CHAPTER 11 - The Siege of Black Tarn Hall

[Eclecticon]

April arrives in splendour, and each passing day sees the forces of ice and darkness loosen their hold upon the north a little further and retreat into memory.  At the edges of Mirkwood, where the trees are still wholesome, new leaves sprout in brilliant green and the flowers of spring once again scent the air.  As they do, the word spreads east and west: The Dwarf-road is remade!  The greatest forest of Middle-Earth can be traversed!  Strong folk, stout-hearted and well-armed, protect travellers along its length! 

Such words, in the ears of those who seek to travel and trade, cannot help but garner interest.  And so it is that, once, a motley assortment of pedlars and other itinerants begins to trickle into the Fox's Tale.  For the most part, they are Woodmen and rootless wanderers, lured by the promise of wealth and the sight of new lands east of the forest, for the folk of Beorn have suffered raids led by Viglund and Viglar his son, and many are the fences to be rebuilt and herds to be closely tended that they might wax once again. 

At the end of the month Hathcyn is witness to the passing-by of an entire clan of Erringmen, their brightly-coloured wagons drawn by heavy-hoofed oxen, and a herd of cattle driven along with them.  They are fleeing the Viglunding raids, they say.  "We could fight," their headman tells him, "but we are a footloose folk bound by ties to the soil of neither hill or vale.  So we shall seek instead the protection of the brother-kings whom we have heard rule beyond the wood!" 

How they plan to feed those beasts in the depths of the forest, I cannot fathom, Hathcyn thinks to himself, but may they find the good fortune to make it to the other side!  As the heavy wooden wain-wheels begin to trundle forwards past the Spear of the Fox, he turns his back on the travelling folk and gladdens himself with the thought of opening the cask of fine wine, newly arrived with Esgalwen from the market of Lake-Town, and seeing how well its refined flavours suit the palate of Grimbeorn. 

[Eclecticon]

There's more narrative on the way. 

EDIT:  But probably not until tomorrow, now.

[Telcontar]

Hathcyn ponders to himself along the way. They will need provisions for their journey, and maybe guards as well.

Perhaps I need to add a store house to sell grain and provender for the forest crossing. Water too in casks. I can send the empty wine barrels back east, but filled with sweet water for the beasts and men.... And there are the wood cutters and road men, their services are much decreased now that the timber is cleared. But they know the road and its ways perhaps a company of guards can be assembled, hired to make the crossings back and forth through the woods. I must speak to Arbogast about that idea too.

[Eclecticon]

Two days earlier

No longer does the morning sun gleam from the water of the Black Tarn, once sweet and bountiful, now so choked with weeds that the fisher's boats are tangled like flies in a great web.  No longer is Sweartmereseld perfumed with fresh breezes, for some dread and unseen hand has stilled the wind and in its place set rolling clouds of noxious-smelling fog billowing from the lakeshore.  No fish have graced the tables of the folk of Black Tarn Hall for four days.  Yestereve, wounded hunters staggered into the village, eyes wide with horror, and told of trees swarming with goblins and a wood emptied of even the slightest game. 

The Amaleodingas know well the bind they are in.  The winter stores are almost all gone, and even if the outlying farms could be reached, the rye has not been harvested, and the peas, oats and beans they have sewn are far from mature.  The hungry mouths and gnawing stomachs of the folk will soon find little fare at all.   

Now, from the depths of the Tarn is come Duskwater, eldest of the River-maidens, her hair darkly gleaming with lake water, a kirtle of mail finer than ever was wrought by hand of Man or Elf about her body, the sickly, grasping weeds parting about her like a curtain.  "Children of the wood, children of my blood," says she, her feet in the thick mud, "long have you dwelled in the care of my sisters and I.  Long have we been friends.  Harken to me now!  Against the coming darkness there can be no victory, but I shall protect you.  Follow me, and I will lead you to a place of safety!" 

All about her, the Woodmen look to each other, the same question in their eyes.  Can we trust her?

From Arbogast comes an answer.  "It may be that she speaks the truth," he calls, his voice rising to fill the air "and the Enemy will let us go.  It may be that the sun shall rise in the west to-morrow!  I have no art nor cunning to foretell such things.  All I know is that the Enemy has remained true to its nature for as long as Men can reckon the ages of Middle-Earth!" 

He steps up on to a broad tree stump, a spear in his hand.  "And I tell you truly it is the nature of the Enemy that besets us to reach forth and take whatever, wherever and however it can.  It has taken from me!"  His eyes scan the crowd, seeing Amaleoda's worried expression mirrored on Lindwine's face as she cradles her swelling belly protectively.  "And it has taken from each of you!  It takes through deception aye, and through force.  But more than anything it takes through fear!  The servants of the Shadow may be terrible, but for ten years I have stood against them in the dark places of the world, and I stand before you now as proof that they are never so terrible as they would have you believe." 

