Foes Beneath the Boughs

[Eclecticon]

Departing without ceremony, Saruman disappears into the darkness of the night-time forest, the almost-glow of his white robe and hat vanishing by degrees as bit by bit it is hidden by shadow and bough.  Within the hall of Maracar, all is briefly still, Radaghast gazing out the door as if expecting Saruman's return at any moment, the women and children of the house struck dumb by the events of the past half-hour.  Finally one woman, the youngest to judge by the lines of her face, ventures forth.  "If it please you, sir," she says, her voice hesitant at first but gaining strength from Hathcyn's welcoming words, "our men are gone to Rhosgobel to join the gathering of the fyrd.  We will wait here for their return, but thereafter we shall put your offer before them, for these woods are no longer a fit place to bring up our children!"

Her words break any spell lingering from Saruman's presence, and all at once the business of life and death goes on.  The remains of the goblins' feast are portioned out among the surviving hall-folk and the new arrivals alike, and the following day is spent building a pyre for Maracar, and comforting the children as they grieve for the loss of their grandfather.  Though the labour is wearying, none of the Fellowship can deny that a day without urgent marching is a great relief.

Finally, as the sun begins to set once again, the sound of a horn announces the arrival of the warriors of Rhosgbel.  As a tearful reunion takes place between the sons of Maracar and their wives and children, close to four score men and women, all well-armed with spears, bows and long-hafted axes in the fashion of the Woodmen, enter the small clearing and begin to make themselves comfortable.  Their leader, a long-limbed woman whom Grimbeorn recognises in a vague fashion from previous visits within the brown hedge, approaches the two Beornings.  "Hail to you," she calls out as she comes close, "Men name me for the Stag-horn.  I was told to expect the son of Beorn here.  Tell me, are you he?"

Esgalwen, for her part, finds her brow furrowing in slight puzzlement, for though she has seen armed men at muster from the gates of Minas Tirith to the canals of Dale, and the folk of Rhosgobel are not known to be considerably wealthier than those of the other great houses, this band is the best-victualled fighting force that ever she has seen.  The answer to the riddle comes when out from behind a pair of heavily-laden ponies steps Bandobras Bracegirdle, his bow over his shoulder and already looking with bright eyes around the twilit scene.  "Lady Gwen!" he cries with a jubilant grin as he espies her.  "Why, fancy finding you here!  Hasn't King Bard made you Marshal of Dale yet?"

[GandalfOfBorg]

"Aye, I am who you seek.  Under better circumstances I wish this calling had come, but time is of the essence and I am bolstered by your arrival.  We must ride for the Tarn with all haste.  If we time it right, the daylight may be on our side."  Upon hearing the voice of the rascal Hobbit, Grimbeorn's demeanor softened slightly.  "Well as best haste may be made with the short legs behind you."

[tomcat]

Her face lit when she saw the Hobbit and she immediately went to a knee to hug her diminutive friend, "Oh, my dear Bandy! You bring gladness to my heart by just hearing your voice. Never has your spirit seemed dour and so it pervades us all with joy."

She looked at the Hobbit warrior, girded as he was for battle, and at once it filled her with pride. But then, an unseen feeling of sorrow filled her as she realized that this gentle soul must once more immerse himself into the horrors of combat.

It was a dichotomy that still surprised her.

Granted, Bandy was the keenest shot she had seen with bow and arrow, but the idea that he, in his neatly worn breeches and shirt, would have to face against the death and sorrow she was sure they would find filled her with wrath.

She let her thoughts pass, and laughed at his comment, "No Marshal of Dale, but I have been honored by the King to serve in his court, and now royal guard to the Queen herself." She gestured at her badge of station that was pinned just above that of the Company of the Helm - an emblem worn also by the Hobbit. "How fares your Inn? And you? Have you met others of your folk within the Vale?"

Bandobras smiled as the topic turned to his doings, but then the gruff voice of the bear was heard, and he pardoned himself, if but for the moment, from Esgalwen's inquiry.

Their company was whole save one - a man she thought of as a brother. Arbogast was missing from this merry meeting, and it pained the woman to think of him and his family in danger. Esgalwen's hand tightened on Nimronyn and her face furrowed with anger, but she quickly passed it off when Bandy turned back towards her in his gleeful conversation with Grimbeorn.

The Hobbit was no fool and he touched her sword hand, "They will pay for what they have done."

She nodded, "It is good you are here so that we may save him together."

