me quite
handsomely,” he says with a smile, patting the fat purse at his
side. “I told him everything I know, everything I am telling you
good people now. Once he had heard all my lore, he insisted on hearing
the entire song. Eager to please him, I performed it at the royal feast
that night.” When Frolin presses Wogan for his thoughts about
Belemir the man, Wogan shrugs weakly. He replies, “I did not know
him well, and I understood him even less. I cannot fathom why he departed
Mirkwood so suddenly, and without even a thank-you-and-farewell to me! He
was a secretive man, and kept his feelings closed.” He then adds
wryly, “If you ever cross paths with this royal sage, do tell him from me
that he is a knave for fleeing my performance without even a word in
parting!”
>He
only adds, "Do you know who are the leading merchants
from Marsburg and Dunburg that the House of Hengel met Golaric's Folk with?"
“I
know them, yes,” Wogan says hesitantly, “but it is not my place to
speak the rulers of other towns. I am a Man of Winburg, despite my
wanderings. I seek to please the nobles, not to be privy to their
business. Hengel has treated with nobles of the other towns, but I do not
know which of them or to what ends.”
>“Ah,
I would be very interested in taking a look at those maps, master Wogan, with
your permission, of course.” Finbor asks the well-to-do bard.
Wogan
responds more cheerfully to this request: “Of course, you will be most
welcome. All my knowledge I freely share with you intrepid travelers from
so far away. When you visit me in the House of Hengel, you may study them
as you will.” On his way out of the tavern, the tipsy minstrel
reiterates his pledge: “I will send word to you here tomorrow or the next
day, securing you hospitality in the House of Hengel. I am sure he will
receive you on the 19th day of this month.”
*
* *
On
the 17th of June, Rard, Vornmir, and Finbor make their way to the
docks, accompanied by Herubrand. Frolin offers to take time out of his
work to go to the docks, but he is encouraged stay at the forge and complete his crafting efforts. Rard leaves a note with
the innkeeper, in case important visitors come seeking the party, and he takes
along his fishing line. At the town docks you find both visiting
riverboats from the West as well as a small row of seagoing boats blocked here,
unable to sail to the east. Vornmir serves as translator as best he can,
but it requires an act of courage to speak for his Fellowship in this awkward,
distant dialect only vaguely similar to his own tongue (1
Courage spent, 2 remaining). With Vornmir translating, Finbor
attempts to inquire of the sea-traders trapped in Winburg, asking his questions
as well as those posed by the others. The sea-traders are somewhat
quarrelsome, frustrated by their lot, and they are reluctant to talk much
[marginal success]. When Rard and Finbor ask about the Easterlings, those
sea-traders who do anything more than just curse mostly complain about
them. Golaric’s Clan dwells along the southern coast of the sea,
and they are both talented horsemen as well as sailors – they man a great
fleet of longboats that in peaceful times brings trade, but in times of war ply
the coast and rivers with armed fighting men. The longboats can be put
out to sea for many weeks at a time, which is why they can raid the coast and
blockade the river so effectively. As of yet the Easterlings have not
landed warriors on Dorwinion soil, but they have burned many ships and threaten
to do worse. Your group finds only one captain willing to talk to you
more than briefly, and Vornmir asks why Golaric’s Easterlings are so
angered. The captain answers, “They say that a Man of Dorwinion
deceived them, violated their hospitality, and stole their tribal totem.
Why would any Man of Dorwinion desire a worthless old black rock? The
Bolcoth are a fiery breed, and there is no reasoning with them. Aye, war
is certain…” None of the sea-traders knows anything about the
diplomatic negotiations, the current state of political affairs, or the goblin
menace – or if they do know, they aren’t talking to you about any
of it.
Herubrand
wishes to gain information from the newly arrived merchants, but the few he
encounters that he can understand are only from Lake-town and Dale, and they
know nothing of interest to him. So he visits the marketplace and,
through the hand-gesturing language of barter, he manages to acquire a vial of
ink, some quills, and a couple sheets of sturdy stretched, dried hide –
perfect for mapmaking. The total cost is 2 silver pennies and 40 copper
pennies, leaving the Framsburg noble with 2 silver pennies in his purse.
For
the rest of the daylight hours, Herubrand and Finbor stroll out of the
town’s south gate, onto the open green, and spar with each other, sword
on sword. The men fight with very different combat styles –
Finbor’s disciplined and trained, Herubrand’s intuitive and
primal. Though they are fairly evenly matched, Finbor’s skill
proves to have a slight edge, due to his greater strength and endurance.
However, Finbor gains considerable respect for Herubrand’s fine
longsword, a long-hilted weapon lovingly cared-for and passed down his family
line as an heirloom. It is as fine as sword as has been crafted by the
hands of Men since the fall of Arthedain in the last Age.
Rard
decides to spend the extra time fishing. He tries to join the men on the
town’s wharf, but despite his novelty as the only Hobbit in this land he
is angrily chased away. There is a strong Fisher’s Guild in the
towns of Dorwinion, he learns, and they do not brook outside competition.
Rard is forced to walk out of the town, down to the riverbank, and to engage in
paltry and much less sociable fishing there.
The
17th and the 18th are days of rest for your party, though
it comes at a cost – 28 more silver pennies gone, leaving 32 in the
company’s pool. However, the inn is safe and fairly comfortable, the
food and drink nourishing and rather tasty. All of your work has been
completed, and you do not think you can readily acquire more information from
the local commoners without a much greater effort and degree of success.
So you while away the hours resting and talking, making plans as best you
can. Finally, on the afternoon of the 18th a pageboy enters
the Green Vine Inn and Tavern looking for you. He is a messenger from
Wogan in the House of Hengel. Indeed, your friend the minstrel has come
through for you and arranged an audience in the noble mansion! You are
summoned on the afternoon of the 19th of June, invited to dinner and
to slumber overnight as guests. When the appointed time comes, you put on
your finery (which is your priceless Elven-garb for most of you), gather up
your gear, and make your way to Hengel’s mansion, following directions
provided by the pageboy.
When
you arrive at Hengel’s fine, proud mansion shortly before the dinner
hour, you find your friend Wogan there to greet you. “Welcome,
friends!” he calls out, ushering you into the foyer. “I have
told the Master about you and your amazing journeys, and he is looking forward
to meeting you. A fine feast is being prepared, and I have seen to it
that comfort beds are laid out for you to slumber here tonight.”
Servants take your extraneous gear as you enter the house, stacking the arms
and packs in a storeroom off of the main entry hall. Wogan leads you down
the hall to a suite of rooms with comfortable chairs, where you are free to
rest and talk until summoned into the dining hall. It is at that point
that Finbor reminds Wogan of his promise to share his maps of the region; the
minstrel smiles brightly as he remembers and rushes off to get them. He
returns shortly with a handful of scroll-tubes, each containing a hide
parchment of varying size. Herubrand pulls out ink, a quill, and hide
parchments of his own, preparing to copy the maps. Alas, it soon becomes
apparently that not one of you has any real skill with this fine craft.
Wogan laughs gleefully at your plight, then takes the
ink and quill from Herubrand. “You are clearly a noble leader of
your folk, friend Herubrand,” he says, “but you have no skill at
artistic craft. Come, let me show you how.” Wogan is
obviously very skilled at making maps, and within a short time he has culled
his own maps to make for you a fair copy, containing notations for the various
sites of the region. He then hands the ink, quill, and drying map back to
Herubrand. [The map is attached as a .jpg to this e-mail.]
By
the time the map is dry, the sun has set in the evening sky and servants enter
the room to call you to dinner. Wogan rises and escorts you down the hall
to formal dining room, a large and beautifully decorated chamber – not
the equal of Rivendell, of course, but as fine as anything seen in the Shire or
Esgaroth. A tall white-haired man with gray eyes stands at the head of
the table, dressed in scarlet robes with a medallion of office around his
neck. Along his sides are a cluster of non-descript men and women,
probably his lesser relations. Wogan bows politely to the head of the
table as says, “Master Hengel, I present to you your guests for the
night, Finbor of Lamedon, Herubrand of Framsburg, Frolin the Dwarven Craftmaster,
and Vornmir of Minas Tirith.” He then smiles broadly and pats Rard
on the shoulder: “And this, as you may guess, is the famous Rariadoc
Brandybuck of the Shire, a most excellent sample of the people called Hobbits
in the West.” Looking to you, he gestures to your host and
announces, “Honorable guests, I present to you Master Hengel, thirteenth
of his line and Master of Winburg for this year.”
Hengel
greets you politely, gesturing for you to take your seats. He sits first,
then everyone takes their seats after him.
Servants quickly bring out many courses for this feast – fresh-baked
breads, wheels of cheese, hot mutton, leafy salads, all washed down with
flagons of the finest Dorwinion wine. After food is served and all have
begun to eat their fill, Hengel permits conversation to begin.
“Tell me, guests,” he says in a low, gravely voice, “what
brings you to my house from such a great distance?”
Scene 6: Dark Days in Dorwinion
>With
Frolin, Herubrand will linger with Wogan and his maps asking details about
sites of importance and the safer and more dangerous areas and routes. He is
especially interested in the (im)possibility of
crossing the hills southwest of the sea.
Wogan
knows a great deal about his homeland, of course, but what he considers important
is of little consequence to your Fellowship. Mostly he describes lovely
villas, renowned vineyards, waterfalls, and the like. The “X”
on the map is Emon Drakil, the notorious Dragon’s Pit. Wogan boasts
of having seen it from afar, but even he has never dared to approach it.
The two dots in the hills are the goblin towers. Few men dare the
infested hills, so information about the fortifications is scant. He has
visited the lands of the three Easterling tribes over the years, and he
describes them in lush but generally pointless detail. Golaric’s
clan occupies a relatively flat stretch of grassland south of the seacoast;
they are triply famed as fishers, sailors, and horsemen. Belrath’s
and Malgor’s clans are renowned as hunters, herders, tanners, and
horsemen. The dot in the forest is the one settlement of the “Wood
folk” which he himself has seen before, though he adds these Elves are
none too friendly to outsiders. Wogan laments that, once upon a time, all
routes in his homeland were safe…but now travel
eastward down the river as well as across the sea is hindered, if not
altogether blocked, by Golaric’s flotilla. Travel overland south of
the river is safe by day, but by night (or days overcast with storm clouds)
goblin-raiders strike ever northward. Wogan points out that there is a
well-worn natural pass that runs through the Rhun Hills, but unfortunately it
runs right down in-between the goblin-forts; except for this pass, the hills
are extremely daunting to traverse, as harsh as any mountain ravine.
*
* *
During
the splendid feast in the House of Hengel, Finbor proves his birth by
respectfully addressing Hengel in the formal language of nobility.
[Persuade (Oratory), complete success] Hengel smiles faintly, nodding his head
in recognition of Finbor’s manners. Fortunately, Hengel knows
Westron fairly well and requires no translation. He replies in his
accented Westron, “I am pleased to host a lord’s son and other
dignitaries from the West. My house is honored by your presence.”
When
an awkward silence descends upon the table, Hengel breaks the spell by
suggesting you tell him some tales of your land. Rard is happy to oblige,
spinning stories about the Fellowship of the Ring. [Marginal success]
Your company cannot help but grow weary of hearing these same stories repeated
over and over by Rard, but the target audience has not heard them before and
seems pleased. Rard is by no means a skilled storyteller (although he is
getting lots of practice!), but he is quite knowledgeable about his subject.
“You
come from a fascinating land, travelers,” Hengel says in response,
“and it is well to learn some of the story of the Great War as it
occurred in your country. I did not know the reach of the Black Empire
stretched so far and wide.” He then drains his flagon, gesturing
for a servant to refill it. He levels his eyes on your group once more
and repeats his initial query: “Tell me, travelers, what matter brings
you to this country and keeps you here?”
Frolin
answers quickly, "We are honest travellers. We have come to your
lands looking for a friend who we believe came this way
before us. But now it seems he has not
visited Winburg, and so we must journey onward soon."
“Men
from the nearest marches of the West are not uncommon in Winburg,” Hengel
replies, “but there are almost always sailors and traders. I have
not heard of any man passing through Winburg on his way across the countryside
– and I do not think a traveler could pass Winburg and reach Marsburg or
Dunburg instead, unless he came here many months ago, before Golaric’s
armada seized control of the river.” This last thought seems to
give Hengel pause, and he fixes a cautious gaze on your group.
Rard
tries to cover the silence by adding, “Master Wogan was telling us the
Legend of the Wizard and the Dragon and has said that there is a shard at the
House of Galleth. I am most anxious to see this piece of
legend. Since we are heading that way, do you have a message for
him that we can carry?” [Persuade skill test, failure]
Hengel
arches an eyebrow, and it is difficult to discern whether he is provoked by the
request or confused. Both Finbor and Herubrand visibly scowl at Frolin
and especially Rard, for the implications of their word choices are somewhat troublesome.
Hengel finally says, “I have heard the legend sung by my friend Wogan,
but to me it is naught but a myth. I did not know that Galleth claimed to
have a piece of the Black Crystal; it seems his lineage shares a bond with Golaric’s
clan…”
Herubrand
quickly interjects and begins to discuss how he can relate to Winburg's
troubles, describing the plight of Framsburg because of the orcs, "or
goblins as you call them," of Gundabad. He talks about about the raids,
how Framsburg defeated them so far and how Winburg's grain should sustain
Framsburg through the winter. "We'll drink to the rich harvests of
Dorwinion!"
he exclaims, draining his flagon in the toast. [Persude (Fast Talk) skill
test, marginal success] It is a toast the whole table shares in, including
Hengel and his family. For now, it seems, Hengel has forgotten about the
previous topic.
Herubrand
then shifts the subject to the situation of Winburg, inquiring of Hengel about
his town’s diplomatic and military situation. Finbor echoes the
query, asking about the Orc-raids and the Easterling blockade; he unfurls the
map made by Wogan, offering it to Hengel so that he may indicate locations as
needed. Hengel appears to be most gratified to learn that you are foes of
the goblins, taking some small comfort in the knowledge that it is not his land
alone plagued by their presence. He points to the Rhun Hills as the home
of the goblins, infested with them in many different shapes and
sizes…”some as tall as trees!” He indicates on your map
that goblin-raids have been spotted within a day’s march of Winburg, that very few places in the countryside are left
unsullied by their touch. He suspects that they have ensconced themselves
in every dark gulley and shadowy copse, hiding out whilst the sun shines and
striking out to attack as soon as its rays vanish from the sky. Finbor
asks about the condition of roads between the towns, and Hengel looks at him in
bewilderment. “Roads in the countryside? Whatever for?”
he asks. Wogan laughs heartily and explains that, in the West, some kings
of old built enormous roads running from town to town over hundreds of
miles. Hengel shakes his head and says, “In Dorwinion the only road
is the river. Men build roads inside their towns alone.”