A muttered assent begins to build among the crowd, for tales of the deeds of the Fire-watcher and his companions are well-known among the Woodmen, and have passed many a long night beneath Mirkwood's western eaves. 

"But plainly the Enemy has left its haunts and its hiding places, and now darkens our door!  And so I would know who among you will kindle a fire to drive back the Shadow?"  As the folk of the Tarn begin to cheer, Arbogast's voice rises above those of his kinfolk.  "Who will hold their home dear, and refuse to allow it to be taken from them?  Who will scorn to fear the darkness, and say, as I do..."  The sound of impact rings out as the Fire-watcher drives his spear into the wood of the stump. 

"Here I am, and here I shall die." 

"So be it," says Duskwater, meeting his eyes directly.  "I will watch as you and those who are so foolish to pay you heed slowly starve.  Then, one day, I shall come to collect your bones, to bring them to those who wait at the bottom of the lake." 

[Eclecticon]

News is exchanged and tales swapped over the firepit of the Fox's Tale as the waning light of the sun sinks beneath the Misty Mountains. 

"I cannot say that I blame the man," Esgalwen says as she finishes her account of King Bard's court.  "Had I been placed unknowingly in such peril as the Council were, I should be suspicious of my own household as well!  But though he surrounds himself nowadays with his black-clad guards and is rarely seen outside his hall, I think he'll recover.  He loves his queen," she adds, self-consciously polishing the jewelled cloak-pin that is the mark of her new rank as the head of Queen Una's bodyguard, "and draws great strength from her continued presence.  She, meanwhile, goes untroubled among the people of Dale and daily receives their well-wishes.  Come this time next year," she foretells, "he'll be once again the man he was before." 

The mention of the abortive attempt to poison the Council causes Grimbeorn to stare suspiciously at the wine in his own drinking horn, as if it were some new and outlandish substance in no way akin to the mead he himself has brewed over the winter.  It's not bad, though he finds himself thinking as he drains the horn and lets out an enthusiastic sigh of appreciation. 

"More?" inquires Hathcyn, already standing somewhat unsteadily to bring horn to cask. 

"Some, aye," responds the larger man.  "But mind how much!"  He pats his brawny stomach, his hand thumping against the leather and furs he wears.  "There's plenty of me, but that can only do so much to match one who can out-drink the fishes of the Anduin!" 

Thus passes the evening in companionship and good cheer. 

Some time later, he knows not when save that the moon lights the night, Hathcyn's spirit rises to dream the Fox-dream.  Laughing at the clarity he feels away from his wine-besotted body, he cavorts alone, racing and leaping without thought but to savour the joy of going abroad in such wise.   He is brought up short, however, when he spies another atop a nearby hill, and recognises instantly the great bear, seeming to his spirit-sight to be wrought of shining silver, mist and moonlight. 

"Lord," he says, humbly approaching the titanic creature, "what causes you to come a-visiting?  Is there trouble again with the north folk?" 

Beorn harumphs, his great nostrils flaring as he sits back on his hindquarters.  "Always.  But that's not why I'm here.  I bring bad tidings, Longspear.  A hoopoe saw fit to alight on my roof this afternoon and spoke to me.  Your Woodman friend sent it to beg for aid." 

[Telcontar]

"Aye Lord. There is night remaining and I may yet travel far abroad. Shall I hasten to him now? Or do you you know the nature of his need?"

  Oh man the standing stones as a spirit message system for the Beornings. A spirit animal express relay station. Take that Beacons of Gondor!

[Eclecticon]

"I can't see as it'd hurt," Beorn replies.  "You'll not be seeing foot on the way before the waking hours in any case."

Not needing to be twice invited, Hathcyn speeds southwards, the parting words of his chieftain ringing in his ears: "Be sure and tell my boy what you find!  There's axe-days ahead for our people and I'll be needed here, no mistake!"


Tom, don't worry about the Hope cost to activate Hathcyn's Night-goer ability - this one's a freebie.  Are you going to try to get all the way in to the village to see Arbogast, or just scout around the area?  Either way you'll need to make a Stealth roll, but the former will be harder.

[Telcontar]

Rolled 2d6 : 4, 2, total 6

Rolled 1d12 : 2, total 2

Time is short and even if detected the threat is lower than it would be as a man. I'll head straight in unless their is obvious trouble from the outside.

[Telcontar]

Hathcyn ran with all of the speed his spirit form gave him and then exceeded it. When his will was bent upon a purpose he was often swift. Swift to laugh, swift to anger, swift to move, swift to act. This natural swiftness expressed itself too in his current form. The miles melted by as he bounded through the wood.