[Telcontar]

  paul, what kinda force are we looking at? Is this the whole assembled Fyrd or just part of it? What are/will the numbers be?

[Eclecticon]

No matter that the arrival of new allies raises the spirits of the Fellowship, as Grimbeorn surveys the host assembling in the clearing it is apparent to him that it is still small, numbering fewer than eighty warriors though he counts himself and his companions in their number.  Still, he counsels himself, the warriors of the halls north of here are surely close on our heels, and they will number a good several hundred. 

The absence of the northern Woodmen drags on through the following day, however, and as the mid-day meals are eaten within the hall and without, though, he can no longer hide his troubled mind.  "We should already be marching to the Tarn, not sitting around here with boots off and bellies full!" 

Hathcyn's reply, if any were coming, is swallowed as a sentry gives a cry of alarm.  "Strangers approach!"  The small army erupts like a kicked anthill as every man and woman scrambles for their arms.  Minutes later, suspicious-faced sentinels escort the Dowel and his band of outlaws, now diminished in number and more filth-covered than before, into the hall to stand before the Stag-horn and the Fellowship.  "Hail, fair one," the Dowel manages to say, addressing Esgalwen between scowling at his half guards, half captors.  "Come, give us something to eat as we tell you what your kind words and coin have bought you." 

At the Stag-horn's questioning look, the Ranger explains "These men are known to us, and" she adds as she locks eyes with the Dowel, "you may trust them as you would my companions and I, for they serve your people as we do."  The Stag-horn gives a brief wave of dismissal to the sentinels, who nod or bow according to their manners and depart for their posts beneath the trees. 

As bread and ale are grudgingly shared with the outlaws, the Dowel makes good on his promise.  "We slipped in a ways past the outlying creatures and took a look around, though little enough could we see through a constant mist.  The goblins have the hall surrounded on all sides save the water, and you have sought yourself a foolish fight, I think, for at least ten of them there are for every warrior here." 

[Telcontar]

"It appears that all present of the Fellowship of the Helm have achieved high reknown, Gwen the Knight, Grimbeorn the warchief, and I the humble Quartermaster! I've brought food enough for the fyrd, supplies and wagons for the people of the Tarn, and as many folk as could be found to lend an arm or a bushel of wheat have followed with me or added to our goods."

"Halfman!" Came the call from the caravan. A young Beorning that probably was here under questionable permission from his mother approached. "I need more straw for the eggs. The chickens seem to lay as soon as the wagons stop....oh sorry I didnt realize..." The sight of Grimbeorn the Wolfslayer caused him to pause.

Bandy grinned, "and fresh food too I have brought. An army shouldnt fight on salted meat and biscuit so leave it to a Hobbit to know the ins and outs of feeding a multitude better than that!"

[Telcontar]

Hathcyn scanned the caravan and the warriors to make quick calculations in his head. He hoped the scouts Esgalwen had convinced to join them delivered a report soon. The hard dangerous parts of the excursion were now beginning. He made a note to inquiry of the Brown wizard what info his beasts and friends could gather for them. He well knew the benefit of foot and bird for information.

"Wolfslayer, we must have a council of war and discuss our plan. Also, if we may recruit the Wizard we need information on the Tarn, and to get a message to our friends that we are close."

  I typed these on my phone and forgot to post them.

[GandalfOfBorg]

Word of the numbers besetting his far-flung extended family brought Grimbeorn down a bit.  "Then even with those other Woodmen, the numbers are better but nowhere near our favor."  His thoughts turn more now to how to save the people of the village instead of aiding in its defense.

"Aye, you're right Hathcyn.  Gather the captains of the men here, we will meet presently.  Radagast, would you send some of your friends to both keep an eye on the village and report to us its condition. If possible, send a message, do not lose hope -- we are coming."

[Eclecticon]

I typed these on my phone and forgot to post them.

It happens to the best of us. 

Gather the captains of the men here, we will meet presently. 

Bear in mind, there's only one 'captain' here - the rest are late (or lost, or any of the other things that frequently happened to iron age armies). 

[Eclecticon]

Though the Bear-prince may glower and grind his teeth, little more can be done until the following day when, beneath the cover of a gentle rain that falls with a soft and constant hiss upon the leaves of western Mirkwood, the main body of the Woodmen fyrd arrives.  By this time, the warriors of Rhosgobel have built lean-tos to keep off the worst of the rain, and these they share, albeit with some grumbling, with the newcomers.  Soon, however, the flint of shared hardship strikes sparks of affection between those already present and those newly arrived, and calls from one kinsman to another mix with songs sung since the days of Balthi as bonds of kinship are made strong once again, though the miles and years conspire to fray them. 

