Flight of the Fox - Round 6

[Eclecticon]

Very well, Hathcyn thinks to himself as his lungs and legs alike work furiously to outpace the wolves behind him, if a fox cannot out-fox you, maybe a Man's mind can!  And there are traps aplenty to spring on warriors who rashly pursue a foe who only pretends to be beaten! 

Breaking cover, he streaks through an open meadow and hears the gleeful howling of his pursuers behind him.  Further and further he runs, hoping against hope that he is where he reckons himself to be, for well he knows this country and its hidden hazards. 

At last, it is as he hoped, and the outline of an ancient well, old beyond the reckoning of Beorn's folk and visible in the darkness perhaps only to those who see with a night-goer's eyes, looms abruptly out of the tall grass.  As only a small beast can, he slows, hops up on the lip of the well and, choosing his moment with great care, launches himself at his closest pursuer, fox-jaws nipping a furry ear.  With a shocked yelp , the wolf tries to dodge away but the same speed that carried it ahead of its pack-mates now betrays it, and it goes sprawling in an ungainly heap that crashes against the dry well's stones. 

Whether it rises quickly or not at all, the spirit-fox does not wait to see, for he is already away once more, knowing that to tarry would be to squander what he has newly won. 


You're back up to 9/10 lead, Tom!  One more TN 18 roll and you're home free! 

[Eclecticon]

I know that Thanksgiving has worked it's usual disruption on everyone's schedules.  I'll give it another day or so and then move the story on by myself - anyone reading this can pick their part up as and when they arrive back.

[Telcontar]

  sorry Paul. i was traveling for work and then rolled right into a vacation and went to Crete.

I feel like I need to athletics this even though I'm not great at it. i think all my skills are more mental and cunning and at some point raw muscles need to make a play here.

[Telcontar]

Hathcyn hoped beyond hope that with a last burst of speed he would be able to out pace the wolfish pursuit. He knew it wasnt his strongest asset and he often relied on cunning. He focused his thoughts, harnessed his courage, and pressed on farther into the wild.

Rolled 1d12 : 3, total 3

Rolled 2d6 : 3, 5, total 8

[Telcontar]

Yeah that's not going to make it even with hope.

[Eclecticon]

Thanks for coming back, Tom - and sorry for going quiet on my own end. 

I'm aware that this is starting to drag on, and that Matt and Doug are twiddling their thumbs, so I'm going to change things up slightly.  Escape is starting to look unlikely, so is Hathcyn willing to lead his pursuers toward the Fox's Tale?  If not, where is he going to head toward?  Or is he just going to go around in circles until dawn comes or the wolves give up? 

[Eclecticon]

Okay, on the off chance that something can still be salvaged here, I'm going to move the game on in the next few hours.

[Telcontar]

  sorry I got tied up and realized I hadnt been checking the forum. I dont think I am ever going to make a TN 18 with only two dice in Athletics. I'd pretty much be banking on a G rune for success. For the sake of argument I'll make one more roll for the gusto and we'll see what happens. If I get a G rune then huzzah if not then plan b.

[Telcontar]

The advantage of the fox was never in strength alone, nor was it Hathcyn's. He had tried stratagem, he had tried cunning and tricks, he had tried to out run the pursuing wolves, but now he was out of options. He felt like he had played into their hands and here in his spirit form they had the advantage and they knew it. He had a growing dread too that wherever he led the beasts they would be able to wreck havoc in the waking world as well. In that moment he decided that as much as his heart called him to head to the fox's tale he could not go there.

The wargs that pursued him were not wholly in the material world, so he would need to fight spirit with spirit.  His mind raced, where was there a source of spirit, where was there a place of the old magics. The Carrock maybe, but he doubted even that could aid him while it was fouled by the occupiers of the north. The river maidens...maybe they could intercede on his his behalf. The Anduin perhaps could aid him, its magic was strong but sleepy. Then his fox spirit sent to him the sounding of horns. Horns clear and loud in his minds ear.

When horns? He was already hunted, he was....the idea dawned on him. He was but part of a hunt, but there was a GREAT Hunt as well. He had stood with Beorn when the Greatest of Hunters had come and he had laughed at the words of Hathcyn the man and he had control of all the beasts and was master of things both seen and unseen.

His heart poured itself out then. The spirit of the man, magnified now in the spirit of the fox called out to the unseen world. He focused every thought other than that spent on running towards his call the leader of the Great Hunt. He called to mind his deeds against the wraiths, his struggle against the great spider of the woods, he called upon the good will of the River daughters to intercede on his behalf, and lastly he recalled that it was Hathcyn who found the menhir of the dark days. The stone that had tortured the mountain so long that even the elves only dimly recalled the days it had been raised. With a last burst of speed and will he called upon the Master of the Hunt and recalled the words the elf spoke, his spirit form speaking them far better then could he in the waking world.

'Símen bime mauva, lanti yonwo Morgoth!  Násan mennai utúlie'n aurë yare teviëi voronda ilya ótesse nepántorne!  'Here by my hand is the wall of Morgoth broken!  So may it be until the day is come when the sworn hatreds may at last be laid aside.'"

He finished in his own words, "By my deeds and by my words deliver me in spirit or allow me to stand with my face to my foes as a man and die in the hunt."

Persuade Roll

Rolled 1d12 : 8, total 8

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

[Eclecticon]

That's so cool!