Hengel sighs audibly and laments that, for the past several months, even that
river-road has been closed off to their use – and, with the northward
incursions of the goblins, he fears that soon enough it will not be possible
even to send messenger-riders between the three towns.
Finbor
and Frolin both inquire about the cause of the conflict with the
Easterlings. Frolin reveals that your company has heard of the supposed
theft of their tribal totem and asks if any more is known about the
crime. Hengel closes his eyes wearily, as if this has been a matter of
great weight upon his shoulders. He murmurs in a weak voice, “From
what we have been able to convince Golaric’s heralds to tell us, some
months ago they received into their midst a visitor who claimed to be from Dorwinion,
and he spoke to them in our tongue. He said his name was
‘Baldur’…which certainly is not our language!”
Shaking his head he continues, “Golaric’s men will not listen to
reason, insisting that this ‘Baldur’ must be from one of our
towns. We have been unable to convince the heralds to tell us much more
than this, only that this ‘Baldur’ betrayed their confidence and,
somehow, spirited away their tribal totem. We tried to explain to them
that, to us, their totem is naught but a worthless black rock, but I fear this
only further enraged them. The last herald who arrived and departed some
days ago informed us that Golaric demands we turn over to his custody both
‘Baldur’ and their totem-rock. If we do not comply before the
month is out, they will land their warriors upon our shores and lay siege to
our towns.” One of his sons suddenly interrupts and proclaims
something in Dorwinion-speech, which Frolin translates as the boast that the
Dorwinions have weathered and outlasted Easterling sieges in the past.
Hengel shrugs faintly and mumbles, “I do not know if we can hold out
longer than Golaric’s wrath.”
Wogan,
sensing his patron’s sorrow, shifts the attention back to your
group. “If you are truly interested in the legends of our
land,” he says especially to Rard and Frolin, whom he naturally finds the
most exotic among you, “then you should pay a call to my teacher, Dáma of
Marsburg. He is the old loremaster who taught me what I know of the
Wizard and the Dragon, and perhaps he might be willing to share with you some
of his knowledge of the wondrous sights of the land you call Rhun. There
are many strange, even fearsome, sights to behold in the rarely traveled lands
south and east of the sea.”
“Did
you mention Dáma during your time in the Woodland Realm?” one of you
asks.
Wogan
shakes his head and says, “No, his name never came up. Besides,
Belemir never expressed any interest in visiting my homeland, so there would
have been no point in telling him about the old teacher.” Suddenly,
a light seems to dawn in his eyes: ”Some moments
ago did you not mention that you came to Dorwinion searching for a
friend? Oh, interesting.”
At
this point one of the servants mentions to Hengel that the moon is now out in
full, and Hengel indicates that the feast his over. He and his family
rise from the table, and along with Wogan you all rise
respectfully. Herubrand graciously thanks Hengel for the meal and boon of
hospitality for the night. Finbor echoes agreement and offers an
invitation to his father’s
The
dinner is now over, and the servants offer to show you to your rooms.
Rard mentions how much he loves the wine of this land and that he would be
gratified to fill his empty skin with it. The servants are happy to
oblige, and within a few moments his empty mead-skin is now bulging with
excellent Dorwinion vintage. The servants then lead you down a side
hallway to a series of guestrooms, each with a comfortable bed laid out for
you. Your Fellowship sleeps fitfully for the rest of the night, rousing sometime
after the sun climbs over the horizon in the morning. Though Hengel is
not there to greet you, and Wogan apparently has not yet risen,
the servants are already awake and busy. A light breakfast is prepared
for you, and your gear is readied for you in the foyer. After eating, you
gather up your supplies, thank the servants for the efforts, and walk out onto
the streets of Winburg.
Stopping
at the marketplace, your Fellowship makes one last purchase of supplies.
Frolin negotiates for a mule, which Herubrand inspects and certifies as a
stout, reliable beast. Fitted with a pack saddle, the total cost is 9
silver pennies from your party’s purse (leaving 23). You pack the
animal with your water barrel, your trail provisions (now 19 days worth for 5
people), and your miscellaneous gear. Herubrand is gratified to note that
the company’s supplies already includes fifty feet of sturdy rope, so he
does not need to buy any more unless he desires his own coil.
Scene 7: Across the Countryside
>Finbor
asks Hengel if he knows what stance the other Bolcoth tribes have taken,
Belrath's and Malgor's clans. Are to friendly towards
Golaric and aiding him or do they remain neutral? Or could they be allies for
Dorwinion? Does he knows how Golaric reacts to the goblins?
Do they fight each other as well or could they have entered in a foul alliance?
Hengel’s
expression reflects a new appreciation for Finbor’s insight when he asks
so thoughtful a question. “Belrath and Malgor lead more distant
peoples,” he says, “and we have less contact with them. I do
not know how friendly Belrath and Malgor are toward Golaric, but so far they
are remaining neutral. They have not sent messengers to threaten us, nor
have they contributed ships to Golaric’s flotilla. I do not think
Dorwinion could ever hope to ally with Belrath and Malgor against a fellow
Bolcoth tribe, but we have reason to hope they may remain neutral if the
conflict is driven by only the rage of Golaric’s people.” He
pauses momentarily before addressing the second point: “We know not how
Golaric’s clan reacts to the goblins. We have not heard of their
people being in the goblin-hills, nor have there been any reports of Bolcoth
among the goblin-raiders. We know that in the past the whole of the
Bolcoth people were allied with the Black Empire and its goblin-armies, so a
new alliance is not beyond question, but as of yet we have not seen evidence of
it.”
>He
will also ask Hengel or Wogan to describe a typical villa. He will be
interested in the defensibility of such a villa. How many men live there? Do
they have guards or walls? Are people still living there or have they fled to
the towns?
The
men explain that the villas vary in size, from plots of a few score acres sustaining
a few dozen souls to vast estates consisting of many thousands of acres home to
hundreds of men, women, children, and servants. The villas are all
entirely open, vast stretches of fields and vineyards with a manor-house at the
heart of the land. The smaller manor-houses are solitary buildings, and
not very defensible. The larger estates, however, feature manor-house
complexes of many buildings made of hewn stone and sturdy wood, and they are
very defensible. The villas are never walled nor
formally guarded, but the larger estates house enough servants to form a
defensive force, armed with farming tools that double as pole-weapons.
Not surprisingly, the population of virtually all of the smaller estates has
fled into the towns, and only the largest estates are holding out.
>Finbor
will react more fiercely, trying to hide his irritation: "Pardon me, Lord
Hengel, but you sound like you've lost already, everything I hear leads me to
believe that no actions have been taken to fight these threats on your own
terms?"
“As
for our efforts against the goblins, you saw them as you arrived. We are
beating our plowshares into spears, closing up our towns, and forming militias
to defend the gates. There is naught else we can do! We are not men
of war, like the mighty warriors of the West. We are farmers, traders,
and wine-makers, and to expect us to sally forth against a goblin-hoard is like
expecting the lamb-flock to march against the wolf.”
>Before
leaving the House of Hengel, Vornmir will ask for the name of a rider than he
could speak to about overland routes to Dunburg.
The
House employs many serving-men who are messenger-riders, and they readily talk
with Vornmir about the surrounding land. However, he is disappointed to
learn that it is mostly flat and wide open, with only scattered hills, gullies,
and copses. Numerous enough to shelter goblin raiding parties during, but
not a significant enough portion of the terrain to hide a party marching across
the entire breadth of the land.
*
* *
After
departing the House of Hengel, your Fellowship prepares for its next
journey. There is some heated discussion among the companions, especially
between the Hobbit and Dwarf against the newest member of the group,
Herubrand. Finbor finally intervenes and calls for peace, and Herubrand
laughs off the affair. Though Vornmir presses to head straight to the
Dragon’s Pit by the sea, he quickly agrees with those that suggest
stopping by Galleth’s villa along the way. Most members of the
group look to Finbor to guide the march and set the pace.
Rard
frets over supplies, carefully packing the mule. He puts his pots,
wineskin, and spare clothes on the mule, relieving his burdensome load.
Finbor, indeed, hopes to do the same, packing away his fine noble garments and
few pieces of spare gear, but the weight of his arms alone is enough to
encumber him; he is a strong man, but even he is weighted down somewhat by the
burden of mail and weaponry. Finbor also suggests that warm clothes might
be necessary for Herubrand, who is not blessed to be gifted with your
Elven-garb, but the sturdy Northmen already brings with him a full outfit of
heavy northern clothing.
Shortly
before the
You
break for camp each day shortly before dusk, spending some time finding a safe,
out-of-the-way location. Usually this means a gulley or a defile in the
grassland plain, some place you can duck down in safely so long as you do not
build a fire. While camp is laid out, Rard and Vornmir combine their
skills to forage and hunt. Normally, this should be a bountiful land full
of wild berry and plentiful game—but, the land today is grayer and more
barren than it should be, and you find signs all over of passing Orcs, whose
very presence corrupts the earth upon which they trod. Despite their
efforts every day, Rard and Vornmir are not able to scavenge enough provender
from the countryside to supplement your rations meaningfully. Only fresh
water is in abundance. Rard keeps his fishing line at the ready, hoping
to get the chance to use it, but very soon on your first day your march takes
you far from the river, and the small streamlets in the countryside have
already been stripped of fish large enough to eat. Like casualties to the
ravenous Orc-raiders, who have no stomach for the grapes and grain harvested by
the Men of Dorwinion.
Your
Fellowship covers 20 miles on the first day, 30 miles on the 21st of
June, 22nd, and 23rd as well. By the time you break
for camp on the evening of the 23rd, Vornmir estimates you are very
close to Galleth’s villa. Indeed, over the past few days you have
passed many other villas. Most of them have been abandoned already, and
only a handful of large estates are still populated, the buildings closed up
and guarded by servants with scythes and pruning-hooks. Posses of men
rush out to intercept you as you pass-by, turning back at a distance once it is
clear to them you are not goblins…though never are you greeted and
invited to stop and visit. As night falls on the 23rd and you
camp once more on the cool, wind-swept prairie of this strange, foreign land,
you cannot help but wonder as to what kind of reception you will receive at
Galleth’s villa. You consume the rest of your days ration, leaving
15 days per person left in the mule’s packs, and then turn in for the
night, sleeping fitfully while each of you takes a turn standing watch over
your dark camp.
Finbor
takes the first watch, keeping in his coat of mail until it is time for him to
sleep. Herubrand and Vornmir, however, remove their heavy armor when they
lay down to sleep. The first hour passes uneventfully, and soon the moon
is out. All but Finbor have drifted off into slumber, leaving the noble
Dúnadan alone with his thoughts in the inky darkness lit only by the half-moon
in the sky above. [Observe (Listen) skill test, failure] Finbor is roused
from his reverie by the sound of clanking and scuffling feet in the near
distance! His heart skips a beat as he hears snarling and grunting, and
some words in a strange guttural tongue—Orcs! Too late has he heard
their approach, and they are nearly upon you! He quickly bends down to
rouse his sleeping comrades, managing to wake them so that they are not
helpless. But all of the others are lying prone upon their bedrolls or
blankets, without any weapons or shields drawn or readied.
Finbor
barely has time to stand up again and draw his sword when your camp is intruded
upon by a gaggle of Orcs, all grunting and cursing in their black
language. Your camp is laid out against the lee of a hillside, and the
goblins apparently did not realize how many of you are there. They are
sniffing the air as they arrive, drawn to the smell of your flesh. But
when they are confronted by an armed Dúnadan, they shriek in surprise and
disgust! With so little light and so little time to take in the
situation, neither Finbor nor the rest of you has any
clear idea how many Orcs are overrunning your camp. Finbor sees at least
three in front of him coming around the east side of the small hill, and he is
sure there are at least a few others behind them. Fortunately, the
goblins are stunned to at least some small degree by Finbor’s presence,
and so their advance is slowed for a few precious seconds. Yet it is only
Finbor who stands between the briskly marching Orcs and his four companions,
all of whom are still lying prone and unarmed, awakened barely in enough time
to realize the threat…
The night
of the 23rd of June brings an unwelcome surprise for your traveling Fellowship
-- marauding "goblins" have stummbled across your camp, whether by
design or ill-luck you cannot say. What
quickly becomes clear, though, is that the Orcs did not expect to encounter an
armed warrior in this particular spot, for the creatures in the vanguard hiss
in unexpected alarm, causing a stir to ripple through the ranks behind them
still wrapping around the hill. This
gives the ready Finbor a brief window of opportunity to act before the goblins
can gather their wits. Your party also
has another small bit of good fortune: four days of uneventful travel have
allowed Rard and Finbor's prior injuries to heal further, so that Rard is now
completely recovered and Finbor is healthy again (7 damage remaining).
Hoping to
buy his companions time enough to rise and arm themselves, the valiant Finbor surges
forward against the goblins in the fore, bellowing his battle-cry, "For
Lamedon!" He summons his courage to
shake off his fatigue and utilize his warrior spirit; though still
"winded" his warrior instincts are alert. As he charges east around the lee of the
hill, Finbor brands his sword about menacing, the blade flashing in the
moonlight. [Intimidate skill test,
complete success] The "goblins" in the front ranks cravenly turn tail
and flee in panic, while the beasts behind them halt in their tracks,
momentarily stunned by the sight. Finbor
shouts back to his friends, "In this dim half-moon I count ten Orcs,
though two have fled before me!"
The confusion gives the others precious moments to stand up, grab their
arms and shields, and ready themselves for battle. Herubrand looks briefly at his scalemail
corslet folded on the ground next to his bedroll, but he realizes at even in a
rush it would take him half a minute to don, far too long in such a confusing
melee. He also considers grabbing his
javelin, but picking up a second weapon would delay him even longer from
attacking the hated Orcs. Rard looks
about the camp, as well as his sleepy eyes can see, but spots no Orcs in behind
Finbor or violating your camp; apparently the Orcs were tromping cross-country
in a line when they wrapped about the hill behind which you were sheltering,
and so Finbor stands between all of them and your camp.
Finbor's
feint works only for a few seconds, as the far more numerous Orcs quickly come
to their senses and prepare to attack him; the two panicked Orcs continue to
flee, though at a slower rate as they contemplate whether they should turn
about and rejoin the fray. Summoning up
their courage, both Vornmir and Rariadoc resist the fatigue of their
bodies--Vornmir is fully fresh, though Rard is still tired. Finbor is heartened to see that the goblins
are not fresh--he hears them pant, winded from a brisk job cross-country since
the setting of the sun.
Vornmir is
first to react, jogging east around the hill with his spear and shield in hand,
quickly coming to stand at Finbor's left.
