Lair of the Weaver: Arbogast

[Eclecticon]

Even in the barely-there light of a Mirkwood sunset, the entrance to Tylquin's lair seems to shimmer, its edges ghost-like.  As the Fellowship comes near, they see that the surrounding stones are covered in the most delicate, intricate webs they have ever seen, spun with the same black spider-thread that they followed to find this place, yet barely so near akin to them as gossamer is to rope.  Within the threshold, the webs converge and spread in macabre traceries and beautifully grotesque frets that call to mind nothing so much as the tapestries that hang in the Elvenking's hall beneath the hills, if ever the elves tried their hand at something so dreary and cheerless.

Cautiously, the companions follow the russet light of Radagast, who leads them along a rough natural passage that spirals deep down into the earth.  Taking heed of the Wizard's caution and care, they go slowly, minding each overhang and outcropping lest some trick of the Weaver lie in wait for them.  Greatest is Tylquin among the sorcerors of the spiders, however, and subtle beyond the ken of Men her works.  Lost in his own despair, Arbogast does not notice the thread that loops around his neck.

Radagast, however, is alert to the Weaver's tricks and rounds upon the Fire-watcher, a fearful look in his eyes.  "Be still!" he hisses, and Arbogast stops in his tracks, heart thumping in his chest, sweat trickling from beneath his helm to cling to his beard.  The Brown Wizard peers closely, his trembling fingers reaching out several times but ever pulling back, afeared to touch what already ensnares his companion.  Finally, his whole body pulls backward.  As Arbogast opens his mouth to ask what the Wizard knows, Radagast pre-empts him: "Speak not to me!  The spider has already taken you, and your doom is sealed.  Yet you may still be of service to me!"  With that, he strikes a snake-fast blow, his staff striking Arbogast in the heart, the shock knocking the Fire-watcher from his feet. 

Arbogast expects to feel the jutting hardness of uncut stone, or perhaps to be ensnared further in some hideous web, but instead he is shocked further to feel the cold of water enfold him.  Too dumbfounded even to struggle, he sinks into the darkness. 

[Eclecticon]

He knows he must not let his breath escape, desperate though he is to cry out for his companions, for Radagast, for his mother, for anyone who might lend him aid and comfort.  Instead, it is the mocking visage of Duskwater that appears before him.  "Fool!" she calls, her voice somehow plain to his ears despite the water.  "Fool, I name thee, to think a bold heart might overcome the sorceries of one who has stalked the wood since my sisters and I were newly born!  And twice a fool to think that iron axes and wooden shields might prevail against the cunning of she who has studied at the feet of he who is the darkest of all!  Now here you are, my plaything in my realm, and that which you cling to only drags you further down" 

Arbogast looks at his hands, still clinging to the Warden's axe and his uncle's shield, their weight pulling his arms down before him.  Without thinking, he makes to answer her, but his voice escapes as bubbles bursting from his mouth.  With a feral grin, the maiden of the Black Tarn seizes upon him, her hands tearing free his helm, her mouth pressed against his not in a kiss but biting, almost tearing at his exposed lower lip, her teeth needle-sharp, the rich taste of his own blood filling the suddenly small bounds of the world.  The dark redness of it clouds his eyes as, helplessly, he lets shield and axe slip from his grasp and drop like stones into the dark waters.  By the time the blood is gone, so too is the River-maiden leaving only her parting words.  "You have failed me, as all who seek to stand against him will fail." 

[Eclecticon]

A time later, and who might measure how long for he has long since let go his breath, his body settles snow-soft upon the mud at the bottom of the Black Tarn.  Lightless it is, airless, and yet somehow he lurches to his feet, new surroundings bringing forth new terror.  As he does so, the mud stirring into the murk about him as if his sight could be further clouded, a voice sounds nearby, not cruel and terrible as that of Duskwater, but small and plaintive.  "Help me... please help me..." 

The Fire-watcher's heart seizes, for he knows this voice, has taken joy from it, has grieved for its loss from the world, had believed, somehow, that his grief was done and finished.  "Wilone!" he gasps, not marking the sound of his own voice in what is supposedly deep water.  "Wilone!" he calls again, thrashing about as if to tear a veil of water from between him and his young daughter. 

Instead a light, sourceless and cold, now reveals her sitting on a rock nearby, her thin arms hugging her knees, her homespun shift now ragged and drifting in shreds around her body, her dandelion puff of hair hanging lank and listless about her head.  "Papa?  Where are you, Papa?  Please help me!" 

"I hear you!" he calls to her.  "I am coming!"  Once again he finds himself thrashing and heaving his way through water suddenly grown thick as lead.  This time, however, he reaches her, throws his arms around her, pulls her close to him even as he sinks to his knees before her stone.  The touch of her skin is like ice against him, and now that he is near he sees that her eyes are gone and only ragged sockets remain, sightless, forlorn, forever.  The water around him echoes as she cries again "Papa, where are you?  Help me!  I am so cold, Papa!" 

"I am here," he answers her, his own voice sounding as dead as she.  "I am here, Wilone.  I am here."  Once and again he repeats himself as she continues to wail, giving no sign that she hears him.  "I will not leave you, Wilone.  I will not leave you." 

Barely heeded, tears stream down his face.  As they do so, a tiny part of his mind has cause to wonder how he is able to feel their wetness, surrounded as he is by dark, cold water...


Insight roll (TN 18):

1d12 : 8, total 8
Rolled 2d6 : 3, 5, total 8

[Eclecticon]

Okay, screw it.  Arbogast is already Miserable - he'll drop a Hope point to get it up over the threshold.

[Eclecticon]

"I am here, Wilone," the Fire-watcher says quietly, wiping tears from his cheeks, "but I think that you are not.  Or that I am not.  Oh, but it grieves me to hear you once again and know that I must say goodbye!  I must go, my little one, my precious child, and you cannot hear me say how much I shall miss you."