The Judgement of the Skinchanger

[Eclecticon]

With a thundering that fills the world from one end to the other, the snows unleash their pent-up fury upon the mountainside.  Beorn, aided by the might and desperation of Gwaithlim, staggers in under the overhang and spins right about to return the favour.  Less than a pace in front of the Old Bear, however, the world has vanished into a storm of freezing white.  For half a heartbeat, the bright gleam of Gwaithlim's elf-mail can be seen as he dances atop the tumbling snow, light feet flashing.  But not for naught were the Misty Mountains raised in an age long forgotten, and not even the grace of Elven princes can save him in the end. 

For long moments, the roaring of the snow-slide carries on, and when it subsides the mountainside is blanketed in smooth and featureless white.  Somewhere beneath, whatever might remain of Gwaithlim lies.  Wheezing with the effort, Beorn begins to leap down the slope, losing his own footing and tumbling through the loose-packed snow.  Needing no encouragement, the remaining companions rush after him, the need to find their fellow urgent and unspoken. 


Someone now needs to make a Search roll to uncover Gwaithlim.  I'll say that each roll represents about a minute of frantic digging, in which case Gwaithlim (now on 10 Endurance, Wounded and Weary) has two rolls' of time before he loses consciousness, and five before he suffocates. 

Roll the first:
Arbogast

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

Beorn

1d12 : 9, total 9
Rolled 2d6 : 1, 5, total 6

Esgalwen

1d12 : 9, total 9
Rolled 2d6 : 6, 2, total 8

Hathcyn

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

[Eclecticon]

Esgalwen, keen eyed and mountain-wise, feels the twisting of upraised fingers beneath her boot and short seconds later strong hands are pushing snow away from the Elf's face.  He heaves in a gasping, shuddering breath, and before he even opens his eyes his first words are "Does Beorn live?"

"Aye, he does," comes the reply, "and if ever you needed to prove yourself to the peoples of Wilderland, rest assured that you need do so never again." 

Working together, the Fellowship quickly frees its newest member and truly he is a pitiable sight, his hair lank and sodden, his body shaken by the tumbling and pummelled against now-buried rocks, his blood bright against the pure white of the snow.  Then, echoing about the peaks and cliffs, a new and booming voice sounds:

"Who wakes me, shaking my sides, climbing and clambering in my snowy hair?"

After a pause, perhaps for thought, it adds:

"Is that you, Beorn?"

[tomcat]

Esgalwen, startled by the sudden voice, looks about in earnest to find who speaks but then slowly realized it was the rock itself.

"Wonders upon wonders," she whispered. "I have seen many things in my life that some of my kin call legend, but even more legends reveal themselves!"

[Eclecticon]

"We both know that not all things of which legends are told bode weal for the Free Peoples," Arbogast whispers in response as he bends to examine Gwaithlim's wounds.  "And we stand upon this legend's side, very much at its mercy." 

As the Elf is lain upon the snow, the Fire-watcher tends to him as best he may.  No broken bones does he find, though even now the fruits of a sharp blow to the side of the head break forth, the blood slickening Gwaithlim's fair face.  Packing the wound with snow to slow the bleeding, he tries to bind it. 


Standard Healing check for a Wounded comrade:

1d12 : 1, total 1
Rolled 3d6 : 4, 5, 6, total 15

[Eclecticon]

Before long, the Fire-watcher is satisfied that Gwaithlim will heal, and as he and Esgalwen help the Elf to his unsteady feet, Hathcyn turns to face Beorn.  The Longspear cannot but be struck by the great weariness and trepidation plain in every fibre of the larger man's being even as the sun begins to dip below the summit of the mountain.  "No sense in tarrying," is all the once-chieftain says before he starts to descend the slope in a great, loping stride.  Hathcyn, glancing back and seeing that the other three are making their own, much slower, way down, hurries after him. 

"I'm glad you're here," Beorn tells him as he catches up.  "It'd be a poor thing for none of the folk I've brought under my protection to accompany me.  A poor thing indeed." 

"Here, at the upper edge of the world and outside the hearing of all but the wind and rocks, may I at last ask what in the world you m-" the Longspear begins to ask but is struck dumb as he beholds the sight before him.  A great face, here of rock and here of snow, clings to the southern wall of a cleft in the mountain ridge, the afternoon sun granting it an almost unbearable brilliance.  Its eyes do not shift to follow the two Men of the Carrock-folk as they go to stand before it, but Hathcyn feels a great beholding settle upon him and knows beyond doubt that the mountain is aware of his presence at Beorn's side.  That same attention, at once crushing and intangible, settles upon each of the Fellowship as they stagger and sway through the snow, and as Beorn calls out "Ho, old one!  Let us pass, for I've business beyond!" 

Insofar as they can tell, the mountain is unimpressed. 

"And who have you brought with you on this business of yours?"

"Does it truly matter?" 

"A ragged collection of mortals and a lone stray Elf?  Do you seek to insult me?"

