The Foothills

[Eclecticon]

Following Beorn down the stair with attitudes of eagerness, wariness or amusement each according to their wont, the Fellowship of the Helm embarks once again on a journey into the unknown.  They cross the Anduin, no longer in its spring flood but with the still-energetic current of summer, in a pair of small boats that Beorn has made ready for the purpose.  The waters are cool in the morning, and a marvellous abundance of flies buzzes above the surface on errands best understood by themselves, with an equal bounty of char and trout waiting just beneath to seize upon an insect grown too lazy in its circling. 

Once the boats are drawn up on the western bank, Beorn turns to the north and west, where great eagles even now can be seen by the keen-eyed, wheeling in wide gyres over the mountain peaks.  Then, hefting a sack across his back, he sets off without a backward glance. 


Doug and (in particular) Matt, can I confirm whether you guys have made all the outstanding mechanical updates to your characters?  I don't think either of the sheets in the Dropbox folder have been updated to reflect the last Fellowship phase.  Remember, Esgalwen spent some AP and Gwaithlim has 10 extra build points to spend. 

In the meantime, Beorn will serve as Guide for at least the beginning of the journey.  If someone else turns out to have a better Travel skill later on, he'll start to defer to them as he goes. 

Travel roll

1d12 : 10, total 10
Rolled 4d6+9 : 6, 4, 2, 2 + 9, total 23

[Eclecticon]

Their going is easy, for Men, both the hardy and taciturn folk of the mountain foothills and the cattle-herders who claim kinship with the river traders, have built their steadings here and have multiplied greatly since Beorn first spoke his laws after the Battle of the Five Armies.   Not a single night do they need to spend without a hot dinner and a roof of thatch over their heads as the companions follow Beorn from the river banks to the broad central valley of the west Middle Vales.   

Each night, however, as the shadows gather the hearthside talk of these folk grows grim.   The wargs, they say, though once driven from this land are now returning from wilder places, making the calving of the past season unexpectedly poor.  Beorn listens, not without sympathy, but offers them little.   "Many are the dangers besetting us," he says.   "Look to the strength of your own arms, and be sure to tear down the paths to your neighbours' doors."

After three days, they pass what the Old Bear declares the last house of friends.   Before them, the Misty Mountains rise high and dark.   High above, a single winged firm seems to hang in the air, as if waiting to pass judgement upon interlopers.   To this great eagle, Beorn waves, and in response it dips low for a moment before climbing strongly and taking wing for the west.


Beorn's (admittedly fairly easy) roll has seen you across the lower land without incident.   From here on, it's all going to get harder.

[Telcontar]

  we always do things the hard way.

[Eclecticon]

To be fair, you don't even really know what you're supposed to be doing.  This could be the easiest possible way of getting... whatever... done.

[GandalfOfBorg]

  Updated sheet, added +1 Insight, +1 Persuade

Gwaithlim had heard stories of these skin-changers over the years from his brethren passing over the Mountains.  He knew their ways were queer, even to those of the Edain.  This journey is pleasant, their host affable even, more so than he'd experienced previous to this.  He is content to trail the group, whom he'd know follow Beorn's son for years, so their reaction he was most curious to watch.

Yet his attention was also drawn away to the lands they traveled as well.  The rugged beauty that both was touched by the young yet still he could hear the old ways and old days from the rocks and trees.  He smiled to himself seeing the great birds above, some even higher above than Mannish sight could perceive.  "I must seek Gwaihir out," he thought. "Much of this land I could learn of him, too.  Elrond dismisses this side of the mountains too much I think, at least his sons know better what lurks and lives beyond the security of Imladris and the northwest of Middle-earth."

[Eclecticon]

Kicking sod over the coals of their fire, Beorn and the Fellowship turn west, taking the narrow paths that wind back and forth like serpents across the foothills of the mountains.  Here, the trees grow close upon the trail, though never so thickly as the shuddersome depths of Mirkwood.  Here, the ground is still contested between the Shadow and the brighter things of Middle-Earth. 

Even so, any border-land is prone to incursions from both sides, and even as the heroes of Wilderland climb ever so slowly upwards, fouler things rush down from the peaks that were raised in an elder age to hinder the passage of goodly folk toward the sea.  The second night in the hills, the Men of the Fellowship snore close-wrapped in their blankets against the wind that shakes their broad bower on its way down from the distant and snow-capped summits, and Gwaithlim sits all-unseeing, lost in thoughts and memories and the strange half-sleep of the elves.  As Esgalwen sits her lonely watch, she hears voices borne to her on the wind.  Their words, and even whether they are those of Men or something else, at first she cannot say.  Perhaps, she thinks, this is once again the same over-watchfulness that possessed me during the march out of Mirkwood. 

As surely as a fire will spread or a flood will rise, however, the voices return, wheedling and whispering, now louder now softer, now one and now many but ever the same words: "Lost little wanderer, so far from your home.  Will you not rest?  Be at ease, for here there are none that will harm you..." 


We're at our first journey event, and Esgalwen needs to make an Awareness test (as lookout) to keep her wits about her:

1d12 : 6, total 6
Rolled 3d6 : 1, 2, 4, total 7

Everyone also racks up two points of Fatigue – the way isn't especially hard but Beorn is setting a merciless pace and resting spots are stonier than you're all used to.