He pairs off against the second Orc standing in the fore against Finbor,
making a single defensive spear-jab at the creature. The Orc tries to block the point with his
small wooden shield, but the spear slips past the buckler and scrapes against
the goblin's leather cuirass and tough hide, dazing him.
Frolin is
only a fraction of a second behind Vornmir, jogging at his full to reach
Finbor's right (running in this darkness would be risky, you all realize). He takes one careful, defensive chop at the
goblin directly in front of Finbor: with some tremendous luck, the Dwarf's axe
sweeps right past the Orc's feeble shield parry and delivers an extraordinary
blow against the creature's cuirass, splitting the armor is twain and dazing
its wearer.
The goblins
now seize the moment to act. Their
wicked eyes gleam like gimlets in the night, and you dread to realize that they
are not hindered by the darkness as you are.
The two fleeing Orcs hesitate but cannot summon the force of will to
resist their craven nature, continuing to flee into the darkness of the
night. The remaining eight goblins,
however, hiss a foul battle-cry; the five in the front are armed with cruel
scimitars and flimsy wooden shields, whilst the three in the rear carry
Orc-bows. Frolin spits on the ground as
the foes cry out and mutters, "Their tongue is akin to the foul Orc-tongue
of the north, and I hear them shout, 'Blood-Fangs, kill the foe and drink their
blood'!" The goblin struck by
Vornmir lurches forward, slashing with his scimitar, but dazed by Vornmir's
stroke he cannot even connect. The
goblin struck by Frolin hisses at the Dwarf, a natural enmity provoked in him
that this far-eastern creature might not even have known was in him. Now, fortune turns on the Dwarf has the Orc
receives tremendous good luck and lands a superior stroke on Frolin, whose
hopeless parry fails to block the scimitar-stroke: the blade scratches the stout
Dwarf blessed by the armor of fate, and he is dazed but unaffected by the pain
(OOC: 15 damage; Frolin did not spend Courage because the Orc's success was too
high to overcome). The other three
scimitar-wielding goblins surge forward, forming up a skirmishing line with
their comrades. Two of them rush to the
left flank, teaming up on Vornmir.
Although one of them flanks the spearman, he is unable to connect; the
other facing him straight-on quite nearly lands his sword on the warrior, but
Vornmir just barely manages to dodge away at that last moment. The third advancing Orc forms up on the right
flank, taking a stab at Finbor: it is a skillful blow, but so well-defended is
the natural-born warrior that only terrible bad luck would prevent him from parrying
the blow, and the scimitar bounces off the Dúnadan's large shield. The three goblins in the rear keep their
distance, about 6 yards behind their scimitar-wielding comrades; they string
their bows, pull nasty Orc-arrows from their quivers, and prepare to draw!
Rard, his
bow in hand, crouches low and sneaks back a few yards, back into your camp but
away from the hill so he can get a clean shot at the Orcs. Normally, sneaking in such a dim light would
be simple for the Hobbit, but the darkness gives him no advantage over the
night-eyed goblins. Regardless, the
creatures do not seem to notice the stealthy Hobbit, who carefully pulls an
arrow from his quiver and readies his bow...
Finbor
recovers from his shield-block, swing his sword about to strike the Orc in
front of him that moments earlier grazed Frolin. The Orc feebly tries to parry, but
Finbor’s blade strikes the creature’s unarmored leathery chest,
wounding the shrieking goblin.
The tired
Herubrand is last to react, but for all his fatigue he is unafraid to
attack! Gripping his heavy longsword
with both hands, he jogs up to the right flank and stands by Frolin’s
side. He hammers the Orc that tried to
strike Finbor with a heavy two-handed blow; the goblins just
barely fails to parry the blow with his wooden shield, catching the edge
on his shoulder, and the howling Orc suffers a visible injury.
Riding the
high of battle, Herubrand quickly regains the initiative! He attempts two wild, aggressive,
double-handed swings at the goblins he hurt last time, but in the darkness he
fails to connect.
Vornmir
acts next, turning on the goblin threatening his flank. Vornmir thrusts at the goblin and just barely
manages to connect, but in turn the Orc barely manages to block the spear-point
with his shield. The swift-striking
Vornmir follows up with a second thrust, this time just barely pushing past the
shield and grazing the goblin’s shoulder, dazing him.
Finbor now
redoubles his assault. He slashes twice
at the wounded Orc in front of him. The
goblin growls in panic as he tries hopelessly to deflect the blows with his
little shield, but Finbor’s first stroke strikes the creature’s
neck and his follow-through severs the goblin’s head entirely!
The two
goblins on your left flank team up on Vornmir, one still flanking him. Both blows look to be on-target, but the
nimble soldiers dodges aside as if he is impervious to
attack.
Rard now
finishes pulling his bowstring and lets a shaft fly into the night sky, arching
over the heads of the skirmishing line and shooting at the row of archers. The distance is some 14 yards, not at all a
difficult shot were it now a dim night.
But the Hobbit is too skilled an archer to miss at close range even at
night, and the shaft lodges in the cuirass of the right-flank Orc-archer,
dazing him. With quick reflexes honed in
his time with the Fellowship, Rard draws a second arrow and lands it right next
to the former: it is another superior hit, splitting open and destroying the
goblin’s leather cuirass and injuring the hissing foeman.
The dazed
goblin in between Vornmir and Finbor now turns on the latter, making two wild
swings at the Dúnadan warrior. Finbor
prepares to parry the blows with his shield, but the Orc is his eagerness
swings too shallowly and fails to connect both times.
The
remaining goblins now launch their attacks!
The injured goblin across from Frolin makes an angry thrust with his
scimitar, but the Dwarf is too far out of reach and the point fails to make any
contact. The archers, at the same
moment, let loose their shafts at Herubrand, Vornmir, and (the injured goblin
as an act of revenge) at Rard. Vornmir
effortlessly dances out of target and the arrow sinks into the earth where his
foot formerly stood. The shaft launched
at Herubrand is poorly shot, flying far overhead and disappearing into the
night. The injured goblin’s shaft
never really had a chance, barely leaving his string and flopping onto the
ground only a few feet in front of him.
Undeterred, the goblins draw arrows anew and ready their bows again.
Frolin, last
to regain the initiative from his previous exertions, looses two precise chops
upon the injured goblin that just failed to land a blow on him. The goblins fails to block the first superior
stroke, which cuts into his cuirass and wounds his chest; Frolin’s ax
easily sweeps past the wounded Orc’s shield and chops into the screaming
beast’s side, incapacitating him!
* * *
The battle
has raged for not even half a minute at this point, and already one goblin is
decapitating and a second nearly incapacitated from a flurry of axe-blows. Three goblins with scimitars hold their
ground, two of them dazed from slight blows and one of them unscathed. Three Orc-archers stand about 6 yards to the
east, two of them unscathed but one of them injured from where two of
Rard’s arrows poked through his damaged leather cuirass. Two more goblins with scimitars are still out
there, unhurt but running away in panic...unless they have regained their wits
and decided to come back to fight! Of
your number, only Frolin has suffered a mild wound. Only Rard and Herubrand seem to be much
hampered by their weariness, and Herubrand could shake this off entirely
through an act of courage (1 Courage point).
Your
company’s rest on the night of the 23rd of June has been
disturbed by a marauding band of Orcs of the East, swart and lanky goblins
primitive in armament but vicious in temperament as their Mordor kith.
Unlike the Orcs of the North and South, which typically wear mail and carry
iron-shod shields, these eastern goblins wear primitive cuirboli armor and
carry simple wooden shields. Their gruesome heads are uncovered, lit up
by the wicked gleam in their bulbous eyes.
Herubrand
calls upon the strength of his courage to shake off his fatigue (1 point
spent). His vitality again hale, he is first to take initiative in the
ongoing brawl. The burly Northman continues his aggressive attacks,
gripping his longsword in both hands. Despite the dim night illumination,
Herubrand pushes his heavy blade past the feeble shield-parry of the hobbled
goblin, running his blade straight through his chest. As he pulls his
sword from the dead Orc, he wildly rushes six yards to close with
archers. As he comes within reach, he attempts a quick slam with his arm,
but in the darkness he cannot connect with the goblin.
Rard, meanwhile, quick-draws an arrow from his quiver. Aiming his
bow just to Herubrand’s right, he sinks another arrow into the wounded
goblin-archer. The Hobbit’s hand darts back to his quiver for yet
another arrow, sixteen now left. He hastily launches the extra shaft and,
despite the strain of the exertion, manages to land on-target: now riddled with
the halfling’s arrows, the goblin drops to the earth, dead.
With
Herubrand nearly on top of them, the other two goblin-archers drop their bows
and rake at the Northman with their filthy claws. The Orc directly in
front of him claws at him twice, making actual contact once. Already
over-extended from his aggressive attack, Herubrand has no hope to dodge or
block, and he feels the nails rip open his upper arm (3
damage). The other Orc jogs around his left, flanking him.
Claws raking at him once, he feels the nails tear into his other arm (6 damage), leaving him slightly dazed from the pain.
Oh, if only he had been wearing his scale armor! At the same time, one
Orc in front of Vornmir lashes out with his scimitar with two back-to-back
strokes, but the swift warrior easily dodges aside from the wicked edge.
Vornmir
then turns on the Orc threatening his left flank, just barely managing to
connect with his spear. The goblin tries to parry the spear-point but
cannot force it aside, and his right shoulder feels the sting of
Vornmir’s steel. The swift-striking warrior follows up with another
quick jab, which the Orc fares no better in attempting to parry, and the spear
sinks into the goblin’s left side, badly wounding him.
Simultaneously, Frolin jogs forward around Finbor, slamming into the goblin in
front of Vornmir. Pushing past the weak parry, he lands a precise chop on
the goblin’s leather cuirass, injuring the creature. The enraged
goblin turns on the Dwarf, slashing at him with his scimitar, but he cannot
make contact with the small fighter.
With
the three remaining scimitar goblin pinned between Vornmir and Frolin, Finbor
charges forward to stand by Herubrand’s left side against the
now-disarmed goblin-archers. He skillfully runs the distance, letting the
momentum of his charge carries his attack into the Orc. He runs his sword
into the goblin’s leather cuirass, seriously injuring him.
Vornmir
is the first to regain the initiative, deftly dealing two spear-thrusts into
the wounded goblin on his flank. The weakened Orc tries to dodge, hoping
to use the time to run away from the mighty warrior, but he cannot escape his
fate: the blows pierce his flimsy armor and run him to the ground, dead.
Herubrand
unleashes a flurry of attacks soon thereafter. His first two-handed swing
is too wild to threaten contact, but the second stroke catches the Orc’s shoulders as if fails to dodge aside, injuring it. The
Northman goes all-out, throwing a wild kick as an after-thought, but he is too
overextended to hit.
The
Orc struck by Herubrand thinks better to trying to hold his ground, and he turns
tail running off after his fleeing comrades. He squeals a string of
guttural words as he scampers into the night, shouting after his fellows (who
are by now nearly a hundred yards ahead of him). The unhurt goblin
fighting with Vornmir swings at him twice, but Vornmir has preserved just
enough momentum to dodge the attacks, too swift to be touched by the clumsy
Orcs.
Finbor
recovers from his charge before his victim can fully react, hammering the Orc
with two powerful blows. The pathetic creatures tries to dodge, hoping to
escape, but it is to no avail: Finbor’s sword cleaves through the Orcish
cuirboli and splits the creature wide open, the second stroke a killing blow.
The
desperate injured goblin pinned between Vornmir and Frolin screams in helpless
rage, lashing out twice at the Dwarf but unable to even come close to hitting
the smaller target. Frolin takes advantage of the overextended goblin,
hammering him with two ax-blows. Chopping through his leather cuirass,
the Dwarf knocks him to the ground, mortally wounded. Rard, meanwhile,
repeats his rapid-fire trick, sending a careful shot followed by a reckless
shot at the goblin fleeing into the night: both shafts hit his back, dropping
him to the earth dead.
Only
one goblin remains standing, unhurt so far but without hope of overcoming
Vornmir and Frolin. Vornmir, Frolin, Finbor, and Herubrand all turn on
the creature before he can gather hits wits upon him. Surrounded on all
sides, the foul goblin is hacked to death in short order.
*
* *
When the last Orc standing falls, Herubrand instantly
rushes off to pursue the Orcs who fled from Finbor’s initial advance; the
young Gondorian runs alongside the Northman, calling for Vornmir to join the
chase.
Vornmir reluctantly but obediently joins in the pursuit, a
better runner than Herubrand and slightly better than Finbor.
However, the two fleeing Orcs have a head start of nearly a hundred yards, and
the night is too dark for them to keep them in sight for long. Frolin
calls out for his companions not to stray too far, confiding to Rard that the
goblins are much too fast for him to overtake. Rard smiles and says that,
were it daytime, he might try a few ranging shots to bring down the fleeing
Orcs, but at night even with his skill he would have little chance of landing
arrows at distances so great. While their comrades are gone, Rard and
Finbor make sure the Orcs are dead (they are), gather up their meager arms, and
drag the corpse into a pile downwind from the hill campsite. Rard checks
on Barion the Mule, happy to see that the animal barely bothered to wake up
during the brief skirmish. The goblins have no treasure on them, and
their dirty leather cuirasses are bloodied and ruined. You gather five
wooded shields, but they are overly heavy and primitive, with no sale value to
any man who knows weaponry. The five captured Orkish scimitars are of
tolerable quality, but they look foul and wicked—only unsavory or
desperate men would wish to fight with such arms. The three Orkish bows
are short enough to be wielded by a Hobbit or Dwarf, but they bear the stink of
Orc-kind…as do they evil black shafts; using Orc bows and arrows would
make a Hobbit or Dwarf quite intimidating, but relying on such evil craftwork
is surely corrupting to honest, decent folk.
Eventually,
Finbor and Vornmir return to camp, with a very reluctant Herubrand behind them;
apparently the Northman pursued his hated foe the longest and furthest, and
returned only after belatedly calming down. The two terrified goblins
raced off into the night, eventually forced to scatter even from each
other. Though the Orcs were not caught, you take consolation in the fact
that they are now lost and separated. The three Men are glad to see that Rard
and Frolin have cleaned up the camp in their absence, so all that remains is
discerning whether it is safe to camp again. You attempt to search the
area for tracks, but at night that is a virtually impossible feat. Even
working together, the best you can do is to find the main trail of the band you
have just overcome. They are in a straight path and leisurely (for Orcs),
suggesting that they were blithely traveling cross-country when they stumbled
upon your camp. Frolin suggests that this was a far-ranging patrol that
came across your campsite only by chance, that any main body of Orcs might be
quite far away.
Frolin
then says, “One of the Orcs cried out something as he was fleeing, before
Rard dropped him with two well-placed arrows.”
