Words of the Raven - Northward (redux)

[Eclecticon]

"Aye, right then," Rorin nods before heaving open the doors to the mead hall.  Wasting no time, for the warriors of Fystenheorth must be near behind them, Hathcyn slips behind the heavy cloth that hangs behind the now-empty space where sat the elk-horned throne and into Viglund's private quarters.  Inside, the air is thick with the smells of stale mead and unwashed bodies, and the space is dominated by a large box-bed covered in sheep skins.  Two disorganised piles of skins on the floor mark where Viglund's children sleep. 

Rorin's practiced eye quickly finds the door of a cupboard hidden beneath the bed, and he breaks it open with a single, expertly-placed blow.  Without a candle to light his way, he reaches in and feels quickly about.  "There's mail here," he cries.  "My hammer will be here too, come, help me look!"  Behind them, the pair can clearly hear the noice of Viglunding warriors pouring into the hall to fetch their own war-gear. 

Outside, the nearby warriors keep their distance from Grimbeorn as the escaped thralls, who must number near to a hundred, reach the gates.  The Son of Beorn hears the sounds of battle mix with the deep thump of a bar dropped to the ground, and the gates begin to open.  Dashing in that direction, he is in time to see the dark-haired maiden exhorting the ragged thralls.  "Faster!  Fly and do not stop!"  Then, seeing him, she nods and calls "Come!  We must away now if we are to escape!" 

[GandalfOfBorg]

"Lead them on and make for my lands. Be wary of outriders. I will stay to the last man, woman, and dwarf!"

[Telcontar]

Hathcyn wondered what fair or foul things would be kept in the clutch of this lord of the north. With a haste born out of natural alacrity and pushed on by curiosity the northman began to reach into the cupboard as fast as he could spilling all the contents onto the floor.

"I'll grab, you sort Master Rorin. Your hammer should be here and perhaps a geld price for the dishonourable treatment we have suffered."

[Eclecticon]

In short order, Hathcyn brings out two suits of Dwarf-sized mail, a heavy but finely-wrought maul, a short sword (on which he cuts his hand fumbling in the dark), a greataxe and a leather sack from which comes the unmistakeable clinking of coin.  Hastily, Hathcyn helps Rorin don his hauberk.  In the gloom, struggling to lift the weight and fumbling with straps and ties, it is an undignified affair, but when Rorin smooths his beard down over the steel rings, hefts his hammer and narrows his eyes, the young Beorning is glad of his efforts.  Rorin favours him with a glance as he says "Carry as much as you can and stay close to me.  It's time to show these dogs what one of Durin's folk may do when not ambushed and surrounded!"


As the thralls of Viglund stampede through the gate, the maiden calls out "Fly!  Run and scatter!  Run to your homes!  Run to the river!  You are too many for him to chase all of you!"  As Grimbeorn stands guard, three Viglunding warriors approach at a run, though they become instantly more cautious as they see him, proud, furious and ready to fight for his people.  "Stand aside," one growls.  "This is a matter for our chieftain and his family.  Enough harm you have caused already!"

[GandalfOfBorg]

"You shall not pass unless you are here to help these people to freedom.  If you value your hide, you will stand down and let these people go.  Slaving is no business for man."

 
 

Awe -  1d12 : 1, total 1
Rolled 3d6 : 1, 1, 2, total 4

Grim to help if possible.

[GandalfOfBorg]

  And Hope too

[Telcontar]

Hathcyn had one more thing to do. They were alone in the enemies camp and the Viglunds would need something more precious at risk than their slaves to keep from following them with the full weight of all their people. Some other distraction was required. The burnt inn and desolation of their own land came to his mind then.

"Let this den of thieves feel the revenge of the fox and the bear. Doubtless war now exists between our people." 

Hahcyn relying on his speed once more dashed to the great fire ring and with his great spear tossed as he could the brands and cinders about the hall in the direction of anything that would burn.

"A ruin upon this house and its breaking of out most ancient custom."

Hathcyn hoisted up the sack and fled the smoking hall.

[Eclecticon]

Grim to help if possible.

I'll give you that one as a Grim-based freebie, given everything that's happened! 

[Eclecticon]

Hathcyn's raucous shout mixes with the cracking of bone and a pained scream as Rorin puts his maul to work.  More follow as high-tossed cinders rain down on to skin, and into hair and eyes.  The hall begins to fill with smoke, and then with the characteristic crackling of burning straw as the thatched roof begins to burn.  And with that, the matter is decided.  The warriors of Viglund make haste for the door, some dropping arms and shields in the rush to be safe from the fire. 

Their flight quickly degenerates into a crush at the doorway, and it is the combined weight of Hathcyn and Rorin that forces the last few men through, sending them sprawling on to the hard ground.  The pair do not wait but dash over the fallen, Hathcyn dodging nimbly about twisted arms and legs despite the beating of the sack on his back, Rorin not deigning to avoid anything but treading down his former captors and tormentors.  As the pair charge through the chaos, Rorin bellows the ancient war cry of his folk: "BARUK KHAZÂD! KHAZÂD AI-MÊNU!" 

The cry carries clearly to Grimbeorn as he stands watch at the gate.  "Forget me," he calls to the warriors before him.  "Forget these people!  Your home is afire!"  For a heartbeat, they do not move.  Then one casts a look over his shoulder and cries out in wordless anguish.  A second later, all three have turned and are running back towards the hall, now brightly-ablaze.  As Grimbeorn spies the approaching silhouettes that can only be Hathcyn and Rorin, he hears the maiden by his side whisper "merciful fortune!  My home..." 

Rorin's cry also carries to where Anar and his erstwhile travelling companion, Polin of the Greydelve, run down the path from the top of the tor.  "Come, khuzsh," Polin grunts in the Khuzdul tongue, "he of Erebor has won our freedom!  Let us slip away from these Barum-u-Bhunad and take refuge in the forest!" 


Mike, welcome to the story! 

[GandalfOfBorg]

  Well that didn't go as planned.

[Eclecticon]

DUNK OF THE DAY! 

[Paladin003]

Anar being protective of his friend made sure that his companion Polin was in front of him the whole time as they started to race off to reach the Dwarf who was shouting the war cry of his people. Eager for them to be able to escape the nightmare around them both past and present, and on to the first breath of freedom waiting for them.

[Eclecticon]

In very little time, Hathcyn, Rorin, Anar and Polin converge on the gate where Grimbeorn and the maiden Aestid await them.  As they do, Aestid turns to Grimbeorn, her eyes still full of the shock of seeing the hall of Fystenheorth burn, and says "Grimbeorn, son of Beorn, I must leave here and never return.  I know not the way to your lands, but I will go with you, an you lead the way there."


This scene is essentially over, but I'll throw the floor open for anyone who wants to add some RP as you make your escape.

[GandalfOfBorg]

Grimbeorn's countenance is maintained but he is astounded, nay flabbergasted, at the sight.  "This will fall heavy upon our peoples.  I never sought an end like this for we are not destroyers, but tenders and tillers and lovers of things that grow by our own two hands.  This must be made right some how, some day."

He turns from the carnage and leads his people home.

[Telcontar]

"Whether you wished it or no Lord war is upon you. The burning will delay the pursuit and allow these folks to fly far from their captives however, when the pursuit comes it will be more vehement and the wrath great. You have this day surely won allies with Durin's Folk."