The Doom-Ring at Wuduseld

[Telcontar]

  I was thinking that only one person spoke for each village. Which is why i put forward they couldn't be war chief and a leader.

Now with font installed I also see that Tyrant's Hill and the Toft don't have any elders who can vote.....

[tomcat]

  Mogdred is here for what he believes is his birthright.

[Telcontar]

  mogdred is going to be lucky if he leaves alive.

[Eclecticon]

More tale-y goodness coming soon, guys.  I just need half an hour of clear air.

[Eclecticon]

With a disdainful grunt, Mogdred leaves Esgalwen and stalks from the hall followed by the small retinue that accompanied him to the feast.  One woman favours the Dunadán with a glance as she passes, and it is with a start that Esgalwen marks her face for, though she is now richly clad and adorned with golden rings, and her hair has been dyed a firey red, Dagmar of Tyrant's Hill has aged but little in the years since last the two met.  No time is there for questions, however, before the Toft-King's party has stomped down the stairs of Wuduseld, plainly meaning to spend the dark hours in their own camp. 

At the long table, Arbogast finishes the last of the meat and begins to eat the hard bread on which it was served.  "Tomorrow," he says to Gwaithlim and Luindîs, his tone betraying little of the taughtness about his eyes, "the elders will gather in the doom-ring and the choosing will begin in earnest.  Oh, to have the many years of the Elves to spend!  Ingomer Axebreaker, I am told, was chosen after two days, and that was accounted uncommonly fast." 

Hathcyn, meanwhile, is jarred from his thoughts by a heavy knuckle rapping the bench near him and turns to find Rorin at his side, eyes glinting with the glee of secrets about to be shared.  "Our mutual friend says that Sanjar eats like a young stallion and is fast becoming a man in body, if not yet in heart.  She also says that, if you'd care to meet her down by the river-shore before dawn, she has news that she's eager indeed to share." 

[tomcat]

It is no longer a surprise that Mogdred surrounds himself with murderers, thought the Ranger.

The fire that had flared in her belly slowly subsided, and Esgalwen felt weariness weigh on her shoulders. She looked back into the hall and all that quietly debated within, and sighed to herself, I need peace and quiet and will not find it here.

She made her way out of the hall and down the hill of Wuduseld, into the darkness of the night. Esgalwen followed the path to the gates of Woodland Hall and signaled to the two guards that kept watch there, "It has been a long evening of debate in the hall atop the hill and my mind needs rest. I go to sit by the river to find peace. If anyone seeks the Lady Esgalwen, do not speak of where I have gone. I will return with the light of dawn."

The two guards looked to each other - their faces concerned in the torchlight, "Lady... do you not wish to have company? The river and the forest's edge can be dangerous at night."

The Dúnadan gave them a smile, "I will be fine, but I thank you for your concern." Still she resigned to their concern, "If you feel the need to check on me, I will be resting on the dock."

It is with reluctance that the two men submitted, but they nodded and she stepped through the gates. She followed the path to the sound of the gurgling of the Dusky River and saw the starlight flicker across its dark water. Esgalwen padded out onto the dock, hearing the boards creak at each step.

Frogs filled the night with their song and swallows and bats flittered from the forest's eaves, hungrily devouring insects that swarmed above the water. At the end of the dock, she unstrapped Nimronyn from her waist and sat, laying the sword across her lap once seated. Esgalwen pulled her cloak tightly around her to limit any bare flesh to the neek-breekers and mosquitos, and closed her eyes. Her mind drifted back to her days spent in the land of Ithilien, keeping watch between the Mountains of Shadow and the Anduin River. She relaxed and let the stress of the day, and evening, fade from her mind.

The Ranger sat in the darkness, smiling to herself about the homeland she loved.

[Eclecticon]

Before I advance the time, is there anything that Hathcyn or Gwaithlim want to do overnight?  Doug, is Esgalwen intending to wait out the night on the pier (which works fine for me)?

[tomcat]

At some point in the evening she might return to her bed (or tent, or whatever we have as accommodations), but for now she is spending some time doing what rangers do - alone, hidden, and quiet.

Though she is not going deep into reeds or wood, she is still trying to be unnoticed so I will give you a roll to gauge her success.

TN 14 stealth 3d

1d12 : 8, total 8
Rolled 3d6 : 6, 3, 6, total 15

[tomcat]

Oooo that is a nice roll. Too bad she couldn't do that in the meeting hall, but she can when she is off alone and doesn't want to be seen.

[Eclecticon]

Nothing from the other two?  Good-o.  I'll get a post up in the morning.

[GandalfOfBorg]

Gwaithlim will do what pesky, pointy-eared devils do best -- wander and meddle out of sight, being the prying eyes.

The elder Firstborn takes the words of Arbogast to heart and ponders where he could be of best service.  As the evening draws to night and the night lies deep, Gwaithlim downs the dregs of his cup and makes himself scarce, taking to the shadows again, leaving the young elf to her own devices.  He moves about the camps, listening to conversations in search of news that might help forewarn something ill and take the pulse of the peoples' thoughts on events.


  This dice roll has been tampered with!
Stealth -  1d12 : 9, total 9
Rolled 3d6 : 3, 1, 4, total 8

[GandalfOfBorg]

  we posted at the same time.

[Eclecticon]

As the night draws on, the darkness deepens around Woodland Hall, closing in around family hearths, the campfires of visitors and the braziers outside the door of Wuduseld itself.  Through the darkness slips Gwaithlim, footsetps feather-soft as he listens for the words Men say to each other when they think none but friends are there to hear.  For the most part, the talk is guarded, or of matters unconcerned with law and leaders.  Here and there, though, carelessly-uttered words betray the leanings of one elder or another.  The Elf, finding the cracking voices and deeply-lined faces of the elders of Men (though they would barely be counted beyond the years of childhood among his own people) easy enough to allot each to a name, takes careful note of who favours which candidate. 

As he makes his way at last to the campsite outside the gates (the late-night watchman feeling a strange urge to bow as he opens the gate enough to let the Elf pass) his attention is captured by the sound of another voice, the tones of which speak of a wisdom and sadness greatly familiar to him from the lay-singers and tale-tellers who gather in the Hall of Fire, far away across the Misty Mountains.  Creeping closer to hear the words clearly, he sees a figure familiar from days of journeying: the stooped, frail form of the one that even the other elders of the Sunstead call Mother Leyla.  Beyond the edge of the firelight she stands, facing into the dark forest as her croaking voice calls once again "Are you there, Beofuld?  Is there anyone?  Shall nobody hear the plea of the grandmother of an outlawed man?" 


Nice rolling, Matt.  You've picked up some information that I've set out in the attached document.  Another two successes by someone watching the proceedings of the doom-ring tomorrow will fill out the rest. 

Doug, I'll have something for you when Matt's finished here. 

[GandalfOfBorg]

Gwaithlim remarks her for a moment, taking the sight of her but also wary of another in the darkness.  If the the old woman calls out again with no answer or event, he will approach treading in the delicate elven fashion while singing softly an elvish tune about maidens fair walking about in the moonlight in the early shade of the world.

  The elf's approach isn't meant to be stealthy or surprising yet, he doesn't blunder about like the Second born.  He will use Fair to describe his speech and manner.

 

Song -  1d12 : 12, total 12
Rolled 3d6 : 5, 4, 1, total 10

[GandalfOfBorg]

  Invokes "Skill of the Eldar" with the  rolled ... +1 success