[tomcat]

This woman's luck! I am not sure I want to spend a yet, but I will if the GM suggests it be done. 
The Ranger shakes her head to keep herself awake and aware, but the whispers linger. The goosebumps rise on her arms and the air is chill, even as she moves closer to the fire warmth. Esgalwen keeps her eyes off the coals and flames, so as not to diminish her night eyes.

Keep your guard, she says to herself. Stay awake.

[Eclecticon]

Try as she might to shut them out, the voices continue inveigling and cajoling, bidding her set down the burdens of her heart and to slumber.  Shutting her eyes, she shakes her head furiously to clear it... and startles to hear the sounding of Hathcyn's horn behind her, and the clear-throated voice of Gwaithlim as he calls her name.  Opening her eyes, she finds herself slumped against a gnarled and wind-bent tree, surrounded by the sparse forest of the hillsides, dawn breaking and her companions nowhere in sight. 

"Here I am!" she cries back, rising quickly to rejoin them though her muscles ache from a restless night and her heart burns with the shame of having abandoned her duty. 


Esgalwen gains an extra point of Fatigue and a temporary Shadow point. 

[Telcontar]

"Esgalwen, not idly have I seen you wander before. What has happened? When we awoke there was no sign of you and we began to search."

[tomcat]

Esgalwen blinked and rubbed at her eyes, as a large yawn escaped her. Weariness of body and heart nagged at her, but she righted herself and looked at her friend, "I wandered?" Confusion was still there. "I know not, Hathcyn. There were voices on the air with the early morning. Voices that I know bent power to make my eyes heavy with sleep."

A grunt came from Beorn and the Ranger was not sure if he scoffed or if it was an acknowledgement of powers that pervaded the area.

"Forgive me for my error. It will not happen again. Was there any imminent threat that I allowed?"

  

[GandalfOfBorg]

Given the hints from Esgalwen of a threat nearby, Gwaithlim has some ideas of what could have perpetrated this.

 
 

Lore -  1d12 : 8, total 8
Rolled 3d6 : 1, 3, 3, total 7

Folk-lore or Elven-lore if that would help too.

[Eclecticon]

"These peaks," the High Elf says, "were raised in ages long past by he who was the Shadow's master, and though they lie beneath the pure and beloved stars, the taint of his touch lingers still.  They have never been a friend to the Firstborn, and I have heard many tales of travellers who were tricked, or afrighted, from their paths in their shadows."  Looking directly now at Esgalwen, he adds "No shame is there in this, for the peaks are as ancient as my kind, and as practiced in their crafts and ways." 

"Well," Beorn growls behind them, "if we're all found, and all still breathing, then there are more miles ahead of us."  With that, the huge man shoulders his sack once again and stomps away, his feet falling heavy as hammers on the thin earth. 

[Eclecticon]

Though the route led by Beorn winds and twists upward through the foothills, the more so for the many times that the path he claims to follow turns into nothing more than a quickly-vanishing game trail and must be re-traced with much cursing and bad temper on the part of the Old Bear, still the days pass quickly as the hornbeams give way to mountain-ashes in brilliant flower and these in their turn to the thickly-clustered larches of the steeper slopes. 

It is Hathcyn, venturing from the safety of the company's rocky shelter and bright fire in quest of easy game, who first hears the howling in the lengthening shadows.  He recalls the warnings of the Beorning cottars that the wargs of the mountain hollows have waxed in number, and grown bolder in their attacks on the flocks of the lower lands.  What's required now, he thinks to himself, is speed.  And possibly an appeal to whatever kindly power watches over hunters far from their homes... 


Hathcyn needs to make a Hunting check (TN 16) to catch something to fill the company's stew-pot before prowling wargs pick up his scent:

1d12 : 9, total 9
Rolled 3d6 : 2, 1, 4, total 7

[Telcontar]

"These peaks," the High Elf says, "were raised in ages long past by he who was the Shadow's master, and though they lie beneath the pure and beloved stars, the taint of his touch lingers still.  They have never been a friend to the Firstborn, and I have heard many tales of travellers who were tricked, or afrighted, from their paths in their shadows."  Looking directly now at Esgalwen, he adds "No shame is there in this, for the peaks are as ancient as my kind, and as practiced in their crafts and ways." 

"Well," Beorn growls behind them, "if we're all found, and all still breathing, then there are more miles ahead of us."  With that, the huge man shoulders his sack once again and stomps away, his feet falling heavy as hammers on the thin earth. 

"So say the elves. The dwarves say the peaks have been hallowed by the Great Craftsman and are a gift to his people. Filled with wonder and gifts, to be worked and shaped. I will not argue the danger of the peaks."

[GandalfOfBorg]

Gwaithlim bows his head in acknowledgement of the point given by the old dwarven fathers as spoken by Hathcyn.  "I claim not to knowledge of what dwells beneath these mountains save what is told of by the hunters of Imladris and tales of woe ere the dwarves' mattocks and pick-axes delved too deep within.  I also know not firsthand of their corruption for I came after the return of my people from the Blessed Realm, but there are still those this side of the Belegaer with those memories keen enough.  Yet the warning still stands, we must be on our guard for when that temptation comes again."