“Aye,”
Herubrand confirms, “I heard it, too. And, like you, I have had
bitter occasion to learn something of the speech of the
Frolin
and Herubrand compares the words they overheard and work out the fleeing
Orc’s fatal last words: “Wait for me, you dogs, or I will tell
Baldur you led us into this ambush! Easy night patrol, you said!
Bah! Curse you, wait for me!”
Weary
from battle, you slump back into your bedrolls to sleep the rest of the night
away. Vornmir nobly offers to stand watch the rest of the night, stating
that the few hours’ sleep has been sufficient for him. The rest of
the night passes uneventfully, and Vornmir watches in quietude over his
slumbering companions. You rise shortly after dawn on the 24th
of June, preparing a light breakfast of trail rations and then striking
camp…
The
24th is a fair summer day, with nary a cloud in the sky and
increasing hot as the sun rises more fully. You continue your hike to the
east, toward Galleth’s villa in the country outside of Dunburg.
Vornmir’s sense of direction is faultless as ever, and using
Wogan’s map you are able to confirm your closeness to Galleth’s
rural estate. As you hike you keep an eye out for tracks, spotting the
goblin-trail from last night. Ominously, it seems to lead you almost
directly to Galleth’s villa. Only as you near the
destination does the trail become too old to follow, and the tracks appear to
veer off somewhere into the unsettled wilds beyond. Shortly before
the
“This
is the villa of Galleth,” Vornmir states by way of confirmation.
Your company strikes through the rows of vines, heading toward a cluster of
buildings sitting atop a small hill in the middle of all the agrarian fields.
To the south of the hill is a large, dense copse of trees,
and you spy a few small shacks built under the shade of the boughs. In
every other direction lies a vineyard or crop field, with small groups of
people at work visible from a distance. As the five travelers tromp
across the western vineyard and emerge onto the flat green sward running up to
the hill, a group of armed peasants emerges from one of the large buildings,
apparently the winery. They number perhaps twenty men, all armed with bill-hooks
of various sorts, and they take up a defensive position along the western ridge
of the hill, ready to block you if you try to advance toward the cluster of
buildings…
Scene 8: The Rueful Villa
The
24th of June has been a busy day so far for your company.
Before striking camp, you stack the Orc bodies behind the hill to rot in the
rays of the purifying sun, their wicked arms stacked as a battle-trophy for Men
and a warning to all passing goblins. Before resuming your march, Finbor
takes Frolin’s healing kit and looks over the fairly mild injuries
suffered by the Dwarf and Herubrand. The Northman is once again healthy
after Finbor washes and binds it (7 damage remaining).
Frolin’s wound is similarly dressed, and he too is healthy again (9
damage remaining). With the sun now above the eastern horizon, your band
marches the short distance remaining to reach Galleth’s villa.
As
your company is closing in on Galleth’s village, Vornmir happens to
glance skyward and spots something. Whatever it is, it is very far away
– high above and some distance to the north. It is surely some kind
of winged bird, though it must be quite large to be visible from such a
distance. It is possibly a typical raptor at a distance of perhaps a
mile, or potentially it is something much larger at an even greater
distance. Vornmir cannot make out any details beyond that it seems to be
circling a great arc of land. After a few moments, though, it dives
earthward and is not seen again. The rest of the party did not seem to
notice anything.
You
are surprised that the tracks of the goblin patrol leads toward Galleth’s
estate, but not to it directly. Instead the tracks scatter and fade in
the few miles of countryside around the villa. Indeed, you do not find
any sign of goblin-wrought destruction as you pass through the vineyards and
fields. Nor do you spy any more goblin tracks—either they have not
overrun this land yet, or they passed through so many weeks back all signs of
them have faded. Vornmir is especially surprised to see peasants still
working in the fields, although their numbers are reduced from what you would
expect. The reason becomes obvious as you approach the hill upon which
the villa compound’s buildings are built: a phalanx of at least a score
of armed peasants has mustered to meet you, bill-hooks at the ready if you dare
charge their hill.
Finbor
removes his helmet and lays down his arms, raising his right hand, palm
outwards. "Peace, good folk,” he calls out, “we've come in
peace! We desire to speak with lord Galleth!" Indeed, as he
expected, the peasants do not speak Westron. Rather, they react with some
consternation—apparently the sound of a foreign tongue is not welcome at
this time! The peasants seem unsure of what to do, since Finbor has lain
down his weapons before addressing them in this strange gibberish.
Herubrand
does not like the thought of being confronted by a gang of pole-armed peasants,
and he strides next to Finbor’s side to unleash an intimidating verbal
tirade. Knowing full well they cannot understand his words, the Northman
concentrates less on what he is saying and more on his lordly demeanor, cowing
them with volume and posture. This the peasants understand quite well
regardless of the language barrier, and almost unconsciously their mass falls
back several feet, their ranks wavering in uncertainty.
Frolin
then scurries forward to salvage the confused situation. "Well
spoken, young lord Finbor," Frolin says as he looks up at the Dúnadan with
a sly smile on his face. "But I fear they understood not a word of
it. Please allow me." Calling out to them in his broken but
intelligible Dorwinion-speech, he endeavors to persuade the assembly of your
company’s good intentions. He explains you are peaceful travelers,
recently guests of Hengel in Winburg, who have need of speaking to their
master. The armed peasants begin to whisper among themselves, and they
seem to be looking in confusion to various other locations in the complex
behind them. Quickly they have reformed their ranks, and Frolin looks
dejectedly to the rest of you, afraid his entreaties have been rejected.
Courageously, he takes another step forward and stresses your company are not friends on the goblins, that eight of them
lay slain by your hands in a pile some ten miles west, if they care to
look. (1 Courage spent) This apparently is
enough to gain your party further traffic with this estate. The peasants
suddenly fall back, lowering their pikes. An unseen voice cries out to
you, “Come onto the hill, but lay down your arms. We may
talk.”
Your
company does as nstructed, trudging up the hillside to the level ground on
top. You stride into the open courtyard, laying down your arms upon the
green grass. Suddenly, a full dozen heavily armed men appear from behind
the winery and other adjacent buildings, all of them wearing mail coats and
several mounted as well. You see now how this villa might be able to
maintain a degree of functionality, if Galleth employs a retinue of armed,
trained retainers. The men are Dorwinion, but obviously skilled knights
and every bit the equal of Finbor, Vornmir, or Herubrand. One knight
rides forward, waving the peasants to disperse; they stack their hills against
one building and leave to work on other business. The knight rides up to
you and dismounts, holding his hand out in a gesture of peace. “I
can see you mean us no harm,” he states, “and if you have truly
slain eight goblins then you are indeed our friends. I am called Garad,
chief retainer of the House of Galleth.”
With
Frolin acting as translator, Finbor and Herubrand deal with Garad as
equals. Garad’s first question, not surprisingly, is about Rard
– Dwarves are rare enough in the Dorwinion countryside, and Hobbits are
unheard of. Once Garad is told about the Shire and Rard’s folk, his
curiosity is satisfied. His next concern, naturally, is your business
here. Finbor explains that you have come from Winburg, where you were
guests at the House of Hengel. Garad nods slowly and replies,
“Hengel is known to us, though we have long ceased to expect any support
from the rulers of the towns. We fend for ourselves here, and
Hengel’s word means nothing to us. But, that does not explain why a
band of foreigners from such distant lands would travel deep into our country,
and at so dangerous a time.”
Herubrand
simply says, “We are heading to Dunburg and have a delivery to
make.” He then shifts the topic to the dangers facing this
land. Even with the language gap Herubrand is so skilled at fast-talking
that Garad seems fully distracted. Garad explains that the countryside in
every direction surrounding the estate is plagued by goblin-raiders. They
do not show themselves during the day, but from dusk through dawn rural travel
is hopelessly dangerous. Galleth’s villa has been effectively
cut-off from the outside world for the past month, because it is impossible to
reach any other safe settlement before the sun dims in the sky.
“Only one other traveler has braved the wilds to reach us, and he, too,
is a distant foreigner like you.” He adds, “But,
at the least, our estate has so far escaped the ravages of the goblins.
Master Galleth has long employed a retinue of fighting-men, and our
farming-folk are renowned for their willingness to bear arms. Word of
this must have reached the vile pillagers, and they prefer to strike at easier
targets. Alas, when all the other villas have been abandoned and sacked,
I fear they will turn against us in force. Yet, by my sword, we will be
ready for them.”
Herubrand
echoes Garad’s low opinion of the goblins, referring again to your
party’s battle against them. The Northman drops the name of
‘Baldur’ into the conversation, explaining that you overheard the
goblins mention this name. Garad shakes his head and replies, “It
is not a name known to us, nor is it a name in our tongue. We here have
never had traffic with goblins, so we would not know the names of their leaders
or allies. For now the goblins have kept their distance from us: the
raiding parties have burned every little villa for many miles around us, but
they have not yet set foul foot upon our soil. Alas, we have troubles of
our own, but it is not my place to speak of such things. You must have
word with Master Galleth.”
This
provides Herubrand and Finbor the opportunity to ask for hospitality.
“We have not turned away friendly supplicants in the past,” Garad
says, “and I doubt that Master Galleth would do so now. But, times
are dangerous and my master is…burdened. I cannot speak for
him. I can give you leave to call upon him in his manor house, for he has
not stepped outside of it in many, many days. Come…”
Garad gestures for you to pick up your gear and follow him. He leads you
to the south side of the hill, where a great wood mansion stands. The
porters open the front gate for him, and they take your packs and equipment
from you, stacking your items against the wall of the entry chamber.
Garad strides ahead of you, leading you down long, dusty hallways. Except
for a small staff of servants, the house seems largely empty. The
atmosphere is quiet, somber. You pass one empty hall and Garad gestures
for your complete silence. He whispers, “Master Galleth’s son
rests in solitude in a room down that hallway, and we are ordered not to
disturb him or his healer.” You continue down the main hallway,
coming to a larger library not far away from the hallway of the slumbering
son. Garad knocks on the door, waiting for several moments. “Master?”
he whispers somewhat more loudly, “we have visitors who must speak with
you.”
The
moments pass by very slowly, but Garad simply stands and waits. Finally,
the door opens and you see a wizened, gray-haired wisp of a man who looks to be
in his sixtieth year, but he could very well be younger and have aged
prematurely from the hardship of worry. Garad bows his head once and
looks to you: “I present Galleth, master of this estate.”
Turning back to his lord the knight says, “Master, these men are
travelers from the
Galleth
stares at you wide-eyed for the better part of a minute, his expression almost
wholly inscrutable. Suddenly, he turns away from the gesture, faintly
gesturing for all of you to come into his library. He slumps back into a
chair where he obviously has been sitting for some time, staring out a
window. “More visitors from the
Garad
opens his mouth as if to correct Galleth, for both he and you know that
Galleth’s statement is not true. Only the Great Eagles could travel
such a distance in so few hours! Garad closes his mouth and looks at you
helplessly, unwilling to challenge his master.
Scene 9: Gloom in the House of Galleth
In
the afternoon of the 24th of June, your company reached the rural
estate of Galleth. Confronted by a squadron of armed men, the companions
were only invited onto the occupied hill to parlay after convincing the
defenders of your friendly intentions. The chief of the armed retainers
is a warrior named Garad, who seems to have decided the Western travelers are
goodly souls who can be trusted. Finbor appeals to Garad as a fellow
fighting-vassal sworn to service, offering to him disparaging words about the
enemy Orcs and encouraging compliments about his own preparations.
Translated by Frolin, he says, "Indeed you seem well prepared here,
although this estate lacks a strong wall, those knights are invaluable in these
open lands, and with the added manpower of the peasants you could hold out for
a long time."
Garad
smiles faintly and replies, “Cavalry is our best advantage over the
goblins. Unless they band together and attack us in force, our greater
mobility permits us to intercept and rout any small band before it can ravage
our land. Fortunately, the goblins hate the sun and can only threaten us
after sundown, and this seems to keep them scattered in small war-bands.
Yet, even the days have been growing dark and cloudy recently, and I fear a
string of shadowed days will permit them to band together into a true army and
overrun us. Neither cavalry nor knightly courage will be our salvation
then.”
As
Garad leads the Fellowship to Master Galleth’s manor house, he casually
mentions the presence of a wandering healer from the West named Belemir.
Frolin, translating for the benefit of his friends, responds,
"Belemir? There is a sage of some repute in the West called
Belemir. Perhaps it is the same man. I should certainly like to
meet him. Can you tell me how long ago he departed, and where he might
have been heading?"
“He
has not departed,” Garad answers. “He still resides in the manor
house, honored guest of Master Galleth. He likely cannot leave while the
goblins rampage across the countryside, though it is well for us as is work
here is not yet done…” Garad’s voice trails off on the
matter, not willing to speak any further.
As
the Fellowship draws nearer to the manor house, Vornmir speaks quietly in
Westron with his comrades, inquiring about stories of birds employed by the
Shadow as spies. The warrior whispers, “There was a raptor, or
perhaps something larger, circling to the North a moment ago. Some
distance away, though how far I am uncertain. I would not have expected
to see such a hunter where orcs devour the prey of a land. Nor would I
expect a scavenger for the same reasons. Only the Orcs we slew lie in
that direction, but for me to see a beast at such distance, it would have to be
quite large.”
Rard
scratches his head in thought and replies, “Oh, yes, the
‘crebain’ crows of Dunland are the most famous, but surely there
are others. There are many tales of intelligent birds who can speak with
Men and Elves, and some birds are of great size. Why, who doesn’t
know the story of the Old Thrust and Bard the Bowman? If only Barion were
here now! Oh, and do not forget the tales of the Giant Eagles –
Herubrand, you know their truth better than anyone! There are many clever
and great birds in the world, and who can say what strange beasts inhabit this
distant land?”
*
* *
A
few moments later, the companions reach the manor house. The procession
passes the silent hallway down which Galleth’s son lies, apparently quite
ill. Finbor presses Garad for an explanation of what befell the youth,
but Garad ignores the question and refuses to speak out on a matter that is his
Master’s private business. The Fellowship is guided by Garad to the
library, where they find Master Galleth sitting in gloomy solitude.
Galleth wordlessly gestures for you to takes seats, and when he does speak it
is to suggest the Fellowship leave his estate for Dunburg as soon as possible.
Herubrand
and Finbor are the first to respond when Frolin conveys Galleth’s meaning
to the group. The Dúnadan jumps to his feet and says, "Master
Galleth, it is especially in times like these that one should welcome his
allies…" He is cut off by the Northman’s protest:
“Master Galleth, your memory must be failing you in these stressing times
as although we are not familiar with these lands Dunburg is surely more than a
few hours away?” Neither Galleth nor Garad understands a word the
Northman says, and Frolin is of no mind to translate Finbor or
Herubrand’s words. However, the Dorwinion men surely intuit their
meaning and deserved anger; Garad looks to his feet in helplessness, Galleth
stares at the floor in passive shame.