Beorn heaves a ragged sigh.  "I knew he wouldn't change, and yet hoped that he might," he says, quietly.  To the face upon the mountain, he answers "Don't be daft!  No mere ragged wanderers are these!  Here, let them tell you themselves!"

Turning to the Fellowship as its last members arrive, he says "Well, go on.  Introduce yourselves!"  Then, as an afterthought, he adds "And be polite about it."

[tomcat]

Still in awe, Esglawen hesitantly steps to be square within the view of the mountainous face. She musters the courage that is resident in the blood that courses her body, "Greetings," she says as she offers a small bow, "I am Esgalwen, daughter of Eradan, of the children of Eärendil - he who sails the sky and keeps watch on the doors of Night. I have come here upon this errand of our patron, Beorn, to bear witness to his need. I ask your blessing to pass."
Going to tap into Esgalwen's Fair trait as well as her Noble Lineage trait - not sure which might help better. Although it is not my strongest skill, I think a Custom skill is better than Personality.
TN ?? courtesy 2d (will add at need)

1d12 : 4, total 4
Rolled 2d6 : 5, 1, total 6

[tomcat]

If a TN14 will get me to my target, and if the roll is needed, I will spend the . If it doesn't, chock this up to our first damned failure... as usual for her. 

[GandalfOfBorg]

 
Gwaithlim to use Lore skill aided Elven-lore or Folk-lore to recognize this presence or its ilk for he has been on many journeys over the various passes of mountains in his life between the west of Middle-earth and Wilderland.
 

Lore -  1d12 : 11, total 11
Rolled 3d6 : 2, 2, 2, total 6

[GandalfOfBorg]

  Well that ... that is so sad

Of all his lore of wandering, never has he encountered such a being whose presence is venerable with a voice deep as the roots of the mountains from which it springs.  Gwaithlim hums a song he is reminded of the mountains in Valinor and the hill of Tuna, a sweet sad song of longing sung in the dark of night under the stars of Elbereth.  When all have finished their introductions, he continues the song with what little he knows of his people's high language.

"Please pardon me for the verse for it has been awhile since I've been in the presence of one that reminds me of my youth in ages past, no less one that brings my thought back to the Undying Lands. I am Gwaithlim of Imladris and Wandering Companies, and stray I do but only with purpose," he says with as much a bow that he can manage in his condition.

 
If Song doesn't work for this, I'll use Courtesy.
 

Song -  1d12 : 12, total 12
Rolled 2d6 : 2, 2, total 4

[tomcat]

Both extremes, Matt! Nice!

[Telcontar]

The Beorning unslung his helm from where it was attached at his belt. He placed it upon his brow and the sprig of greenery he clipped from the eaves of Mirkwood was still bright and green.

"I am Hathcyn Foresthelm, the Longspear of the people of the fox, thegn of the forest gate and bannerman of Grimbeorn. I am the raiser of menhirs and the marker of stone, Dwarf friend and road maker."

Song

Rolled 1d12 : 8, total 8

Rolled 2d6 : 4, 5, total 9

[Eclecticon]

Arbogast steps forward, and with a slight bow adds "And I am named for the Fire-watcher, bearer of the gifted shield, speaker in tongues of feather and sky, warden of the wood wide-waxing." 


Arbogast is using Riddle, if that weren't obvious.  Let's see if we get a full set of successes!

1d12 : 8, total 8
Rolled 3d6 : 4, 2, 6, total 12

[Eclecticon]

Well-spoken are the words of the Fellowship of the Helm, and even Beorn stands taller at their recitations of lineage and deeds.  But the mountain is unmoved. 

"It is little to show for your long labours, Beorn.  I am not minded to grant these scallywags the passage you seek."

Through subtle shiftings of snow, the mountain's face settles into a cruel smirk, and the Old Bear's hackles visibly rise as he cries out "Now listen, you-"

But the mountain's great voice overwhelms him as it adds, in a tone now seeming more sincere:

"Oh, but your voice is sweet, Gwaithlim of Imladris.  Finish your song I pray you, for it is one that none have brought to my ears in many a long century."


It's not necessarily an all-or-nothing roll, Matt, but Gwaithlim's Skill of the Eldar has softened the heart of the mountain somewhat, so that a succesful Song roll will buy passage.  Beaten as he is, can he pull it off?

[Telcontar]

  would casting down the menhir of the shadow buy us any street cred?

[GandalfOfBorg]

Honestly the elf is taken aback.  This certainly wasn't area of expertise, there are far lovelier voices in the fairer parts of the world.  "That is a kindness, indeed great flattery if I may from one such as yourself.  I will do my best given my current state."  Gwaithlim hearkens back once again to the Hall of Fire and the melodies sung by those precious few still in Middle-earth whom have seen the perilous peaks of the Pelori under the light of the Two Trees and the great aspect of Taniquetil as seen from Tol Erresea.

  Sing, monkey, sing! 
 

Song -  1d12 : 4, total 4
Rolled 2d6 : 5, 3, total 8

+ Hope if needed