As the noises of Men rise into boisterousness without its walls, Radaghast guides a well-girthed and abundantly-bearded man into the hall of Maracar.  "My friends," he announces, "may I introduce to you Munderic son of Mundbur, in whom Ingomer Axe-breaker has vested command of the host of the folk." 

"Aye," Munderic adds, "good, good.  Let us talk of the business that gathers us.  Shall we sit?  Lilla!  Bring ale!"  He fixes the Stag-horn, Esgalwen and Grimbeorn with an appraising eye.  "At my back I have nigh four hundred warriors, and many hounds besides.  We shall fall upon the goblin foe and drive them back deep into their holes!" 

Hastening inside from where he has been greeting the new arrivals, Hathcyn cannot but overhear the grumbling of men at the end of a march.  "...would've been here yesterday, but he got so drunk on the second night that we couldn't rouse him until midday, and we went barely a half-mile before he called a halt..."


Here's your chance to strategise, though depending on what you propose, you'll have to convince Munderic (or potentially someone else) to go along with you.

[GandalfOfBorg]

 
 

Battle -  1d12 : 8, total 8
Rolled 3d6 : 2, 2, 4, total 8

"Given latest reports of the area, the village is beset on all sides, but one where there is water.  Their numbers are robust and we don't know of their means to reinforce but they have been able to lay siege for a long time, which isn't like them.  I propose we strike as fast we can near dawn, giving the people of the village the time to flee the village by way of the water, defended by a small contingent.  Once the people are away, reinforce our strike and fall back.  From there we will be able to understand more of the enemy's capabilities."

[tomcat]

I will add a battle roll from Esgalwen, too.

TN -- battle 2d

1d12 : 8, total 8
Rolled 2d6 : 5, 5, total 10

[tomcat]

I do not have anything to add there narratively, at the moment. But Esgalwen will listen to Grimbeorn and offer input as needed.

[Telcontar]

  i would like to assess our troops. Skill, number, strengths....

Hathcyn walks among them and helps pitch the camp and moves through tje groups.

Rolled 1d12 : 8, total 8

Rolled 3d6 : 5, 6, 3, total 14

[Eclecticon]

As Grimbeorn falls silent, Esgalwen responds.  "The folk of the Black Tarn are no cowards, to flee a fight that could readily be won, but neither are they so rash as to leave the old and the young in harm's way when they might be removed.  Moreover, we have all heard the tales of Arbogast and others.  The River Maidens, and perhaps the waters of the Tarn itself, have turned against the folk who live by the shore.  Were it possible for them to fly to safety by that route, I have no doubt they would have done so by now." 

She turns to Munderic, who accepts an enormous ale-horn from a weary-looking follower, and the Stag-horn.  "Hathcyn, first and most loyal hearth-companion of Grimbeorn, has used magic known to his folk to spy out the ranks of the goblins from afar.  He tells us that they are made of many bands, from many places, and are held together by the will of greater orcs from the south.  I know of old how goblin-kind despoils the country in which it lingers.  By now, surely precious little food must remain in the forests around Black Tarn Hall and the besiegers must be growing as hungry as the besieged.  Should we defeat the black orcs of the south, I think the entire enemy host may break." 

Outside, Hathcyn takes the measure of the Woodmen.  They are, he decides, a poor match each for each against the Beornings, but their axes are sturdy and their bows held with a casual ease that speaks of great familiarity.  They are, moreover, in very good spirits despite the rain.  They are united in purpose and will not lightly set aside their duty to come to the aid of their kinsmen. 

As he goes from one shelter to another, sharing words and drink alike, a voice calls to him.  "You!  Beorn's man!"  Turning, the Longspear sees a Woodman of perhaps fifty years, accompanied by two others, plainly his sons.  "I am Arbodag, son of Scyldag and father of Arbogast.  These are Cendag and Oderic, his brothers.  I have heard tell of you and have witnessed myself the skill at arms of your companions.  When the sword-day comes, We are sworn to fight our way through the goblins' lines to come straight to the rescue of the Fire-watcher.  Tell me, will you aid us?"


Sorry to put words in Esgalwen's mouth, Doug, but it was a good opportunity to remind you guys of some matters that may have fallen from your attention.