"Is
that the way you normally ask to be invited into someone's home,
Herubrand?" Frolin asks of him disdainfully. "Please restrain
yourself while I attempt to salvage this situation." A few moments later footsteps are heard running down the hall
toward the library, and three armed retainers burst into the room, fearfully
inquiring about the raised voices they heard. Garad quickly intercepts
them, calms them down, and orders them to stand at the back of the room in
silence. They begrudgingly obey.
"Master
Galleth, we thank you for receiving us," Frolin says in his best
Dorwinion. "We do indeed have some business with you. We have
reason to believe that a man named Baldur is in league with the goblins which
now ravage your countryside. While in Winburg we learned that a man named
Baldur stole a black crystal shard from Golaric's tribe, bringing that tribe to
the brink of war with the Dorwinions. We believe this Baldur may be
attempting to gather as many of the shards of the ancient black crystal as he
can lay his hands upon. We also heard that one such crystal shard was an
heirloom of your family. Has anyone come through here asking about our
crystal? Do you still have it?"
[Inquire
(Converse) skill test, TN 15, failure] Galleth sighs weakly,
as if Frolin’s words are too much bother for him, yet another burden
crushing down upon his soul. He turns his back on the Dwarf,
staring out the window again. “I do not know any
‘Baldur’,” he mutters, “nor do I wish to. My only
concern with the goblins is that they leave my estate in peace!
Golaric’s Tribe is no concern of mine, nor is the fate of their shard of
the Black Crystal. As for my family’s heirlooms, what they are and
what I do with them is my affair, and no business of yours.”
Herubrand
intervenes, insisting that Frolin translate his words. The Northman
repeats the story of Baldur told by Hengel in Winburg, about how Baldur somehow
deceived the Bolcoth clan and made off with their tribal totem. He
further presses the matter by sharing his inference that Hengel implied there
was a family relation between Golaric and Galleth. [Persuade skill test,
TN 15, failure] Galleth does not budge from his dejected position staring out
the window. However, it becomes apparent that he was at least listening
to the tale of Baldur. Galleth replies in a weak, flat tone, “I do
not know anything about this Baldur. If he robbed Golaric’s clan,
it is a just punishment for those robbers who have often pillaged our
lands. As for Hengel, it is just like those overweening town-lords to
think that every rural villa-man is a half-blooded wild barbarian. Nay, I
and my whole line are Men of Dorwinion. It was an ancestor long ago who
found a shard of the Black Crystal imbedded atop this hill, and it is ours by
right of recovery. I do not know anything about Golaric’s shard,
how it was found, or what has become of it. Nor do I care.”
Garad
and the other armed retainers look at each other uncomfortably. It is
clear that their own morale is shaken by their master’s gloom and
apathy. Finbor studies the men for a moment, making count of the guards
serving the House of Galleth. He counts three men here besides Garad;
this is in addition to the dozen mounted retainers counted outside atop the
hill. The armed peasants numbered around twenty, by Finbor’s
recollection, but they do not appear to have entry to the manor house.
There are a small number of miscellaneous servants (such as the porters in the
foyer), but they are not armed and only count as “guards” in the most
minimal sense. As Finbor studies the men, Vornmir scans the chamber
looking for signs of anything that could be the Angril shard. He
seems a great many books, scrolls, papers, and tapestries in the library, but
nothing that could be considered a crystal.
An
uncomfortable silence has descended upon the room, and it soon becomes evident
that Galleth has not been persuaded to grant hospitality to the
Fellowship. Finbor then rises again, drawing himself up to his full
Dúnadan height. He begins to speak, not even alerting Frolin, leaving the
Dwarf to hurriedly provide translation. Finbor raises his powerful voice
and says, "I am not one to be sent away like a begger, master Galleth, I
am a loyal liegeman of King Elessar Telcontar of the
Vornmir,
previously taciturn as is usual for him, suddenly begins to speak, gesturing
for Frolin to translate his plain Westron speech. “We have recently
done battle with the goblins plaguing your land, and we would valiantly defend
this villa should any threaten while we are granted haven here.”
Garad
steps toward his master, leaning in toward him with bowed head.
“Master Galleth,” he says, “I beg you to receive these
men. I feel they are brave souls whom fate has brought to us in our time
of need.”
[Inspire
skill test, TN 10, +1 Majesty affinity, +1 for Vornmir’s words, +2 for
Garad’s words, superior success] Finbor’s inspiring words, backed
by Vornmir’s courageous pledge and Garad’s moving plea, profoundly
affect the somber master of the villa. Galleth’s eyes grow less
soft, and color begins to return to his face. “The goblins,”
he mutters, “and Golaric’s clan, perhaps I cannot ignore
them. In my sorrow and pain, I had hoped to close myself off to the world
beyond this estate. Let it all rot, said I! Verily, what befalls
the realm of Dorwinion will befall my villa, for I cannot be an island unto
myself.” Master Galleth rises from his chair, seeming less old and
frail than before. “Finbor, I recognize that you and your
companions serve a mighty king of the West, and great indeed must he be to
command the loyalty of hearts so bold. Garad speaks the truth: I cannot
refuse hospitality to honorable men who may prove to be allies in our moment of
need.
“You
are welcome in my home, friends from afar. I grant you the boom of
hospitality, so long as you respect the peace of my household and pledge to
stand with us, should the hated goblins attempt to storm this villa whilst you
dwell among us. Yet, there is much grief in this house. My son, who
but last month achieved the age at which he could learn to bear arms, lies ill,
and a healer keeps vigil over him. I will host you as I may, but the rest
and recovery of my son is first on my mind. We cannot revel whilst he
still lingers on the border between life and death.”
Galleth
invites you to dine with him this evening, along with Garad and his closest
retainers. He seems like he may be more amenable to answering your
inquiries, if he does not sink back into his despondency before dinner.
The Master of the Villa then excuses himself, followed by his three guards, to
go visit his son, languishing in a bedchamber down the other hallway.
Rariadoc and Herubrand suggest to Garad, who remains with the five travelers, that a tour of the mansion might be in
order. Garad agrees, and for the next hour he guides you around the
premises. There are many hallways with bedchambers, five of which are set
aside for the guests from the West. Other hallways contain studies and
parlours. There is, of course, a hallway containing servants’
quarters, not too far from the pantry and kitchen.
Garad
also shows you the great hall, where Galleth dines with guests. It is
there that you see it: resting atop a high, oaken mantle, covered by a glass
case, is a jagged piece of dark crystal about the size of a man’s
palm. It must be the shard of the Angril! It is very high
off the ground, elevated so that all who enter the hall may see it. A
ladder would be needed to reach the top of the mantle upon which it sits, and
the glass case looks to be locked.
While
walking about the mansion, Vornmir strikes up a conversation with Garad, with
whom he can even tentatively communicate in his native Rohirric.
"Your Master seems hard hit by his son's illness,” he says to the
warrior. “I am no skilled healer, but our group has traveled far on
our journey over mountains, facing enemies, wounds of our own and even staying
with the Elves of Mirkwood. Perhaps we have at least heard of something
that might help him? Will you tell us what you have seen? How was
his son taken ill? When did it happen? Were there any visitors at
the time? What has the healer done? Was Galleth diving into his
current state even before his son took ill?"
[Inquire
skill test, TN 5, 1 Courage spent, complete success] Garad is hesitant to
discuss his master with visitors, but Vornmir’s courageous earnestness
impresses the helpful man, who seems to be well-disposed to your company.
“I do not know if you can aid him or not,” he says, “for his
injury is severe. Fortunately, Belemir arrived that very day, and has
been tending him since. Halgo has only recently reached his fifteenth
year, and his father is greatly grieved because the lad is his only child and
heir. Ten days ago, when the goblin-raiders were a more distant threat,
Halgo went hunting in the woods south of this hill. The woods have never
been dangerous in the past, and the men of this estate have longed hunted
beneath their boughs. This was Halgo’s first hunt alone, a test of
his manhood. He was gone for many hours, and Master Galleth grew
concerned. The woodmen who dwell in the huts by
the wood ventured to search for him, and brought him out. The youth had
been stung by some vicious serpent or another poisonous beast, for his body was
swollen with venom and he lay in a deep sleep. Young Halgo has not
awakened since, and Belemir has kept him alive these past many days, though for
how much longer is uncertain. Some woodmen were sent into the woods to
search out the beast that stung Halgo, but they never returned. Master
Galleth forbad anyone else from venturing into the woods, for fear that the
cursed place would claim more lives. And until you arrived, that was the
last decisive action he had taken. In the ten days since his son’s
injury, he isolated himself in the library to nurse his grief and worry.”
When
Vornmir further inquires about the winery and other buildings of the estate,
Garad invites Vornmir and his companions to explore them at their
leisure. “Master Galleth has offered you his hospitality,”
Garad states, “and you are welcome to visit any building or chamber of
the villa. Though I caution you to avoid the
woods.”
Scene 10: A Most Important Dinner Guest
The
Fellowship for Belemir that has traveled so far seems to have, at long last,
located the missing sage, who has resided in this villa for approximately the
past ten days tending to Master Galleth’s stricken son, Halgo.
Finbor inspired Galleth to shake off the gloom that has crippled his
decisiveness and morale, convincing the man to grant you hospitality instead of
driving you off into the wilderness again. Galleth invites you to say in
his manor house until the countryside is safe to travel again, and he invites
you to dine with him this evening.
"We
are grateful for your generosity, Master Galleth," Frolin replies on
behalf of the Fellowship. "We will be glad to assist in the defense
of your villa while we are here. My companions are all valiant
warriors. I myself am skilled in the crafting of metal and
stone, as well as the healing arts. If you have need of any of these
skills, you have but to ask."
Galleth bows his head politely to the Dwarf and
responds, “If the wretched goblins dare assault my estate while you dwell
here, your aid would be most welcome. But I pray that will not come to
pass. We have crafted arms in plenty, and done what stonework defenses we
may, but your assistance would be welcome if damage is inflicted and must be
repaired. As for your healing arts, I am persuaded that Belemir knows best
how to tend to my son.”
"We
have one more request for you. May we speak with the healer Belemir for a
few moments when his attention is not required by your son?" Frolin asks.
"Lord
Galleth, will the healer Belemir be present at dinner tonight as well?"
Finbor adds.
Galleth responds, “I will inform Belemir of your
arrival in the villa, and of your interest in speaking with him. He spends
most hours at my son’s side, but he has departed for a while from time to
time. Perhaps he will be able to find the time to speak with you in
private. I will also invite him to join us at dinner, and he will dine
with us if my son’s condition permits his absence.” Galleth
bids you farewell for now, and he walks off toward his son’s private hallway
escorted by his other three retainers.
*
* *
Garad,
the villa’s chief retainer and a man who seems to have formed a very good
opinion of your company, is left with you in the library, to answer your
questions and guide you on a short tour before the dinner hour. Frolin asks
Garad about the goblin raids: in particular, how many have happened in the last
week or two.
Garad
replies, “We have not as yet had any raids against the land of this
estate. In the late hours of twilight or earliest moments of dawn I have occasionally
spied goblin war-bands in the distance, perhaps within a league of our land,
but so far they have preferred to raid the countryside surrounding this estate
rather than attempt to strike it directly. I think they have seen our
cavalry from afar, and dare not risk battle with us whilst easier targets
remain. But, alas, all the small villas within ten leagues in every
direction have been abandoned. Only a handful of the largest villas in
this whole region between the river and Dunburg remain populated. It is
only time before the goblins are emboldened to test our defenses.”
Taking
out the map of the area, Herubrand questions Garad about the surroundings;
mentioning the Orc trail running very close to the estate he makes inquiries
about known locations of Orc camps or sites of abandoned villas.
Herubrand also asks how old Garad's information is, and if they sending out
scouts daily.
Garad
looks over the map, commenting on its fine detail and excellent
workmanship. When Herubrand traces the Orc-path that they followed toward
the estate, Garad nods glumly. “Aye, I have sometimes spied
goblin-bands in that direction. They fan out and surround the countryside
beyond this estate, but they have not yet ventured onto our possessed
territory.” Garad does not know of any specific Orc camps, for they
seem to melt away with the rising of the sun, hiding in any shadowed copse,
gulley, or hill-hole they can find. When pressed on the matter of scouts,
Garad explains that men are not sent beyond the estate’s possessed
territory. “We have numbers enough to defend ourselves,” he
says, “but we cannot afford to lose men on speculative
reconnaissance. We hold a high hill overlooking long, flat fields, and
that is enough to give us some vantage overlooking the surrounding
land.” Garad knows the locations of some of the nearby villas,
which he marks on the map for you, but he does not know specifically which are
abandoned – though he suspects at this point that all of them are
emptied.
Before
going on the tour of the villa, Finbor sees to the party’s pack
animal. Garad informs him that the mule has already been taking to the
stable by the estate’s grooms, and will be well cared-for by them.
Herubrand insists on seeing the stables, for he is curious about the
horses. Garad gladly takes the company to the stables after finishing the
tour of the mansion-house. The stables are one of the largest and
sturdiest buildings on the hill complex, running nearly perpendicular to the
winery (also large and solidly built). With the fenced-in riding pen
between the buildings, the two of them together form a rather defensible
nexus. The stables themselves house some two dozen beasts: a handful of
donkeys or mules, a handful of light riding horses unsuitable for bearing an
armed fighter, and the rest are stout destriers that even Gondorian cavalrymen
would find satisfactory. Herubrand thinks this estate is well-provided
with horses, and in better days Galleth’s villa must have been truly rich
for this region to possess so many fine animals. While outside on the
hill, Finbor scans the complex for its overall defensibility, sharing his
observations with Garad. Finbor notes that the nexus of the winery and
the stables is particularly effective, shielding any advance up the hill from
the north or the west. Garad points out that this is what he ordered when
your company was first spotted, having the militia march out from the winery
while the cavalry laid in reserve behind the stables, out of sight.
Finbor points out that the east is less defensible, since it is blocked only by
a clutter of isolated buildings (a small granary, a small storehouse, and a
smoke-house). The south is the most vulnerable, for it contains only the
mansion itself. Fortunately, the thick wood at the base of the southern
slope makes an advance from the south somewhat more difficult, at least for an
army of men and horses.
The
tour of the villa completed, Garad bids you to do as you will until it is time
for dinner, in a couple of hours. The retainer begs his leave of you,
returning to the stables to speak further with the other fighting men.
