In the Shadow of Mount Gundabad

[Eclecticon]

Turning from their chance meeting to tread once again the northward tracks, the Fellowship ventures now further with every step from the lands of the Free Peoples and into lone and wild places, where the hisses and hoots of goblin-kind are answered by the howling, not only of wolves, but of Men.  For it is said in hushed tones around the hearth-fires of the Beornings and Woodmen that the scattered tribes of hill-folk who haunt the foothills of the terrible Mount Gundabad were servants once of an a black and awesome sorceror, and remember to this day the dark art he taught to them, to shed their Mannish forms as Beorn's folk might sometimes do, and join in the warg-hunt by the dark of the moon. 

Beneath a heavy rain, as if the sky itself seeks to drive them back, the Fellowship of the Helm fords the fleet and freezing Langwell river, struggling their way across and up the steep northern bank. 


Time for some more Travel rolls (vs TN 18, because this bit is hard work):

Arbogast

1d12 : 7, total 7
Rolled 3d6 : 3, 3, 2, total 8

Esgalwen

1d12 : 6, total 6
Rolled 3d6 : 5, 3, 1, total 9

Grimbeorn

1d12 : 12, total 12
Rolled 4d6 : 6, 1, 4, 5, total 16

Hathcyn

1d12 : 5, total 5
Rolled 3d6 : 3, 5, 3, total 11

[Eclecticon]

The river crossing is terrible, leaving the companions drenched and shivering even in the height of summer, but a quick check of sodden packs in the lee of a leaning stone establishes that what food remains has not been ruined, and the river allows at least for the refilling of water-skins.  Alone of all the four, though, is Grimbeorn able to shoulder his burden once again as lightly as the day they departed the Old Ford. 


That's two points of Fatigue to everyone except Grimbeorn, unless anyone feels like spending Hope on it.

[Telcontar]

"Well that's one bath complete for the journey. At least there were no boats to borrow this time."

[GandalfOfBorg]

Damp and muddy, Grimbeorn helps the others across and hefts the equipment to more forgiving ground.  "Aye, a bath you needed lest your scent be mistaken for a beast most foul instead of Man."

[tomcat]

Though the muscles ached when the crossing was done, Esgalwen ignored the fatigue. This was more to her liking - long trips, camping under stars, ranging the land - then standing guard for the Lady of Dale. She felt more at home, as if in Ithilien among her fellow Rangers. Even the view lent itself to that idea, as the Misty Mountains rose before her though they were far less foreboding than the Mountains of Shadow. Still, an oppressive weight did lay over the land, as if something patiently watched.

She chuckled at Grimbeorn's words, "Maybe we should all take the warmth of the day and the opportunity to allow our clothes and gear to dry, whilst we bathe? It might be cold, but I fear this will be the last fresh water we see for a while."

If the men blushed at the idea of being naked in front of her, or her in front of them, she did not notice. Nor did she allow any humility to overshadow their need for keeping clean and healthy. She had spent many days among the Men of Gondor - Rangers of Ithilien - and modesty was something you left at home.

[Telcontar]

Hathcyn said nothing but turned his head deliberately and pointedly to look at Grimbeorn. Then at the Firewatcher. Then to the sky. And at last to the travel stained but lovely lady of Gondor.

"uhmm....the water is cold, and the river overcrowded."

[tomcat]

Silence hung in the air for a moment and then Esgalwen laughed, her face lighting with the beauty that it held.

"Dear Sir, I did not mean to scare you so. If need be, you may all wash while I away and I will then wash in private once you are done. Either way, it would behoove us to allow our clothes to dry in the sun. We neither want to chafe from, nor climb higher into these mountains with, sodden cloth and leather."

[Telcontar]

"Would there were sun. But let us pause none the less and let us risk a fire in this weather. We can make a hasty shelter and perhaps dry and warm ourselves some."

  Paul, im thinking in the rain we can get a hasty shelter up and maybe a small fire? Craft roll or something else?

[tomcat]

Oh! I read the earlier post when he said height of summer that we were travelling under the sun. Then I read a little further back and read we're in heavy rain! 

So ignore most of what Esgalwen has said and was suggesting.

[Telcontar]

  I'm still going with the shelter idea. Good opportunity to ise some little used skills and everyone but Grimbeorn is having a rough go of it. Set up a tree bough shelter, small fire, maybe some fishing....

[Eclecticon]

It always helps to read closely. 

But sure - the company are expert travellers so I'm willing to allow a Craft roll to create a bivouac. 

EDIT: Rollin' 'em myself, and assuming that everyone pitches in.  If anyone gets a Great or Extraordinary success, you'll be warm and dry enough to lose a point of Fatigue each:

Arbogast

1d12 : 7, total 7
Rolled 1d6 : 3, total 3

Esgalwen

1d12 : 7, total 7
Rolled 1d6 : 4, total 4

Grimbeorn

1d12 : 4, total 4
Rolled 2d6 : 6, 2, total 8

Hathcyn

1d12 : 10, total 10
Rolled 1d6 : 4, total 4

[Eclecticon]

The building of a shelter, taking advantage of the lee of the great stone, of sufficient quality to enable the lighting of a fire proves an exercise in frustration.  The land and weather seem at first to conspire against the company, concealing any suitable branches behind curtains of rain and carpets of mud, and a quarrel over the proper technique to wield flint and steel nearly becomes heated before Hathcyn, swift as a striking serpent, snatches the flint from Grimbeorn's hand and strikes sparks from his own knife.  The resulting flame burns away the bickering and soon the companions are, if not cosy, then at least more comfortable. 

It is only through long habit that Esgalwen keeps a sufficiently watchful eye on the dismal surrounds to spot the hunched figure that approaches, slogging its way determinedly through the mud.  Hands are already upon the hafts of axe and spear when it, or rather she, reaches the shelter, for the figure is a fur-clad woman, her hair the grey of unforged iron and her mouth missing many teeth.  She has, at first, eyes only for the fire and any nook in the shelter into which she might fit, but the first words out of her mouth are not a plea, but a curse.  "By the Shadow," she spits, "it's you two!" 

The company meets her with incredulous stares for a heartbeat before Arbogast guesses "Essylt?" 

[Telcontar]

Hathcyn was on guard.

"Is this a woman or a hill spirit!?"

He saw the questioning face of recognition on the Firewatcher's face, "or perhaps both."

[Eclecticon]

The woman answers in a harsh voice, "I am Essylt of the Raven-folk, though I am cast out from my home and clan.  Your friends," she pauses to spit into the fire, making it sizzle and spit, "thought to free me from orcish captivity, and for that I was grateful.  But Ralcath, our chieftain, decided that my return was an ill omen, for it meant either that I had not found favour with the lords under the stone, or that I had escaped their clutches and they would soon come after me." 

Un-invited, she seats herself between Esgalwen and Hathcyn.  "I have lived a rat's life these six long years.  Imagine then my surprise to come to one of my hidey-holes and find you here!"  Pausing to peer suspiciously at those she sits next to, she adds "Who are you, then, and what became of the two dwarves you came with?"

[Telcontar]

"Please, have a seat by our fire."

Hathcyn wasnt pleased by the smell of the woman either, she needed to take Gwen's earlier advice. But he fished out a honey cake for her.

"Here is something to gnaw on then if you are to nest by our fire."