Captives of the Enemy

[Eclecticon]

Laeral awakens to darkness, and the smell of blood.  Her arms ache from her efforts in battle, her body from the blows she received in return and her head from no small amount of time resting on cold stone.  When she makes to raise herself, there is no sound of metal rings, and she swiftly realises that her shirt of mail has been taken from her. 

Her heart racing, she sits up, wincing at the sudden pain in her ribs, and looks about.  In the half-light that makes its way around a heavy door, she sees chains, a table slick with what can only be blood and several blades.  Her first impression of torture chamber is dashed when she sees the barrels of salt near to the table, and replaced by the even more ominous larder. 

Then, beneath the sound of her own beating heart she recognises the tell-tale sounds of Men nearby: the shifting of a leg gone numb on the stone floor, the scratching of a beard, the wheezing semi-snore of uneasy slumber. 

"Is that you, elf-maid?"  The voice is of the middle-sized Man with the red hair.  Hathcyn, she recalls.  "It is well that you awaken." 

"Aye," comes the reply of Grimbeorn.  "They have had their fun, but they haven't dared to slay us.  They seek to take us somewhere." 

"South," says the smallest Man, not apparently asleep after all, else awoken by the sound of Mannish words.  "They will take us south to Dol Guldur, for to be presented to the lord of that fell place." 

[Eclecticon]

So, this scenario is going to require a little bit of house-ruling.  You guys have had an opportunity to rest up a little, though it's impossible to tell exactly how long you've been held by the orcs.  You'll all start at half your maximum Endurance (). 

Your equipment, apart from the warm clothes you were wearing when you arrived, has been taken from you, and is presumably being held somewhere nearby. 

From now until you arrive in a safe location, any time that you lose Endurance you will have the option to lose Hope points instead - up to the number of Endurance lost.  Is it a worthwhile trade?  That's up to you to determine in the moment. 

[Eclecticon]

If there is no interjection, I will move the story on tomorrow via some more dialogue from Arbogast. 

[Telcontar]

Hathcyn murmured with his companions and waited. They had discussed the merits and flaws in attempting a night going for aid or information, but being in the caves meant it was too risky for Hathcyn. Perhaps when they were out in the open and traveling he could go for aid but here in their liar they did bit think he'd survive the trip to the surface. With each day they spent in captivity more compassion and calm died in his heart. The coal ember of wrath simmered and glowed.

[GandalfOfBorg]

"Where do you think we'll get our best chance to break our bonds?  My people do not control lands into Mirkwood and these scum know best to not to venture too close to them.  Lake-town nor Dale will be looking for us until probably too late and too far beyond their comfort and control.  Laeral, is there any hope of Thranduil's folk comes across this band?"

[Telcontar]

"Esgalwen. If I can get outside I can get to her. She will know the silver tipped fox, she would come."

[Eclecticon]

No reply comes from Laeral, though much passes across her mind in the darkness.  As the silence extends, Hathcyn speaks his own thought of Esgalwen, and a rumble of approval from Grimbeorn soon follows.  "Do it." 

Arbogast concurs.  "She is now well known among the Men of Dale, and well-regarded by their king.  If any can free us, it is her." 

The Longspear's fingers and toes begin to tingle with anticipation as he contemplates leaving his slow flesh behind and hasting from it in spirit form.  "But how will I leave this place?" 

Here, at last, Laeral speaks.  "I know not what plan you speak of, but if it is what I think, then I may be able to assist.  Though Mannish eyes may not see well in such dim light, I can mark the orc-work that set the hinges of this door into the living stone.  Nor well is it done!  Mayhap I am able to loosen it enough for a spirit-fox to slip though." 

"At your work then, fair one, and let us be away from here as soon as may be!" 


I'm just going to make a quick Stealth roll for Laeral here:

1d12 : 2, total 2
Rolled 3d6 : 3, 6, 3, total 12

[Eclecticon]

Despite Laeral's bravado, the work is hard and long, and her slender fingers are bloody and painfully torn by the time the hinge falls loose.  Despite this, not a sound does she make when the heavy footfalls of goblin guards come near.  While she works, Hathcyn settles into the deep, insensible slumber of the night-goer, each breath shallower than the one before and his heartbeat slowing until at last only the most cunning of healers would know him from the dead. 

Then, emerging from behind a barrel as if it had simply awakened from a nap, a fox struts on silent paws toward the door, barely pausing for Laeral to pull the door away from the edge of the rock wall before leaping through the narrow gap and landing, silent as snowfall, on the other side. 

Hathcyn's spirit-nose twitches as he takes in the sharp scent of orc-blood and the underlying fug of furnace-smoke and unwashed goblin bodies.  Beneath the cacophony of smell, he can just make out the clear note of winter air. 


Alright Tom, you're up.  Hathcyn is in spirit form at the cost of one point of Hope (). 

for Laeral's great success on the stealth roll. 

[tomcat]

A hoarse voice whispered out of the darkness, "Do legends and myths spring to life in this horrid cave, or are you more tricks of the Enemy to play upon my weakened mind?"

Unseen in the shadows of the back of the cave where they were imprisoned, was a young man of Esgaroth. His clothes were ragged, hair long, and a scruff of beard covered his face.

"First the orcs bring in the form of an Elf! But then I see creatures spring out of the walls and heed the words of Men? T'is magic for sure!"

Grimbeorn turned to look in the direction from which came the voice, his guard up to fend off any unseen threat. "Reveal yourself, lad, so as to prove that you are no agent of the yyrks!"

"Nay, I am no agent... just someone who is certainly lost to his own, for they could never know to look here. And here it is that I thought I would perish, until your arrival. I am Beal, son of Dolan, of Lake-town and Bowman of the Guild."