Finbor and Herubrand, with Vornmir and Rard in tow, return to the mansion,
seeking out their bedchambers to drop off their gear, freshen their dress, and
wash themselves before dinner. Frolin, however,
delays the comforts of the mansion for a short while. He ventures down to
the woodmen’s shacks by the forest at the southern base of the
hill. He finds four hovels that look to house families numbering around two
dozen individuals total. The shacks are mostly empty now, and only a few
young men warily step out to welcome Frolin when the Dwarf calls out a
greeting. The men seem surprised to see a Dwarf, for until now they have
only heard about such folk and have never seen one. Frolin greets the men
cheerfully and explains he is a recently arrived guest at the villa.
“Where are your women-folk and little ones?” the Dwarf inquires in
a friendly manner.
One
young man answers, “We have sent them to live with the farmers in the
vineyards, where they will be safer. This forest has grown dangerous in
recent days, and only we stay here to watch over our homes and to provide the
villa with firework and charcoal necessary to survive.”
Frolin
expresses his interest in the forest and what has been happening here,
especially about Master Galleth’s son and the missing woodmen.
[Inquire (Converse) skill test, marginal success] The young men are still quite
wary of Frolin, despite the Dwarf’s effusive charm and friendliness.
To them, though, he is a particularly curious (in both meanings of the word!)
stranger.
Another
young man says, “Young Master Halgo was found in the woods ten days ago,
stricken by a poison sting. The young master had ventured into the wood
early in the morning upon his first hunt alone, a noble right of passage for a
youth on the verge of manhood. But, when he did not emerge after many
hours we delved into the boughs in search of him. We found him on a path
not far from the heart of the wood, lying on his back with his hands folded
over his breast. It was as if someone had found him and laid him safely
upon the path, or else the youth had the presence of mind to bear himself to a
place of safety and in such a posture of dignity, despite his grievous
wound. It was well that we sought for him when we did, for we found him
stung upon his upper bound, swollen with venom. We bore him from the wood
to the Master’s house, wherein a traveling healer had come. The
healer took young Halgo into his care, and has been treating him ever
since.” The men are less willing to discuss the missing
woodmen. A third man says, “Two of our fellows ventured into the
heart of the wood the next morning to seek out the beast that felled young Halgo.
They were armed with longbows and torches, to smoke out whatever hive or nest
they might find. They have not been seen since, and Master Galleth has
forbidden any of us to risk searching for them. No more lives will be
lost to this wood, says he. We trust his wisdom, for we fear the wood now
and would not venture out of sight of our homes for ready gold.”
Frolin
is unable to convince the young men to discuss anything further. They bid
him good-day and return to their hovels. Frolin trudges back up the hill
to the mansion-house, where he retires to his room before dinner.
*
* *
Just
before the sixth hour after
The
dinner is no spirited feast like what you experienced in Thranduil’s
Hall, or even the House of Hengel. The mood here is subdued, though the
retainers appear to be grateful for the presence of outsiders who have somehow
convinced Galleth to emerge from solitary grieving in his library. At
first Galleth engaged in modest small-talk through Frolin, as translator for
the company. Did you see enough of the estate? Do you find your rooms
comfortable? When the pleasantries have exhausted
themselves, Frolin gestures to the black crystal fragment encased in a glass
lockbox on the mantle high above. “Master Galleth, tell us
about that crystal shard,” the Dwarf requests.
“Oh,
yes, the Black Crystal,” Galleth says as he takes a long sip of wine,
“that was one of your concerns in coming here. As I believe you
already have heard, the crystal shard is an heirloom of my lineage. The
masters of this villa have passed it from father to son for many generations,
ever since an ancestor hundreds of years ago found it imbedded atop this very
hill where the winery now stands – indeed, the legend goes that the shard
was found buried in the earth when they struck ground to lay the foundation for
the winery. Ever since, we have kept it in the manor-house as an honored
token, for we have believed it to be a fragment of the Black Crystal sundered
in the battle between Farwalker Bluerobe and the Dragon Icáthax. Over the
centuries others have claimed to possess shards of the crystal, but most claims
have long been forgotten or the supposed shards lost or discarded. Only
the claims of my line have continued to be accepted by loremasters interested
in such things, though I have been told that sages also believe there is some
merit in the claim that Golaric’s clan possesses a shard as a tribal
totem. I know nothing of this other shard, but for centuries we have kept
ours where you see it now, showing it only to curious guests and visiting loremasters.
We have never used it as a token of battle, for my ancestors cautioned that the
legends have long held the Black Crystal to be an ill-omened relic.”
Garad
then turns to face his master and says something which catches Frolin and
Vornmir’s attention. Galleth quickly answers the question,
and Frolin hastens to provide translation. He whispers to the rest of
you, “Garad asked Galleth if he is inclined to give the crystal shard to
Belemir as a reward for preserving the life of his son. Galleth replied
that it was the boon which Belemir asked of him, and he thinks it a small price
to pay for Halgo’s life.”
Suddenly,
the door to the Great Hall swings open and a man walks quietly into the room, but
despite the softness of his step all eyes are drawn to his towering
presence. He is tall, nearly as tall of Finbor – for, indeed, he is
a Dúnadan. His dark hair is slightly grayed, suggesting he is perhaps
nearing the age of the mighty Aragorn when he undertook the Quest of the
Ring. He wears handsome brown robes, carries a tall and elegant staff of
Elvish make, and upon his left hand he bears a plain gold ring with a tiny
black gemstone, much smaller than the shard encased upon the mantle and of obviously
different substance.
“Belemir!” Galleth cries out
joyfully, gesturing to the second seat to his left, “come and join
us. You have been looked-for this past hour, for when the servants
sounded the call to dinner you had left my son’s chamber. We are
most glad you have come to us.”
The
tall, placid loremaster nods his head respectfully and replies to him in
accented Dorwinion-speech, markedly better than Frolin’s very basic
command of the tongue. “Healing is a secretive art, Master
Galleth,” he says, “and I must often venture into the wild to
search unseen for particular herbs and roots. But, I have always come
back, and I will see through to the end my obligation to your son.”
“His
condition is unchanged?” Galleth asks somberly, but desperately hoping to
be refuted.
“He
lies now as before, but no worse,” Belemir answers.
Herubrand,
gesturing for Frolin to translate, turns to Galleth with a question, though
clearly it is meant for the healer to answer. “What does the wound
look like, what kind of animal made the attack?"
Galleth
looks to Belemir, for the old man clearly does not have the heart to attempt to
explain his son’s injury. Belemir states, “The wound is a
series of envenomed stings to his upper chest, and his flesh is severely swollen.
I cannot say what made the attack, for I am no scholar of the strange beasts of
this region. I suspect he was bitten repeatedly by a viper or stung by
some great swarm of this land.” The sage then focuses exclusively
on Galleth and adds, “In regards to my requested boon, have you come to a
decision yet?”
Galleth
laughs tiredly and responds, “It is a matter which Garad has just now
raised, when our friendly visiting Dwarf inquired about the crystal upon my
mantle.” Galleth gestures to Frolin, and then to each of his
traveling companions. “These are the travelers from the
Belemir
regards each traveler in turn with an inscrutable expression, offering a polite
nod. He says in Westron, “Hail to you, friends. It must be a
curious coincidence indeed that brings other Western Folk to this little place
so far away at the same moment that I am here. And what a curious company
you are: by my reckoning, a Dwarf of the Lonely Mountain, a pair of Rhovanion
Northmen, a Man of Gondor, and an honorable Hobbit of The Shire. Judging
by your garb, I think some of you have spent time in the Woodland Realm, and were well-received.” He then switches back to
Dorwinion-speech and says, “Fellow travelers from the West, I am
interested in your tale of how you have come to be so far from
home…”
Scene 11: Hard Counsel with Belemir
On
the evening of the 24th of June, the Fellowship that has searched so
long for the missing loremaster Belemir has apparently finally come
face-to-face with the man in Galleth’s villa, where has seems to have
been staying as guest for some days. Galleth has invited the travelers to
dine with him and his retainers in his Great Hall, and after the meal has
started the man called Belemir arrives to join the feast. Your host
reminds Belemir that he had mentioned the recent arrival of other travelers
from the West, and the sage expresses surprise at the coincidence that would
bring the companions so far from their homelands.
"It
is no coincidence at all, friend Belemir," Frolin replies also in
Westron. "I am Frolin son of Droli of Aglarond. We are equally
interested in hearing of your journey since you last departed Rivendell.
Will you tell us of your journeys as well? But we shall tell our tale
first, being the most recent guests to come to this house." The
Dwarf then summarizes the general path by which the travelers had come to be in
the estate of Galleth.
Just
after Frolin, Vornmir rises and bows slightly to Belemir. "I am
Vornmir of the
Galleth
and his retainers seem quite surprised when Frolin identifies Belemir as a
friend and servant of a king of the West. Galleth laughs once and says,
“You never told us you kept such lofty company in your homeland, friend
Belemir! And here we were to believe you were but a wandering
healer.”
Belemir
nods once and replies in a soft voice, “What role I played in the West
may not advantage me in Rhun, and I find the role of wandering healer a noble
calling in this land. My years spent as a ranger trained me well for this
task. I thank Frolin and Vornmir for bearing to me the king’s
greetings. I am happy to still have his concern and confidence.”
The
others in the company take the opportunity to introduce themselves
to Belemir. Herubrand refers to the sage’s inference that he was a
Northman of Rhovanion. "Your reckoning is correct, sir. I am
Herubrand of Framsburg, and, indeed, it is a long way home to the Anduin
Vales." Herubrand continues by speaking of the Orc threat against
his homeland, of the pillaging that deprived his growing town of food, of the
need to come to Dorwinion to trade for grain.
Galleth’s
retainers grumble in commiseration once the Northman’s tale is
translated, commenting that it is cold comfort to know their land is not alone
in suffering from the goblin menace. As numerous as they are, and with
reach so far and wide, perhaps they cannot be defeated, some of the men
complain darkly. Belemir merely replies, “Aragorn had sworn to
defeat the Orcs at
The
dinner continues for another hour, filled only with small talk about the land,
the weather, and idle stories about how terrible goblins are. Belemir
plays little role in the talks, eating lightly and drinking even more
sparingly. As the dinner concludes and the host and his retainers rise
from the table, the sage returns to the topic raised when he first entered the
hall. “Master Galleth,” he announces, “is it then
decided that you will grant me your crystal shard, as boon for saving the life
of your son?”
Galleth
pauses for several moments, somewhat conflicted. He looks up at the shard
several times, then back to Belemir. “It has been an heirloom of my
line for many generations,” he says weakly, “now that it comes to
it, I find it difficult to part with. But, the life of my son is a
treasure beyond price. If you can save him, I do not see how I can refuse
your request. If its dark legend is indeed true, as these Western
travelers seem to believe, I think it may be best in the hands of a servant of
a mighty king. Yes, I will give it to you.”
Belemir
bows slightly to Galleth and replies, “You are a wise and true father to
your son. I will accept your boon when your son is healed, and claim the
shard upon my departure.” The sage then turns to depart the Great
Hall, but your Fellowship intercepts him to beg a private audience. Belemir
hesitates, but the eyes of Galleth and his men are still upon him, and they
seem surprised at even this slight hesitation. “Of
course…” Belemir answers the request, “come with
me.” He leads you out of the Great Hall, back toward the private
hall where Galleth’s son rests in solitude, and into a nearby private
chamber…
*
* *
[NOTE:
This scene is loaded with various skill and reaction tests, but they are not
specifically included in the narration.]
The
sitting room is somewhat stark, as seems to be the style of the rural
Dorwinions, but it contains a few comfortable sedans. Belemir gestures
for you to sit, and he lowers himself onto an adjacent stool. No sooner
have the assembled persons been seated than Frolin blurts out his first,
pressing question: "Have you recovered any other shards of the
Angril?"
Belemir,
his expression always inscrutable, only betrays irritation at the Dwarf’s
effrontery in his words: “What would lead you to think that I have or
even could? I am but one man, I cannot move the world in less than a
year’s time.”
Rard, ever-curious but often socially inept, gives in
to the possible suspicion that this man might not even be the true Belemir for
whom his Fellowship has long sought. He chimes in with a test: "Your
Elvish friends are worried about you. Calanlas
and Tylek were both upset that you have not been heard from in so long."
“You
mean Calanlas and Calanhir, the brothers,” he interrupts. “I
think ‘Tylek’ is a slip of your memory or your tongue, for it is
not a name that would be heard anywhere in the lands of Middle-earth.”
Satisfied,
Rard apologizes for the confusion. But, he presses the man further.
“Why do you linger here?"
“My
work is not done,” he replies curtly, clearly unimpressed with the Hobbit’s
interrogation. “I would not expect Shire-folk to understand, nor
must I answer to them for my comings and goings.”
Undeterred,
Rard asks another question: "What do you know of the Golaric
troubles?"
“I
have only heard that Golaric is chieftain of an Easterling tribe somewhere
along the southern shores of the inland sea,” he answers.
“The Easterlings have always been trouble for the Men of Dorwinion and
Rhovanion, there is no surprise in that.” The loremaster turns away
from the Hobbit, obviously no longer interested in speaking with him.
Vornmir,
though no gifted speaker, intervenes to remind Belemir of his duty.
"Our King prepares for a great campaign against Gundabad and will need great
council from his trusted advisors,” he says to the sage. “The
Orcs will not be easy to defeat and he needs every advantage. Please,
Belemir, you must return with us to Rivendell."
Belemir
regards Vornmir coolly for several moments, though without palpable derision
like was directed at Rariadoc. He says, “Aragorn has many trusted
advisors, and he has long done without my presence whilst I wandered the world
on his behalf. Let Erestor advise him, or the
sons of Elrond, for they are long in years and wisdom.” His brow
lowers slightly, and the full weight of his majestic bearing falls upon
Vornmir. “Speak, Tower Guardsman, did the king dispatch you on this
long trek to find me and determine my welfare, or did he order you to spy upon
me, intuit my purposes, and judge me by your own limited insight? Did the
king tell you to order me back to Rivendell, to override my judgment and
calculation? For I can calculate duty and necessity as
well as any man, and better than some. A loremaster acquires knowledge
of a great many things, and not all of it is fit to be shared with every common
inquisitor. Some questioners may not be ready to handle such lore, for
they possess dark secrets that burden their hearts. I discern a secret
burdens you, Vornmir of the Tower Guard. So long as you guard the secrets
of your heart, you have no right to command or condemn me for holding
secrets.” Vornmir, his tongue and mind none so
swift as the Dúnadan sage, casts his gaze to the floor in silence.
Though
Vornmir has been silenced for the moment, Herubrand’s ire has been
raised. A man of hard counsel practiced among the free-speaking Northmen,
Herubrand does not hesitate to confront Belemir. “Shall we take it
that you will not return to the West to help in the fight against the
Orcs? How can anything be more important than ridding our land of these
foul pests!"