[Eclecticon]

Perhaps there is yet some part of the good powers of old that listens for the most desperate pleas of the Free Peoples, or perhaps it is simple fortune turning its favour on one whom it has favoured before.  Hathcyn cannot say, and neither can he care though he feels the change as he would the sudden and unexpected rise of the sun itself.  All at once, a wind from the west comes blowing, carrying with it the scent of the wide river and the vales and mountains beyond, as well as the heavy, animal scent of wet wolf fur and the certainty that his pursuers, though out of sight, have not given up the chase. 

Just as surely, though, he knows that the wind now carries his own scent far away from his wolfen foes, masking his presence so long as they do not see him.  This, he knows, is a chance that will not come a second time, and nor does he squander it but casts himself bodily into a trout pond by one of the steadings that surround the House of Beorn.  Only when his lungs scream for breath and his vision begins to darken at the edges does he dare to come forth once more but by then, though the scent of wolf hangs in the air to mark their passing, the pack that followed him has gone on, pursuing other prey perhaps, or maybe chance movements in the night that they fancy to be him. 

[Eclecticon]

Tom, having lost the wolves, is Hathcyn still going to try to make it to the Fox's Tale?  It'll be touch and go, but (with Swift) he's fast enough to make it just before dawn if he doesn't stop for anything.

[Telcontar]

  Yes. The Beornings dont know the plight they are in and Hathcyn has both strengthened his home and the caravan guards are known to stay there between jobs. His goal now is to get to the hound Sardoc and tell him what has happened to Grimbeorn, his house, and the Carrock.

And if his gambit should fail in the challenge he wants to see his wife again.

[Eclecticon]

Across the moonlit miles Hathcyn streaks, running free and openly now that he has slipped his pursuers.  Nor does he need to go far from his path to learn for himself what has happened at Beorn's House, for the harsh scents of burning carry far on the night air.  Indeed, smoke still rises from the smouldering wreckage and the ashes of the surrounding fields as he draws near.  Nothing does he see or smell of the chieftain's herds of cattle and sheep, though he hopes some, at least, were driven away in advance of the raiders that have clearly had their way with this place. 

His path takes him next to the abandoned steading of the strange halfling-thegn Bandobras Bracegirdle, which has been likewise ravaged, though in a desultory fashion.  Bandy's beloved garden has long been overgrown and choked with weeds, and while the uppermost portions of his hall also bear the mark of fire damage, nothing seems to have touched the cellar and thus, he reckons, the greater part of the living quarters will also be safe.  "If you'll permit me some unsolicited advice," he remembers the Hobbit telling him one evening as one of Beorn's feasts neared its end, "when it comes time to build your hall, first dig a handsome cellar!  There's nothing like it for keeping cheese and ale cool, and (he said, gazing across the hearth to where his kinfolk slumped across the table in sleepy satisfaction) even more precious things safe." 

Finally, he discovers a dozen raiders themselves camped not more than three miles from the Fox's Tale.  A poor lot for warriors they seem to him, having none awake to guard the fire, nor the wagon loaded with spoil that they have pushed to one side of their campsite.  Still, his spirit-eyes catch the glint of iron spears and helms.  No men to be lightly dismissed are these, in a country where the war-like and strong are already far away across long miles and a broad river. 


More to come, but I've let the day get away from me again. 

Doug and Matt, I assure you that you'll have something to do soon!

[Eclecticon]

Fleet fox-feet flying, it takes mere minutes more for the Longspear to cover the ground to where the Green Stone rises above the surrounding lands.  Here, in the pre-dawn dimness Hathcyn could almost fancy that there was no war afoot, that all was well and that he was merely returning from a night-time run as had from time to time been his wont.  But though his heart leaps to see his hall whole and untouched, and to smell the familiar scents of fresh hay and hearth-smoke, spilled beer  and the musk of beasts of burden, still he fears for those within. 

His fear is allayed somewhat when he spies a watchman perched alert atop the roof, and follows the scent of horses and mules to the barred door, and not the empty stables.  Following his usual course, he sees that the shutters to his bedchamber window have been left ajar, as Aestid would do each night when he voiced a desire to go abroad in spirit-form.  As he lands inside the room, familiar to him as his own hands, he feels the numbness in his paws that presages the coming of the dawn but cares not, for he sees at last his beloved wife abed, asleep, her hair askew across her face, her mouth open to let forth a quiet snore.  She is, in that moment, beautiful to him beyond the power of words to convey. 

But he has not come to rouse her.  And now that he is within his own walls once again his fox-nose picks up the smells of Sardoc, of unfamiliar Men... and of blood recently shed.  Pushing past his door, he picks his way past the prone forms, lying with spears and shields near to hand, and long-hafted axes of a kind long familiar to him.  The hearth-fire has burned all night, it seems, and Sardoc is in his accustomed place in front of it, already lifting his great head with ears pricked up.  The old hound's tail begins to thump rhythmically against the floor when he marks the arrival of his friend, and he barks a quiet "Hail!"

Only as Sardoc stirs does Hathcyn have eyes (though his vision already beginning to fade) for he who sits nearby, and who turns his gaze away from the fire to follow the attention of the hound.  Favouring the night-fox with a grim smile, the Fire-watcher speaks.  "Fresh from one war in the gloom of the wood, what do I find when I make my tardy way here but another already on your doorstep!  I know from my winged sentinels that the raiders are close.  They will come at dawn, I expect, as raiders have done since the first raid was launched." 

Arbogast's last words are fuzzy in his ears, but as Hathcyn awakes, he thinks that they may have been "fear not, for they shall not find your hall unprepared for them."