He knew if he drew near the river he had to but follow it to the lake and the home of the woodman. His conscious mind knew where it was, but his spirit form rebelled at drawing too near. Though he knew no hunger or natural functions in this form he had a sickening feel in his stomach. The river repelled him in a way his corporeal body would not have sensed. Then with growing awareness and growing danger he realized the feel of the river even at a distance gave him ever so slightly the same feeling he had when faced by the wraith and chased by his spears. No where near the same magnitude, but it was there. Not a single source but the whole ribbon of the water felt like spoiled food.

Then he saw the signs of goblins and began to note all of the game trails and scents of the animals led away from the river. The natural world was fleeing before the river and the increasing signs of goblin patrols.

Abandoning all pretense of stealth the silvertip tailed fox ran with an increased urgency. Speed of paw on this night would be the only thing that would give him knowledge of his friend, and hopefully enough time before the sun to let him know his friends knew of his plight.

[Eclecticon]

Like quicksilver, Hathcyn speeds through the wood, ignoring the hoots and howls of protest from the goblins he leaves behind.  Try all you like, he thinks as he leaps over a thick root and races beneath the next, you won't catch me! 

Not even he, however, can outrun the cries of savage outrage that follow in his wake, and soon he finds goblins waiting for him with nocked arrows and grasping hands.  They abound in the forest about the Black Tarn, lounging in the crooks of branches or cavorting among the mulch and roots, singing crude songs that he is glad his ears have no time to register fully.  No longer is it enough merely for him to run and leap.  Instead, he must twist and dodge, running now this way and now that, leaping high and scrabbling low, confounding his foes as well as outpacing them.  Still he rushes on, finding little difficulty in the task.  This, foxes were fashioned to do! 

Finally, as he feels the familiar pull of dawn tug at his spirit (though little sign of it penetrates through the cloying mist) he spies ahead the palisade that surrounds the village.  About it, the trees have been cleared for nigh twenty paces as Men might reckon it, and in the empty space lie the fallen bodies of several goblins, pierced by arrows and spears.  Dark streaks and crushed grass mark where unwholesome things have dragged still more into the equally unwholesome water. 

Though untiring, the fox-form of the Longspear is momentarily daunted.  The dash across the open ground will be perilous for lack of obstacles to the goblins' darts and arrows.  Nor will the height of the palisade let him zig and zag, for he must summon all his swiftness and strength for a great leap over the timbers. 

Taking a breath, he surges forward...


Tom, since the Stealth roll failed, he's going to be shot at by two goblin archers (there are a lot more shooting, but these are the two with the best aim).  Because he's taking a run-up to try to jump an eight-foot wall, he's going to have to be in Forward stance, but since he's small and moving quickly I'll use his favoured Wits score (for a TN of 12). 

Archer the first

1d12 : 2, total 2
Rolled 2d6+2 : 3, 4 + 2, total 9

Archer the second

1d12 : 2, total 2
Rolled 2d6+2 : 5, 6 + 2, total 13

If he avoids getting hit, he'll need to make an Athletics roll to get over the palisade, but I'll handle that when I see what the goblins' aim is like...

[Eclecticon]

Out of the darkness whistles a stone-headed shaft to pierce his fore-shoulder and send his fox-form, until now swift and graceful as a flowing stream, skidding across the moist ground before the palisade. 

TO SOON!  His waking is sudden and violent, jerking and thrashing until the feeling of the arrow in his flesh subsides, leaving only a deep scratch in his shoulder to drip blood on the sleeping furs. 

[Eclecticon]

Hathcyn technically loses six Endurance as the harm visited upon his spirit-form transfers itself to his body, but he'll regain five of those by the time he's finished breakfast.  Assuming he doesn't lose any more, he'll recover the last one by the end of the day. 

[Telcontar]

  soooo when you said siege that was literal.... Lol

[Eclecticon]

I've never been a fan of figurative sieges.

[Telcontar]

Hathcyn was sore but determined. He tossed aside his blankets and was reminded instantly of his wound.

"Goblins."

The word was said like a curse. Entering his hall he sent someone to bring Grimbeorn and Esgalwen with all the haste that their propriety would allow. He poured himself some and a grabbed a bowl while he waited. The Beorning was oblivious to the fact that he himself wore only a long shirt.

Grimbeorn arrived first.
"Longspear?"

The Lady of Dale was not far behind.

"Are we summoned to breakfast? Hathcyn, strange fashion for your hall..."

Hathcyn was serious. I have been brought news this night, and I have traveled far."

By this the companions new the nature of his errand if not its cause.

"I'll be quick. The Black Taryn is besieged by Goblins. I know not their number or the condition of the village, but I know it still stands and is defended. Arbogast at least lives as of yesterday for he sent a message with the birds that he needed help. I went to see for myself the nature of his need. I was unable to gain access but they are surrounded."