When
Herubrand becomes aggravated, Vornmir furrows his brow at him. "This
man knows his charge," he snaps back at the noble, "like any of King
Elessar's true friends and allies." He looks back to Belemir,
clearly hoping to have furthered his plea to the man's sense of duty to the
King. “Having traveled all this way, we cannot simply return to our
King without more information about what has brought you so far and what keeps
you so long."
Belemir
replies flatly, “And I see no reason to share my burdens with those whose
veiled hearts I do not know. If the king sent you to inquire as to my
safety and welfare, which I suspect were his instructions to you, then return
to him and report I am safe and well and upon the business he has ever given
me. You may return to the West, but I will not leave this villa until I
have seen my charge to completion and the son of Galleth walks again.”
Vornmir
backs down at this statement, for he admits that healing the youth is an
honorable effort. He simply adds, "If we can assist you in any way,
perhaps by finding the beasts that attacked young Halgo, we will do so.
We have battled the spiders of Mirkwood already on our journey and do not fear
the foul beasts that live within the dark depths of wood. A shard of the Angril
may indeed be a prize for King Elessar worthy of the wait you have asked of
him," Vornmir finishes, "but we all are curious why you have made
such an effort to track these pieces, so long lost down?"
Finbor
speaks up and adds to the query, "Why would anyone want to bring the
shards of the Angril together again if it is such an evil weapon? And
furthermore, how can it be kept safe?"
“If
you think Aragorn would prize a shard of the Angril, or even the whole Black
Crystal, then you are a fool and know him not,” Belemir says
derisively. “What was long lost has been found, and it will not lie
dormant any longer now that the Shadow of the
“Tell
us truthfully,” Herubrand interjects, “what are Halgo’s
chances for survival?”
Belemir
replies, “That remains to be seen. Galleth has pledged to grant my
requested boon when I save his son’s life. If it is my destiny to
acquire this lonely shard, then Halgo shall be fated to live.”
Finbor
has stepped over to Herubrand’s side, resting his hand on the man’s
shoulder for a moment. He says in a conciliatory tone, “I recognize
your wish to return to the north, master Herubrand and to help your people, for
it is also in my heart. I, and I'm sure Vornmir as well, too wish to return and
win renown and victory at our King's side. Yet our task lies here. While the
attention of the Captains of the West is in the north, King Elessar has put his
faith in us to deal with this new threat from the East. It would do no good if
the armies of the West defeated the Orcs of Gundabad, only to find a new, evil
host at its back!" The Man of Gondor continues to speak, repeating
King Elessar’s instructions to the Fellowship when it first set out from
Rivendell many weeks ago. If the Angril myth proves to be true, if its
evil threatens Middle-earth once again, undertake what can be done to stop or
destroy it!
Rard’s
face falls as listens to Finbor’s account. "I had forgotten about
that portion of our quest. How are we to destroy an ancient artifact that
was already shattered? Do you think we will have to go to
Finbor
smiles gently at the Hobbit, then turns back to
Belemir. "We could use your sage council, Lord Belemir, if we are to
succeed in this second quest. Will you help us eliminate the threat of the Angril?"
Belemir
looks sternly at the Hobbit, his emotions betraying him for once. His
attention swiftly returns to Finbor, a fellow Dúnadan for whom he presents a
calm and polite demeanor. It is difficult for the warrior to discern the effect
of his oratory upon the inscrutable loremaster, who moves in his own mysterious
ways and keeps his own counsel. After a time Belemir says in a flat tone,
“There is some wisdom among you,” and the only vocal emphasis falls
upon the word ‘some’. “The fires of Orodruin were hot
enough to consume the One Ring, as they were hot enough to forge it. I
suspect its flames might consume the Angril, or at least contain it so
that no one would ever possess it again.”
It
is only a partial response to Finbor’s appeal for council and aid, and
Frolin has grown testy during the interview with the secretive sage.
Frolin is a loremaster, after all, and he does not appreciate this lack of
professional courtesy to him! “It is the right of every sage to be
secretive with his lore,” he growls, “but your answers to us are
hardly answers at all! Because of you, we have traveled all the way from
Rivendell. Three times along the way we had to fight for our lives.
Your King sent us to find out what you have been up to, and you will
answer our questions."
There
is a tense moment as the stout, garrulous Dwarf faces off with the steely,
private loremaster, a battle between Frolin’s insight and persuasion
against the sage’s arrogant willfulness. Finbor interjects, offending
by the tone of the inquiry. “This is no interrogation,
Frolin!” he urges. “Do not press a trusty friend of King
Elessar as if he were a common criminal.”
Finally,
Belemir raises his hand to silence Finbor’s protest, and the warrior
backs down under the sage’s commanding presence. “Your
concern is commendable, Finbor Angbor’s son, but not necessary,” he
says. “I will speak for myself. I am bound to answer the King
himself, it is true, but I am not bound to answer his vassals or allies, even
an imperious Dwarf of Aglarond. Yet, I am not afraid to hear his
questions. Let him speak.”
“Good!”
Frolin responds, launching into his first question. "Why did you
leave Rivendell without notifying anyone?"
Belemir
returns to his familiar tactic of answering a question with a question.
“Whom would it avail to have more people know about the existence of the Angril?
Was anyone served by so many people learning about the One Ring?”
He shoots a withering gaze at Rard and adds, “Or do you wish the fate of
the world to hinge once again upon little shoulders and fat mouths?”
Frolin
continues, "What do you plan on doing with the shard of the Angril
once you heal the boy?"
“It
must be tested,” he answers, “for we do not yet know if its
substance is true or how the shards react with each other. My future
course in this land remains uncertain.”
"Do
you know anything about the crystal shard that was recently taken from
Golaric's tribe?" Frolin asks.
“No,
should I?” he retorts.
"Does
the name Baldur mean anything to you?"
“It
means ‘He who loves power’ in the Sindarin tongue. The name
is a rumor across the countryside, and every ill befalling Dorwinion is blamed
on this mysterious man. A convenient distraction for their troubles, I
think. However, if word of the Angril has spread across the West,
it is possible that another from our homeland has come here to rake up
trouble. How I strove to keep this dangerous lore a secret in the West
– only to have it blurted out to all and sundry by dubious and uninvited
interference!”
Frolin
ignores the insulting implication and confronts him with one last question:
"Your final letters to the King mentioned an artifact you had recently
recovered. I assume it was that ring you wear. Why did you not
return it to him as you had promised?"
Belemir
sits very still and silent for a moment, and almost imperceptibly his eyes sink
lower. Frolin smiles faintly to himself, for his insight into the
behavior of sages gives him cause to realize that he has struck a note which
Belemir did not expect, and one for which he does not have an easy
retort. Eventually, Belemir himself becomes aware of the awkward pause
and begins to speak in a low, quiet voice: “Yes, it is an Elvish Ring of
Friendship, gifted to the Men of the Line of Hador at some time during the
Elder Days, as token of amity and alliance. It had long been lost in the
forgotten grave-mounds of the North, ‘til Wild Men plundered it.
They do not keep such a prize a secret, and soon I heard of it. I tracked
them down, and through stealth and guile stripped it from their
possession. It was my intention to present it to the King at the Council
of the North, as a recovered token of kingship. But, then the task of the
Angril came to my attention. I realized the Ring would be of some
use to me on my secret quest, so I kept it. It is not exclusively a royal
token, after all, for Hador’s Line were not entirely Kings of Men.
Indeed, this Elvish Ring was lost and forgotten even before the Dúnedain
returned in exile to these shores. With its true history lost in the
mists of the past, it may be rightfully worn by a Man of true descent from
Hador’s Line. Every ‘Ranger’, as you know us, is a just
bearer of the Ring.”
Belemir
rises from his stool and says, “It is late, and much time has past while
we talked. I must return to Halgo’s side and nurse his
injury.” He pauses then adds in a gentle tone, “I may doubt
the propriety of your questions and the wisdom of your actions in coming to
this land, but I do not question the rightness of your motivation. I can
see that all of you are truly the King’s Men. I say to you, return
to the King and report what you have learned, that I am safe and well.
Leave me to my business here. Only one may walk my path.
Yet…if you have learned of other shards of the Angril, I ask you
to tell me. It is my task to recover all of them, so that the Iron Jewel
is not reunited by another Lord of Darkness. Does any one of you think he
is strong enough in will, pure enough in heart to grapple with the lure of this
elder power? Even sundered, but a fraction of the Angril exerts a
mighty pull. Think over my words, and before I leave this place tell me
all that you know, all that you have learned. I will continue my work
here, and you will be free to return to the West.” The sage bows
his head slightly to the group, seeming to treat Finbor and Herubrand as the
natural leaders. He then departs, slipping down the hall into
Halgo’s bedchamber, shutting the heavy door behind him. You are
left alone in this private sitting room…
Scene 12: Belemir’s Decision
On
the evening of June 24th, your Fellowship finally meets in private
with Belemir, the missing loremaster for whom you have searched for so many
weeks. The interview proves to be surprisingly tense, for the secretive
sage is wary of your interference and unwilling to speak much of his
experiences in this land. Belemir seems to be somewhat hostile to the
Hobbit, and he only shows the slightest rapport with his fellow Dúnadan
Finbor. When the sage caustically applauds what little lore your
Fellowship seems to have acquired, it is Finbor who attempts to assuage
him. "Never did I claim to be wise in any lore or whatsoever, but
loyal to my King I am and resolute too. If he commands me I will see it done,
or die trying." Finbor answers the sage proudly.
Belemir
nods slowly, his expression a blank mask as he considers the warrior’s
words. “I can see that no words would ever turn you away from the
commands of your Lord and King,” he says slowly. “Nor do I
think you would be dissuaded from your duty by anything less than death
itself. Aragorn has done well to choose you for this task, for his
insight into the hearts of Men and all the Free Peoples is as keen as
ever…” His voice trails off after giving this indirect
compliment.
The
conversation subsequently turns to the matter of the shards of the Black
Crystal, and it if Frolin who presses Belemir on the subject when the sage
implies he has not uncovered any other fragments. "You found no
other shards?" Frolin sounds quite surprised. "You left
Rivendell in search of the crystal months earlier than we did, and yet you
located your first shard only ten days sooner? Where have your travels
taken you?"
Belemir
is slow to answer, and for many moments he stares at the Dwarf with a blank,
empty expression. Finally, he intones his response in a slow, low voice:
“I walk a different path than you, Dwarf, and you cannot understand the
burden of time that the Dúnedain carry upon them always. Some of my kith
have coped with this burden by forgetting the past, by dedicating their minds
to the war and the crafts of this world. Others have coped by embracing
the past as a touchstone, chosen lore to define themselves
amidst a world of which they are not fully a part. It is a hard, but
ultimately spurious, choice between these two paths, for the former will
consume and destroy us, while the latter diminishes us. The Elves are all
but gone from this world, and those that remain pale in form and majesty to
those who have departed. The task I am upon is a task for the Dúnedain,
for only we can understand and inherit the legacy of the past. You ask
where my travels have taken me, and you think of hills and mountains and tunnels,
traversing the space of this world in the manner that your kind plunges the
bowels of this earth in search of treasure. That is why you cannot
understand where my travels have been, nor will I spend breath in
trying.”
Belemir,
however, is interested in what you have learned about the shards of the Angril,
and he asks for you to reveal to him what you have learned so far.
Finbor
is quick to answer, "We have learned that Golaric used to possess a shard,
but rumor has it that it was stolen by Baldur, and according to Lord Hengel of
Winburg that was the reason for his planned invasion. Also we suspect a dark
power, possibly a shard, behind the growing strength of the Orcs of the
south."
Belemir’s
reaction is inscrutable as ever, and it is difficult to tell if he is surprised
by the revelation or if he already knew it. He merely returns, “The
power of the Orcs ebbs and flows with the power of the Shadow, whatever its
form, essence, of condition.”
"Rumors
also speak of a shard in the Tomb of Icáthax, Emon Drakil, protected by a curse
of some sort," Vornmir adds. "We were headed there to seek more
clues as to your location, but were fortunate enough to find you here.
Have you been to Emon Drakil in your search for shards of the Angril?
The land may be overrun with Orcs should we wait too long before facing the
curse of the tomb."
Belemir
is more quickly and directly answers this point: “Indeed, I have been to
the Dragon’s Pit and found naught there. It is either an empty
legend, or the site has already been searched and tapped of its value long
ago.”
Ultimately,
Belemir rejects further offers of aid and encourages you to turn back to the
West. "I do not think we can do that, Belemir," Frolin replies.
"Our charge was to locate you, which we have done. But we were also
tasked with countering the threat posed by the Angril."
Belemir
merely purses his lips together in response. The loremaster seems
unwilling to deal with your Fellowship, referring to a “veil of
secrets” upon the heart of Vornmir, and his other comments reflect a
complete lack of faith in Hobbits like Rard. Finbor attempts to convince
Belemir of his companions’ worth. The Dúnadan warrior slowly walks
to his brother-in-arms Vornmir. "It is a difficult and heavy burden
my friend here carries, but he is an honest man, loyal to our cause and fierce
in battle." Taking a deep look into Vornmir's eyes, he continues:
"I vouch for his trustworthiness." Finbor moves on to Rard and
says, "And our little friend Rard, yes, I agree, his tongue is quick and
the words often ill-chosen, but he too has a stout heart and was personally
picked by Lord Elfstone for our quest." Spreading
his arms: "All here were personally chosen for this mission by King
Elessar, either in his presence or through a message of a noble Great Eagle.
While all the strength of the West is needed at Gundabad, His Majesty put his
trust in us to deal with this new rising threat. I ask you not to betray his
trust by sending us back."
Herubrand
the Northman rises from his seat to reinforce the plea: “Though you might
prefer solitude in your task, that can not be any grounds for us to forsake the
task your king has laid upon us, just as my deep sadness for not being home at
my brothers side to fight Gundabad can not be a reason
to forsake. As it seems we are both here to stay to accomplish the same goal,
would it not be folly if we would part instead of join forces?”
Vornmir,
though still stinging from the loremaster’s sharp words that so
overwhelmed him earlier, looks to him once more to echo his companions’
sentiments. He asks if Belemir might better be able to treat young Halgo
if the beast that stung him were hunted and brought back, volunteering the
Fellowship’s efforts on his behalf.
Belemir
gazes upon the whole company with his frozen mask of contemplation, looking at
each member in turn. For many moments he is silent, for he seems to be
engaged in a debate inside his mind. After some time, he reaches a decision
and says, “Since you are set against returning to the West, and since you
insisting on remaining a part of my affairs, I cannot simply turn you aside and
forget about you. No, I see now you must be put to some use. Very
well, I will send you into the woods to find the beast that stung Halgo.
