The Tale of Viglar

[Eclecticon]

Forth stand the crofter couple, the husband plainly drawing strength and courage from the wife's ire.  Their dress, drab and plain next to Hathcyn's lordly armour and helm, is still stained with the blood of their wounded son, and the husband shudders to see once again the dead man at Mogdred's feet. 

"Most of you know us," the croft-wife begins, "for we are close kin to those who dwell here.  But, for the newcomers," (here she shoots a barbed look at the two Elves) "I am Woda daughter of Havnar, and this is my husband Ewo son of Ewolc.  Long have we enjoyed the protection of the river and the warriors of Wuduseld, but the days are growing dark and no longer can these alone defend our hearth.  When word came to us of the victory of King Mogdred we rejoiced, for at last here was one who had the strength of spears to defend the folk!"

Ewo nods and takes up the tale. "To his side our boy went, carrying out vow of support.  When he returned, he brought with him three strong warriors, one of whom now lies here before you and the others will be buried in mounds near our home, for they brought also this man," he says, pointing to Viglar,"and a promise of three fat swine in the autumn in payment for his keeping."

Another round of murmuring begins around the outskirts of the ring and many of the assembled elders look visibly nonplussed.  Esgalwen, folk-wise from years of dwelling among the clans of the values leans toward the Elves and whispers "By the laws of the wood-folk, such a valuable captive should have been brought to the hall to be placed in the keeping of the clan as a whole. By not doing so, Mogdred seems to show that he doesn't trust them."

"Should that bind a king, though?" asks Luindîs, "Especially one who was disowned by his kin?"

"The Woodmen are proud," the Ranger answers "and will think twice before pledging themselves to one who holds their laws and customs lightly."  Or so I hope, she adds to herself.

[Eclecticon]

Having stood back from the ring with the beginning of the crofters' tale, Hathcyn now shushes the whisperings around him as the two continue.

"... before the arrival of this man, who named himself for Haftmund, with the tall woman there bound and beaten" Ewo gestures first at the dead man in his red cloak and then at Esgalwen.  "This was not part of our bargain with the king, but three swine is three swine and so we agreed to hold her as well."  He finishes with a recounting of the coming of the Fellowship to the Ranger's rescue speaking plainly of their terror at the raid and the near-slaying of their son.

As the two step from the doom ring, Mogdred folds his arms and maintains his stony face.  Instead, it is Dagmar who stands forth, bright the morning sun on her golden bracelets.  "True it is that the king saw fit to keep Viglar apart from the great Woodland Hall, for he knows that many foemen, in willing league with the dark things of the Wood, dwell even by the light of bright fires.  He could not risk the son of such a one being freed to wreak further woe upon the innocent."

Casting her gaze now at the laik of Haftmund, she adds "This man knew Esgalwen of Gondor, for years ago she dwelt among us and accepted the generous hospitality of the king's own table.  When he saw that she now strives against those who took her in as a lone and pitiful wanderer, his wrath overtook him and he acted rashly, and without the command of the king."

As she speaks, one of the warriors who stand behind her, mailed but without weapons, shifts uneasily.  Hathcyn, Esgalwen and Arbogast mark the face of Athala the Leofring come, it seems, into the service of he who she accounted a thrall-taker and officer of Dol Guldur. 

[Telcontar]

"What further proofs are needed as to the perfidy of this man?"

In later ages he was know as Hathycn, Half-King of the Road. In this hour he spoke his true name before the council and cast a mighty spell.

"I am Eacgrl, the fox-brother, kin-slayer, Long-spear, the hall burner, spider hunter, tree feller and road builder, wight foe, mountain climber, bear friend, standard bearer, stone riser, hound speaker and fish whisperer, wall builder, cow-herder, boat borrower, orc foe and spiders bane, ring sword giver, defender of Carrock, the Forest-helm of the Greenstone Land, Gate-warden of the Forest Gate, Thegn."

His voice rose high for all to hear. His noble armor glistened like fish scales in rainbows of oily color and in the far ancient customs, ill remembered and long forgot, he sang the spell for Mogdred's doom.

"Beneath the blood-red moon's bright gaze, 
Where shadows shift and shadows sway, 
The warrior's wraith, with wicked blade, 
Brought death upon the darkened glade. 