The younger man moved himself into the thin light that came from the torches without. He looked thin and hungry. "How did you come here, boy?" asked Grimbeorn.

Beal's mind took on a look of confusion. "What is the date? What is the season?" he asked. "I had come north from the new trade fort at the west end of the Dwarf Road in the beginning of October. I had taken on a commission as outrider for a caravan. Unfortunately for the merchant, a goblin band of raiders hit the caravan as it passed near the woods. I was north of the van, scouting the path." The young man's face became sad, "I must have missed the raiders as they hid, for when I returned to the wains the merchant and his folk had been all but slain and emptied of the wares. I rode to their aid, but was struck by something - a rock or club? I do not know, but I took three of the vermin! Anyway... I woke here and I have been since."
It is my intention to bring Esgalwen back into the game when Hathcyn's spirit animal finds her, but I figured I would play this new PC until she comes along. If he lives, cool. If he is slain, then I do not have a lot invested in him.

[Eclecticon]

To keep things moving, I'll put another post up advancing the narrative sometime this morning.  If you guys want to put some more posts up before then, feel free.

[GandalfOfBorg]

Grimbeorn answers his questions about year and season.  "We are out of Lake-town and the Wood a day or so now, the other men and I from the other side of the forest, nigh the Anduin."

[tomcat]

"Then it seems you have come far to die, lest this small fox can open doors and carry us far from here." Beal did not wish to be so fatalistic, but there was little hope that he could see.

[Eclecticon]

Fleet as a flowing stream hastes Hathcyn from that place of darkness, following the scent of clean air until at last he darts past the sluggish feet of goblin sentries and half-climbs, half leaps up the ladder past the still-open trap door and is at last loosed upon the moonlit world.  Not for nothing is he accounted among the swiftest of the Beornings, for he takes quick stock then of his surroundings and races off toward the north and west, the marshy miles of ice-bound mire vanishing beneath his paws. 

Never before has he, banner-bearer of Grimbeorn, son of the Anduin vales, ventured this far east of Mirkwood, and so it is only by keeping the River Running on his right that he knows to find Dale, the great city of Men rising like a new star in the North.  Nor is he fated to see it this night, for after an endless, tireless time of running his nose begins to twitch at the scent of wood smoke.  His first thought is of the banked fires of a far-off town, its inhabitants all aslumber, but a red light soon rises on the horizon that fills him with dread. 

Passing through a copse of trees, he pauses to stare out from beneath an arch of root at a scene horribly familiar.  Before his eyes, a steading burns.  The scent of flame taking hold of wood and thatch is near overwhelming, and the sight of orcs rushing about in the light of the fire puts him so in mind of another despoiled farmstead in days gone by that he nearly shudders himself right back into his own body. 

But here, it seems, the brave warders of Dale have found better fortune, for quickly another familiar scent makes itself known, and the welcome sight of Esgalwen, once Ranger of Ithilien and now sworn sword of the King of Dale, her long blade held two-handed, flashing in firelight to take the life of the orcish foe and see vengeance dealt for the slain and the lost. 


More to follow, but I have to get the kids ready for school.

[GandalfOfBorg]

"I was once such you, dire and fey. But as long as a man draws breath, there is always hope.  Fortune brought you here and us to you, I'll though it may seem.  We all have yet a part to play in this lark."

[Telcontar]

The silver tipped fox new boundless joy when he saw the ranger. Judging by the moon Hathcyn knew though he traveled at great speed the night was wanning and he would needs to return to his physical body.

He watched and waited as the battle unfolded, nit wanting to distract her in the ensuing battle, but once she had slain her foes the fox darted forward. Jumping on the corpse of one of the Orcs to be seen by the ranger.

"Hello there, has the fire stirred you from your hole little fox."

The red furred and silver tail tipped fox did little circles in place and then stood on the body of the Orc staring into the woman's eyes. His tail straight in the air, the silver tip flashed like a spear.

"Ho now, that's something new. What are you about little fox."

He jumped down from the corpse and moved to the feet of the ranger and looked up. She reached down and slowly extended her hand to pet the beast. The fur was soft, though strangely the creature held no body heat to the rangers hand.

"This grows curiouser..."
The small fox then ran circles around her legs and tried to point in a direction.

"Have you come from the Brown Wizard? What need of me does he have?"

The little fox shook his head at her questions. "Well, that's a mystery. You understand the speech of men, but haven't come from the Brown Wizard. The Elves perhaps?"

Again a shake of its small head. The creature circled her feet again and then growled at the corpse of the dead Orc.

"Yes little friend I do not like them either."

She bent down lower to stare at the fox and frowned thinking this new puzzle through. Then with a bound that surprised her the fox jumped and grabbed onto her cloak pin fashioned in the manner of a helm. The little  hands of the creature grabbing the pin and licked the helm, then fell to the ground and ran circles around her feet again.

"The pin? The fellowship of the helm, is that what you mean little friend?"

The fox ran circles around her feet again and pointed in a direction.
"Rorin had a pet bird, did he perhaps send you to me and is need of help?"

The fox stopped placed its head on the ground and then placed its paws over its tiny face.

"A red silver tipped fox...." Esgalwen's eyes opened wide. "Hathcyn of the Fox clan! Hathcyn is that you?"

The small fox ran in circles around her feet again and taking the hem of her cloak in his teeth tugged on her.

"If that is you Hathcyn then Grimbeorn can not be far behind. Or you are a friend to Rorin's raven. Either way I think my friends may be in danger."

The fox laid down then, its feet sticking up in the air.

"Grave danger indeed."

(OOC: sorry guys. I have been out of it lately but wanted to contribute so punched this out my phone. I'll check it for errors later.)