The Doom-Ring at Wuduseld

[Eclecticon]

The lady patted her friend on the shoulder and smiled, saying softly, "Your people could have no better leader and guardian than you."

Arbogast neither nods nor smiles, but says, his voice level, "You speak perhaps too soon.  Much work is there to be done first."


Tom, I like your idea of using Rorin as a go-between.  Is there anything else that people want to do before I move the story on?

[tomcat]

I am going to be posting today where Esgalwen is going to go talk to Mogdred, unless you prefer that happen at a later time. My post will not be up until tonight, my time, so if you prefer not - go ahead and move the story on and I will know.

[Eclecticon]

As evening closes in about the small town of Men and the land beneath the leaves and branches of Mirkwood darkens to a nigh-subterranean gloom, the merry-making carries on at a measured pace, new loaves being broken and ale-kettles brought forth to keep the feast-day alive.  At last, as those of lower station begin to drift away to their own hearths, the high and honoured guests are bade to enter Wuduseld itself to see the beginning of the solemn business of the hour. 

Inside, the figures carven upon walls and pillars dance and shift in the flickering firelight and smoky air, bringing to life tales of deeds both dark and noble.  Among them, the assembled elders of the Woodmen watch as the Great War-Horn of the Hunter, long the token of the War-Leader of the folk, is lain upon an empty seat in the place of honour.  Almost within arm's reach sits Mogdred, clad in fabric well-woven and richly-dyed, the light reflecting from a bejewelled crown set upon his brow. 
Hardly further away sits Caewin, a pleasant smile upon his face and the Helm of Peace held by a man standing behind him. 

The murmur of conversation falls silent as an old man (Artamud, Hathcyn vaguely recalls) stands to recite the words that will begin the ceremony.  "Ingomer, son of Laudomer, whom Men named for the Axebreaker, is gone from Middle-Earth, and the seat of the War-Leader stands empty.  But sore are the folk beset.  Will any man stand to lead our warriors in this time of trial?" 

Mogdred is out of his seat with great haste, besting Caewin who has also begun to rise.  "I am Mogdred, and Ingomer was my father," he begins. 

Gwaithlim, his ears already pricked and alert, hears a nearby woman whisper "He looks more like Ingomer than the old Axebreaker himself did, toward the end!"

Mogdred continues with a short recitation of his deeds.  "In the south, I have gathered the dispirate, the broken and the lost to my hall, and in doing so have brought forth a new kingdom that has proven itself in war against many enemies.  The heads of orc-kind I brought as a gift in this place thirteen years ago as proof of my wishes for your weal, but the folk moot of that day cared not to count me as one of you.  Yet know this: when I led your sons alongside my own warriors to victory at the ford of the Anduin, I did so as a Woodman, and the spoils of the victory I shared freely with those who followed me!" 

Realisation dawns upon Esgalwen, the taste of roasted beef still filling her mouth.  Of course!  The Woodmen are shepherds, not keepers of cattle.  This is Grimbeorn's ransom for the Old Ford upon our plates!  And with more still he has bought the love of the young warriors, promising them great fame and fortune in his service I have no doubt.

"Take me as your War-Leader," Mogdred says, "and my kingdom shall be your kingdom.  Together, united as one, we shall have such strength as no foe will dare to challenge." 

A round of raucous applause follows the end of his speech, many beating cups and knife-hilts upon tables to increase the din.  Before it has died out, however, Caewin is upon his feet.  "I am Caewin, Lord of the Sunstead, whom Men name for the Generous.  Well do you know the truth of that name!  Even now, your granaries burst with my gifts of good-will, and more treasures have I brought: fine cloth and wine brought from far-away lands by the merchants of Esgaroth, and Dwarf-wrought silver and gold from the forges of Erebor!  The friendship of all peoples I have cultivated, and great kings now await only my call to lend their aid in blades and warriors to wield them!" 

Abruptly, he turns and seizes his helm from the hands of its bearer.  "Here, too, is the token by which I won peace for my folk - and for all my folk! - from the depredations of fell spirits and the dark things of the wood!  For know this: though terrible things may dwell in the darkness, I have the wisdom and the lore with which to keep them at bay, and nothing more need we fear, for ourselves and our kin, were I to speak to the wood-wights and spiders with all of the Woodman clans at my back!" 

More applause greets his words as a third man stands: bald of pate, red of beard, his girth and heavy arms mark him out among a slight and rangy folk.  "Munderic is my name," he cries out in a heavy baritone, "whom Men name for the Ponderous!  And true is this name, too, for I have claimed the hero's portion at many feasts.  The greatest warrior of Wuduseld am I, and I would guess that not a single man here could best me: not out-wrestle me, nor cast further a spear nor split as many shields as I can!" 

"Nor out-drink you!" comes a cry from close to the door, to a scattering of laughter. 

"Nay, nor that neither!" Munderic replies, accepting the compliment.  "Many of you...  ah...  Many..." he pauses a moment. 

Luindîs hisses "He's forgotten his lines!  These are not his words, but someone else's taught to him by rote!" 

"You all remember that, when the news came that Black Tarn Hall was under attack, it was I who Ingomer chose to lead the army to relieve our southern cousins, he being by then too ill to do it.  Many of you fought alongside me in that battle and saw that ever I had a pile of slain goblins before me.  Give me the title, give me the horn, and this I vow: that my fell hand will never falter, nor my stout shield ever slip from its protection of you and yours." 

Some cheers erupt in reply, and there does come clapping of hands, but markedly less so than met the words of the first two speakers.  Then come a few moments of silence but for the crackling of the fire-pit.  Across the flames and the wavering air, Amaleoda rises and, with a pointed glance in the direction of the Fellowship, loudly asks "Is there any other who would stand?" 

Gwaithlim casts a sidelong glance at Arbogast, for now his surely his moment to speak, but the Fire-watcher's face is that of one stricken.  He sees Hathcyn elbow him in the ribs, but perhaps even the Longspear cannot hear his friend say "Before the folk-moot I stood, years ago, but my words could not sway them.  I cannot..."   


Oh crap!  Arbogast is having an attack of the Shadow-weaknesses!  Someone needs to jump in and prod him into action or he'll dither his chance away. 

EDIT:  Doug, Esgalwen will get her chance to speak to Mogdred after this little bit of drama concludes.