With iron hand, he struck the soul, 
His heart, a furnace, black and cold. 
The victim's cry, a wailing call, 
Echoed through the forest hall.

A kenning rang from his cruel deed, 
The "sword-song" sung with savage speed. 
The "raven's feast" was swiftly set, 
And men would weep and never forget.

The sky did darken, clouds did swell, 
As gods of old would cast their spell. 
No joy was found in blood-stained soil, 
No home for those who killed in toil.

The murderer's name seared in time, 
A shadow cast, a silent crime. 
But in the circle-stone, warriors spoke, 
Of how the red-streaked cloak did soak.

The blade, the blood, the life so lost— 
What is the price of life's dark cost?
This false, treasonous, uncrowned King
Axe-men, sword-men, blood they bring.

Slave, despot, unruly, ungrateful son
In dark woods to shadow runs.
I name you. Mogdred, enemy of the wood and folk
Before your kin this doom is spoke!"

Silence filled the ring and assembled people, his words a dweomer no one soon broke by speaking for it hung upon all like a pall and the morning sun seemed dim.


As we seem to be culminating here towards an end or at least a pause to the game I figured now was the time to reveal a literary device I have been toying with since way back when I made this character. Hathcyn wasnt his true name, this was the name he was know of in later days in the telling of these stories. That's why I was always adding epithets or mixing them up. As if the narrator were speaking of him.
The character goal was that one day he would be a Half-King of the region, since the woodmen and Beornings had no real kingship tradition. So this Mogdred King thing really underlines in my mind how his story went. Casting down a false King, uniting the Vigs to his own people through his wife and with strong influence over the Wood-men of the south. A crown-less king, Hathcyn. 

[Eclecticon]

Incredible.  The standard of both writing and storytelling in this game continues to blow me away.

[Eclecticon]

Right, we've all waited long enough!  Let's see how Hathcyn's (Eacgrl's!) Song skill backs up his words!  I'm chucking in a +6 bonus in recognition of you actually writing out the poetry that spills from his lips:

Rolled 1d12 : 7, total 7
Rolled 2d6+6 : 5, 3 + 6, total 14

[Eclecticon]

Voices of the great and meek alike are already rising in ire towards Mogdred as the King of the Toft and Tyrant's Hill at last breaks his silence.  "Such brave words!  But I cannot but ask myself what manner of a Man names himself for half a king?  Truly, the night darkens around us and it is for those of us who dare to seize the brand and light the warding-fire.  Half measures shall not see us through what is to come!" 

"And what is to come, say you?" asks Caewin, a fey look in his eye.  "Will your strength alone defeat those who even now make war upon us, upon all of Rhovanion, from their wains?  Will you -"

His questioning is cut short by the roaring of Mogdred, his hoarded patience at last all spent.  "What foe is this, you gilt-clad fool?  The kings of Rhovanion are long buried and the wainriders now spoken of only in tales of old!"  Turning his gaze from the lord of the Sunstead, he addresses the Doom-Ring and the gathered folk beyond it.  "I tire of this pass-time for the old and the weak of heart!  Hear the word of a king: this morn you shall kneel and hail me as your lord and giver of laws, and in return I will be your shield against the darkness and your sword against your foes.  Those who will not bow to me will find no friendship, but be left to their own defences when the orc, the wolf and the spider draw near!  I will pay no heed to the wailing of their womenfolk, nor their children-"

And here, he is at last silenced for unseen behind him Athala, who has moved like a stalking cat closer and closer to him, draws her knife and swift as a falling star plunges it into his throat.  As Mogdred's words are mangled into a shrieking gurgle she has time enough to look at him and ask "What of their children?  Will you make thralls of them and bring them before the Necromancer, as you did to me?" 

The Ring at once erupts into chaos.  Mogdred's men surge forward, seizing Athala as she holds high her bloody knife for all to see.  "Mogdred's reign is ended. Death to slavers! " she cries as they cast her and plunge their own knives into her belly, her back, her neck, staining the soil with more blood of the guilty and the executioner both.