Upon the morrow, when there is good light by which to see, venture into the
heart of the forest. I suspect it is there that he came across the
creature that struck him, but the lad managed to crawl away some distance
before he fell into his deep sleep. No creature capable of such a vicious
sting has been seen since, so it may still dwell in the heart of the
woods.”
With
no further questions or comments for him, Belemir prepares to return to
Halgo’s sickbed. “If you will truly accept this task,”
he says, “I will see you off to-morrow.” The loremaster slips
out of the room, walking down the hall to the private chamber where young Halgo
rests. The Fellowship is left in this private sitting room to share their
thoughts and discuss their next course of action.
Vornmir adds to the discussion that night, "I still don't
understand why we must destroy the Angril
so quickly. If it is a powerful weapon,
then surely it could be used against the remnants of the shadow until they are
gone, then destroyed. King Elessar could
carry it into battle against Gundabad and assure victory against the
darkness."
"Do not be absurd Vornmir," Frolin snaps at the young
guardsman. "Using a tool such as
that will only result in evil.
Fortunately your King is wise enough to understand that."
The warrior scoffs at the dwarf, "This is not His lineage's
bane. I think, perhaps, you
underestimate his strength. He could
wield the crystal and discard it when he wished."
At this, Frolin shakes his head slowly and his tone becomes
increasingly grave. "Perhaps he
could, Vornmir. But I know that he would
have no wish to try. The Angril was made by a being so terrible
that even now, elves will not even speak his name. Elessar would never wield such a loathsome
thing. It is important that all of you
banish from your minds any thought of keeping or using it, even
temporarily. The Angril must be destroyed."
After
discussions are concluded, the companions head off to bed in the rooms laid-out
for them. There is some talk of offering to stand watch, and Vornmir
agrees though he is especially weary. However, Garad refuses to hear of
it. “You are guests in this house,” he says with a slight air
of indignation, “and it is not your duty to stand watch. It is the
task of the resident retainers, and you have no fear of being taken unawares
while you sleep under this roof. If battles comes,
you will be awakened—and your pledge to fight by my side will be
gratefully accepted.” Herubrand, though, is still somewhat
skeptical and asks to see how the watch is arranged. He notes that two of
the armed retainers at a time are appointed to walk the halls of the villa for
shifts two hours, and then they are relieved by a new pair. With the
retainers are also a pair of servants, and the four sets of eyes and ears seems
adequate to patrol this house and its surrounding yard. Additionally, a
squad of peasant-men is deputed to patrol the estate grounds during all hours
of the night, and to blow horns if any approaching torches are seen.
Though contented that he does not need to keep watch, the Northman still sleeps
with his sword by his side in easy reach.
Your
Fellowship rises on the morning of June 25th, having spent the night
in peaceful, uninterrupted rest. All the companions are refreshed and hale, the weariness of yesterday’s hike
forgotten. Servants bring in basins of water in which to wash, and the
Fellowship is brought out onto the veranda to gather for a light morning meal.
Fresh fruits and light, crispy breads are laid out, with mugs of clean water
and sweet grape-juice. With his retainers by his side, Galleth is already
present, and he greets you and inquires as to your comfort. Finbor greets
the master of the house respectfully, and to him and Garad he offers to join in
training the peasants who have been called upon to help defend the estate
should it fall under attack. Fighting as a cohesive unit is different
from fighting as an individual or even a small group, he states. He
further adds that he would be willing to lead some of these men out on a
reconnaissance of the countryside, to see what dangers are out there rather
than waiting for them to come.
Galleth
shakes his head firmly to the latter proposition. “We know what
dangers lie out in the countryside,” he says sternly, “and it would
be death to send these men out into the hands of the goblins. You are a
trained warrior, Finbor of Lamedon, and you would be able to stand your ground
against any threat, even unto your death. But, I will not ask this of my
working men, all of whom have wives and children, except to fend off invaders
from this estate. If you wish to venture into the open countryside, you
will do it alone.”
As
to the offer to help training the men to fight as a unit, Galleth defers to
Garad. The fighting man nods once and says, “I am sure we would
benefit from your skill and insight, Finbor Angbor’s son. We will
be training on the open field atop this hill throughout the day. Come to
us when you may.” Galleth, Garad, and the other retainers bid you
good-day and depart, leaving you to eat your morning breakfast. It is
then that Belemir appears before you, walking quietly onto the veranda.
“Have you decided to venture into the woods to seek the beast that
attacked Galleth’s son?” he inquires, standing before you.
Scene 13: Into the Woods
The
first private encounter with Belemir proved to be a tense moment for several
individuals in the Fellowship, especially Mr. Brandybuck. The little
hobbit does not take kindly to the loremaster’s impugning the worth of
his kind during the War of the Ring. He snaps back acrimoniously,
"It seems we got the job done, when no-one else was willing even to
undertake it. It seems you are just jealous that you were not invited. We
hobbits knew nothing about fighting Orcs and goblins, yet it seem
we were able to defeat them all. And what have you done on this attempt to find
the Angril, upon which task you left many months ago. Nothing. Only because a poor boy is attacked by a beast are
you able to even gain a shard!"
Belemir
does not even grace the hobbit with a glance. He sniffs faintly and
mutters, “Fat little mouths.”
When
Belemir depart and the Fellowship is left alone to talk, both Herubrand and Frolin
echo the hobbit’s unfavorable impression of the sage. The Dwarf
grumbles, "I trust that fellow about as far as you could throw him,
Rard. I think it would be better for all concerned if he never put his
hands on a shard of the Angril."
Vornmir,
on the other hands, seems duly impressed by the loremaster and comes to his
defense: "We have no reason to distrust Belemir. He has earned the
respect of his peers and those in the West. We should be honored to aid
him in his noble task, for we are not yet in a position to judge him."
Rard
responds skeptically, “He has given us no reason to trust him! I
say that he needs to earn our trust. He could have gone mad from being
alone and be doddering. We have no way of knowing."
Vornmir
frowns at the little halfling. "Are all hobbits so
untrusting?" he asks. "This is a noble friend of the
King! Not a supplicant looking to use his favor, but a friend even before
Aragorn was king. The dwarf even believes King Elessar wise, so you must
give a reason not to trust him. He needs prove nothing for he has already
proven it to another of greater stature than any of us."
Rard looks
at Vornmir with eyebrows furrowed. He purses his lips and speaks deliberately:
"First I get told I've a big mouth, apparently trusting people too
much. Now, I don't trust anyone."
He pauses and continues, “So what has Belemir been doing all this
time? And does he know what harmed young Halgo? He doesn't seem
concerned. For all we know, he caused the boy’s injuries just to get the shard.
And he doesn't seem concerned about Golaric or the missing shard
there." He pauses again then adds, "And he's rude."
Frolin cautions, "I do not trust him for I know his type all
too well. Like many loremasters, he is
driven by his pride. Erestor told me
that he had noticed a festering coldness within Belemir, a growing
discontentment. I believe that Belemir
is unsatisfied with his current station, possibly feeling that he does not
receive the recognition he deserves. But
his pride is such that this lack of recognition is completely unacceptable to
him. And so he has set
out to recover the Angril, thus proving his greatness to all. In his pride he believes that only he is
worthy of dealing with the Angril. This
is plain from the way he resents our intrusion into this matter, from the way
he described it as his task alone, and the condescending tone he takes with
us. I fear that his judgment will be
clouded by his pride, as it has been already."
Finbor
interjects sharply, "That is enough! It should suffice that both King
Elessar and the Elf-King Thranduil trust him. The trust of a King is not given
lightly and should not be ashamed. This man has been searching for lost relics
and artifacts since before I was born! Who are we to question him? What, as
Vornmir says, has he done that we should not trust him? Besides, the man is right. The Angril is a
powerful weapon and should not fall into the wrong hands. It is best if it
remains a secret, or as the locals think, a myth.
Already one unwanted visitor has found it's way to a
shard and look at the results: war in the Winelands!"
Opinions
within the Fellowship are divided when the companions turn-in for the
night. The next morning the company gathers on the villa’s veranda
for a light breakfast. After Galleth, Garad, and the retainers have
departed on business throughout the estate lands, Belemir slips onto the
terrace to speak with you. “Have you decided to venture into the
woods to seek the beast that attacked Galleth’s son?” he inquires.
Heruband
answers the ever-cryptic sage with curt questions of his own: "When we go,
what do you require from us? Should we try to capture it, whatever it is,
alive, dead, or is a sample of venom all you need?"
Belemir
shows no reaction to the Northman’s terseness and replies directly,
“The beast should be hunted and slain, lest it harms another. Bring
the carcass back to me, and I can extract what is needed from the
remains.” He then asks again, “Will you go?”
Rard
eyes Belemir coolly and says, "Since you are staying to get the shard, and
we are waiting for you, it seems that perhaps we can occupy ourselves by
hunting down this beast."
“Very
well,” is all that the loremaster says in response, turning about and
walking back into the manor-house.
*
* *
The
Fellowship finishes the light breakfast provided, and servants emerge to clear
away the small collection of dishes. The companions steps beyond the
veranda and seek out Galleth, whom they find in Garad’s company on the
hilltop field, speaking with the peasant guards. The Fellowship informs
Galleth of its intention to brave the woods south of the hill. Galleth immediately protests, but he relents when informed that
Belemir requested this task so that he may better treat Halgo.
Garad lays a hand upon his master’s shoulder and says, “Perhaps it
is well that these skilled travelers hunt whatever beast plagues the wood, so
that no other suffers as young Halgo has. The foresters of your estate
long to return to their homes, and would do so if it were safe.”
Galleth nods glumly and wishes the companions good fortune, expressing his
regret if any serious harm should befall them. Herubrand inquires if
perhaps horses might be made available. Galleth defers to Garad, and the
retainers does not hesitant to put both riding horses and steeds of war at your
disposal. Vornmir, however, suggests that horses would not serve the
Fellowship very well in the dense woods. “It is true,” Garad
says, “that the wood’s heart is densely grown. Our horses
could not penetrate very far.“ It is
decided that the Fellowship will not take steeds on this short journey, but it
is good to know that the horses are available should you need them for other
tasks in the near future.
Rard
packs light, taking along only his bow and quiver plus his pack with a
waterskin and a couple days rations. The hobbit visits the villa’s
kitchen, where a finds a small staff of servants eager to see what manner of
creature he is. Though he cannot communicate with the servants in words,
with some simple gestures he is able to indicate his desires. The stunned
servants readily hand over to him some apples and bread, as well as a little
clay jug of cider. Herubrand presumably desires to take along all of his
gear, plus a few days rations just in case; it is a
preparation matched by Vornmir. Frolin merely brings along with axe,
healing kit, and a couple days rations in his pack. Finbor, too,
presumably brings along everything like Herubrand.
By
now the sun is fully over the horizon, though it is obscured by wisps of dark
clouds. The day is overcast, and the air is cooler than in previous
days. Herubrand and Vornmir, who both have a sense for these things,
agree that it looks like rain. The Fellowship spends some time discussing
how best to search the woods, but first Frolin and Vornmir desire to speak
further with some residents of this estate. Vornmir suggests talking to
the farmers who dwell and work in the fields and
vineyard, but he is unwilling to do so alone and the other companions seem not
to spend the time. Frolin, however, shares Vornmir’s insistence on
speaking with the few woodsmen who dare to remain in their huts at the edge of
the forest. The Dwarf leads his comrades down the south slope of the
hill, toward the sprawling copse that reaches to the base. There, at the
thin edge of the woods, a cluster of mostly empty huts stands. Frolin
calls out for the men whom he spoke with yesterday,
and the handful of hardy foresters emerge with hatches in their hands.
They lower their guard when they recognize Frolin. “Good day to
you,” one manages to say politely. “Why have you come back to
this cursed place?”
“I
and my companions have been tasked to enter the forest and hunt the beast that
poisoned your master’s young son,” Frolin states. “We
hope that you will tell us more of what you know of this place.”
Vornmir
suggests to the Dwarf a list of questions it would be helpful to know, relying
on Frolin’s way with words to convince the foresters to help.
[Inquire (Converse) skill test, Persuade (Charm) affinity, failure] The
woodsmen, however, are not impressed by the company’s boldness or desire
to help. “We have already sent men into these woods to search for
the beast, and they never returned. It was wise that our master forbad
others to enter, and it will be your death, too, if you have convinced him to
relent. Leave whilst you may, for this sad fate is ours to suffer.
We do not wish ill upon you.”
The
foresters do not wish to speak with your company for very long, and most of the
men simply return to their huts. The man who has already been talking to
you pauses to briefly answer some of Vornmir’s questions. The wood
is perhaps half a mile east-to-west by a mile-and-a-half north-to-south, so it
is no more than three-quarters of a mile from the huts to the heart of the
wood. However, the forest becomes progressively denser toward the middle,
and the going can be hard. There are a few paths to the heart of the wood,
though, as well as periodic clearings. The man says he does not know of
poisonous beasts in the woods, nor does he offer to share any rumors with
you. He explains that Halgo was found on a path about half-way to the
heart of the wood, and he suspects the lad had managed to drag himself some
ways before passing into unconsciousness, for who could have carried him to
this spot where he was likely to be found? The man refuses even to think
about goblins, spitting on the ground. When asked about strange
sightings, such as unusual birds, the man looks surprised and nods.
“Aye, then you have seen it, too?” he
asks. “The great raven, a lord among birds! It is larger even
than a man, though I have not spied it close enough to
gauge its true measurement. The great birds fly to this land from the
West and the South, and they are always a rare sight. Never before have
they stayed long but only passed over on their way to other places. Lo,
this great raven has stayed in the wilds of this estate for some ten days
now. It hides itself well when landing upon the earth, for we have not
found it to approach it, even if we would dare to do so. We have only
seen it a-times flying high above, circling the land of this villa. For
what it searches I cannot say, but we fear its presence is an ill omen for
us.”
The
forester bids you farewell and returns to his hut. Your Fellowship now
stands at the edge of the wood at the southern base of the villa’s
hill. The forest sprawls more than a mile to the south,
and a quarter-mile to the east to your left and a quarter-mile to the west to
your right. The companions tentatively walk into the forest, spreading
out into a line to search but keeping fairly close together, within
a score paces of each other. By now it is late morning, though the
sun is barely visible through the heavy clouds in the darkened sky above.
The air is moist and cool, and already you feel the first sprinkles of rain
tickle your skin. However, as you move into the woods the leafy boughs
above block most of the falling droplets. After a short while of combing
the field of green-leaved oaks before you, a natural and quite rough path
running south deeper into the woods is found…
The story continues
in Part IV (click here)