[Telcontar]

Hathcyn, called Foresthelm, stood at the center of the Doomring. His helmet gleamed with the sheen of battle and the fire of resolve. His eyes, sharp as the keenest blade, flickered over the gathered crowd of warriors and elders, all silenced by the grim deed that had just transpired.

Before him, Athala stood with bloodstained hands, her eyes wide but unwavering, her chest rising and falling in quickened breaths. The tyrant lay dead at her feet, a man whose name had been cursed in every village, town, and hut. A man whose reign had poisoned the land, whose cruelty had scarred its people. His throat had been cut by Athala, and his lifeblood spilled upon the ancient stones, the red of it mingling with the black earth like a final prayer.

Athala was no longer a slave—no longer a mere shadow of a woman bound by chains. She had risen, a vengeful flame burning in her heart. She had struck the tyrant down with the strength of one who had nothing left to lose, but everything to reclaim.

The air hummed with tension, the blood of the fallen tyrant still fresh on the ground. Hathcyn, stoic as the forest itself, stepped forward. Her eyes met his, wild and yet tempered by the fire of her deeds then the light dying in her eyes as the blades of the men of Tyrannt's Hill blades bared descended.

"Traitor!" one of the guards spat, his voice like the crack of a whip. "Murderer!"

The crowd stirred, but none moved to intervene. The doom of the Doomring had claimed them all.

Athala crumpled to the earth, her life spilling away with the blood of the tyrant. Her eyes, once bright with defiance, dimmed as the forest seemed to mourn with her. The earth drank deeply as the blood mingled and doom found them both.

The air in the Doomring grew thick with tension, and the silence that followed the tyrant's fall was soon shattered by the cries of those who had witnessed the death of their ruler. The stone circle, ancient and weathered, seemed to groan under the weight of history as the council of elders, long out of touch with the pulse of the land, convened in haste. Their voices, trembling with fear and disbelief, echoed beneath the twisted branches that loomed like dark hands above them.

It was not a gathering of unity, but a convocation of broken hopes and whispered doubts.

The elders, gray-haired and frail, muttered amongst themselves, their voices a tangled mess of fear and uncertainty. Few of them had seen a true battle in years, let alone fought one. They were the keepers of old knowledge, guardians of lore and tradition, yet they had failed to recognize the shifting tides of the world beyond their wooden halls.

The arguing grew louder, voices overlapping, as the once-proud council descended into madness. Hathcyn could not bear it. His hands tightened on the shaft of his spear as his gaze flicked to Athala's crumpled form, still lying amidst the stone circle, her breath gone. The guards moved in like a pack of wolves, still keeping their distance from the elders, knowing the old men and women held no sway over the weapons in their hands.

"There is no time for this," Hathcyn growled, his voice rising above the clamor, his eyes flashing with the urgency of the moment. "The fate of this land lies not in our petty quarrels, but in what is to come after this."

As the chaos roiled within the Doomring, the council of elders, once a pillar of stability, had crumbled into disarray. Athala, the murderer and savior, lay broken on the earth, and the guards, having done their grisly work, now lingered like vultures over the remains of both the tyrant and the woman.

Hathcyn's mind raced, his thoughts burning with urgency. He could feel the weight of the moment crushing him, but within the weight, he saw one final chance. Still a breath of hope.

"Arbogast," Hathcyn called out, his voice reverberating with purpose. He gripped the arm of his friend and looked deep into him. "You are the one who has the strength and wisdom to carry them through this dark hour. Now, NOW is your time to lead and prove that you are the best leader of the Wood-men. You alone have the courage to bear it, show these folk here and now that it is true. This is your chance, bought in blood. You must bring them through this darkness for no one else will."

[Telcontar]

 
Ok Paul, here is your chance to drop the LM screen for a moment, dig deep, and take back the mantle of player.

[tomcat]

The chaos in the hall swept over her like an ocean wave - something she had only seen once, as a young girl when her father had taken her to Linhir in the far south of Gondor. The cries of men and women, along with the sound of death and dying, filled her ears.

It was too much. Esgalwen, daughter of Eradan had seen enough. She had dealt enough. She had been wounded enough. Too many now gone - friends, children, family... all too much and all seeming for naught.

She had come to the Vale, what seemed a lifetime ago, on an errand to learn. To find answers for a Steward that was now lying in the halls of his fathers. She escaped death even as her ranger companions were taken by orc blades. To justify her survival, the noblewoman-turned-ranger then attempted to take on the mantle of diplomacy, speaking to and for her new Lord in Gondor. It was by her machinations that Mogdred, now bleeding out the last of his life, received the weapons of war that he bared against his own.

It was too much.

Esgalwen felt at the scars under her leather jerkin. In the cacophony of her thoughts, the ghost of Orophin came to her. The Elf gave her a pitied smile and he spoke, "It is impossible to stave off evil from outside, when it grows within. Do not fret this decision, Esgalwen, daughter of Eradan. They will have to find their own way through the Shadow. You have given all you could."

Tears filled her eyes, even as Hathcyn called Arbogast to the fore. She drew Nimronyn from its scabbard, laying the blade atop the long table before her, and quietly slipped from the hall.

A ranger and warrior no more - the woman of Gondor moved with those that fled the hilltop. She made quick her stop in the tent where her things were stored, and then while she could, saddled her horse and rode from Woodland Hall.
Gents, this is a Woodmen story anymore. I don't have anything left to contribute with my Gondorian. Steve brought her into the game nearly ten years ago and left her for me to assume as an NPC, and then my character. I see her too torn between duty to home and bloodline then trying to aid in unifying a people that are not hers. I can see her watching Arbogast and Lindwine grow a family and wondering if the wounds she has taken over the years has made her barren. I can see this failure with Mogdred breaking her resolve, as I wrote above.

I will continue to read our story, as it comes to whatever conclusion is in store, but Esgalwen removes herself from this tale. If she gets home, I see her returning to the obscurity of minor nobility within the courts of Minas Tirith, where she will do her duty and be betrothed to another of the blood of Númenor.

Hopefully, you all find this an appropriate end to her tale.

[GandalfOfBorg]

Gwaithlim watched in horror as the events unfold before him.  Never before did he feel absolutely powerless to stop them as well.  Still watching from the sidelines, his head swims as the companionship he's known for sometime seem to dissolve and tear apart at the same time.  These tidings are dark indeed for the Men on this side of the Misty Mountains and he is not sure that he can be of much more service to them.

Then he sees something that confirms his fears, Esgalwen dropping her blade with a clang to the table and leave with bitter tears and sorrow.  He knew those tears well, having shed them himself in ages past.  He tries to get to her before she leaves but is unable to make his way through the throng.  He does grab her blade, for if she is to leave this place and tread the paths back to her people, there are still perils to face along the way.

Finally leaving the tent, he searches over the camp to find the Gondorian woman.  "Lady, I believe you dropped this."  She could barely look at the elf or the blade in his hand.  "Leave it.  I renounce all that I have here in these lands and in the north.  I cannot bear this sword any further for its memory holds too much grief and sorrow, where now I find that all that I have strived to build sundered or turned to ill."

The elf nods, figuring her mood as much.  "Where will you go now?"

"I will return to my people.  I will return to Gondor and do the what is expected of a good woman of noble lineage.  I must leave all of this behind, it has broken me."

"If you are to return to the south, there are many perils upon that road and without such a weapon, you may not go very far.  If you would allow, let me accompany you back at least as far as Lorien.  I know those folk and the Lady of the Wood protects a fair part of the rest of your journey, her folk could be of assistance to you even if but some rest for a little while."

Looking back at the tent and then north into the lands of Grimbeorn.  "Our friends' trials are only starting but in this new chapter, we are but a footnote."

  I believe Gwaithlim's part in this tale is also come to a close for these matters are beyond his ability to influence or make meaningful support.

[tomcat]

Esgalwen looked into the eyes of Gwaithlim and saw those of Orophin looking back - not the haunted eyes of Morirúsë that she remembered.

She gave a nod. A smile.

"I would like that, Sir Elf."

She took the heavy weight of Nimronyn into her hand once again and then slid it into its scabbard. It would certainly make for an heirloom of her house, if naught else.

[Eclecticon]

Ok Paul, here is your chance to drop the LM screen for a moment, dig deep, and take back the mantle of player.

Let's see what I can do, then.  If this is the end of our tale, let's make it a good one.

Arbogast is going to roll Awe - not his best skill, but the one that's called for right now:

Rolled 1d12 : 4, total 4
Rolled 3d6 : 6, 3, 5, total 14

[Eclecticon]

That's the kind of roll I wanted!  Now for some appropriate music:

[Eclecticon]

Arbogast's eyes widen in shock and dismay as he watches the twin murders as a man frozen, a mere beholder to the spilling of blood and the defiling of the doom-ring.  Then, as all around him falls into disorder, the voice of Hathcyn, his brother by the shedding of blood and the sworn man of Grimbeorn his friend of old, cuts through the noise: "Now, NOW is your time to lead and prove that you are the best leader of the Wood-men!" 

Like water thrown on a heavy sleeper, the words shock him into action, and at once he knows what must be done.  "My boon companion," he replies, "If you would have me lead, then fetch me the horn from the high mead-hall!" 

Breaking into a triumphant grin, Hathcyn turns and on feet fleet as a mountain stream races to the gates of Wuduseld, left open in honour of the occasion despite the imminent threat of rain.  He does not stop to explain himself to the door-warden, nor to the gangly-limbed youth set to guard the the Great War-Horn of the Hunter, but seizes the horn in both hands and is halfway to the door calling "No time to explain!" before any might lift a hand to stop him. 

Returning to the doom-ring, he sees that the scene is, if anything, worse than when he left.  Old women press forward against the men of Tyrant's Hill, their beseeching to try the Staunching Song lost in the chaos and the warriors' blood-slick knives half-raised to stop them.  Nearby Caewin, the light of madness shining in his eyes, gives commands to no-one who harkens to him and various of the assembled elders jab accusing fingers at each other, grey beards flecked with spittle and accusations of treachery.  Neither Esgalwen nor Gwaithlim are anywhere to be seen, but Luindîs stands at the base of a stone upon which the Fire-watcher has climbed and now balances awkwardly. 

As the Longspear passes to him the horn, Arbogast wastes no time bringing it to his lips and calling forth a note long and clear and loud enough to carry above every raised voice and cursing tongue.  "MEN OF THE WOOD, HARKEN!" he calls thereafter in a voice he has trained to carry above the clangor of battle, and bidden or not, each head turns in his direction. 

"Not for the first time, that which never should have come to pass is upon us, and we must be resolute in our response!  But instead we have fallen to bickering and recrimination!  You!" he points to the warriors who surround the two bloodied bodies, "let the healers through to do what they may!"  And to his great satisfaction, they do so, though it is plain that little chance remains to save either. 

"Warriors, hunters, wayfarers all, hear me!  I came here not to seek the title of War-leader!"  His gaze sweeps the crowd, alighting on Caewin, the Helm of Peace now snug on his head.  "I came here not greedy for vain glory!"  He looks to the knot of Mogdred's men, fear and grief now plain on their faces.  "I came here not to seize power, nor to give voice to long-held grudges!"  He looks briefly toward Munderic, then away.  "I came here not at the bidding of any other, but to be the servant of my kin and folk, as ever I have sought to be!" 

He raises the horn above his head to catch the light that breaks for a moment through a gap between the clouds.  "No right have I to hold this horn, and the title of War-leader is not mine to take.  On the morrow, you may raise your axes against me, or you may turn aside from me and hear only your own counsels, but know this: on this day, I and no other will be the shield against the hand of the Shadow that besets us!" 


Let's see how they take all that (with an Inspire roll):

Rolled 1d12 : 8, total 8
Rolled 4d6 : 1, 6, 2, 5, total 14

[Eclecticon]

For a heartbeat, then another, then a third, not a single word is spoken among the crowd, even the other claimants keeping their thoughts to themselves.  Then the Fire-watcher breaks the silence.  "Murderers though they be, the Men of the red circle came in good faith and in peace, and so shall they leave us.  Those who can, take the elders to the mead-hall.  Healers, if there be life in either of those two, see that they go with them and are laid in a place of safety..."

He has done it, Hathcyn thinks to himself.  Oh, there will be a formal choosing by the crones and greybeards, but few would speak for any other now that he has shown himself for what he is, and those that do will be argued around in time.  With a delighted grin on his face, he looks around for the Ranger and the grey Elf to share his joy. 

But they are gone.