Two more days' marching alongside the wain brings the band of Sunsteadlings and companions to the western edge of the forest.  At this shore of the sea of leaves, the wood seems tamed, with the trees well-spaced and wholesome-seeming, and here and there a trunk shortened and branches coppiced for firewood.  It does not take long, however, for the trunks to close in thickly about the travellers, forcing them from the straight path.  Arbogast, his spirits lifting in the country ever his home, finds long stretches where the woods long have been cleared, as if a road was once to be built in unconnected spans.  Even so, more than once the entire company must halt while trees are felled to make a way broad enough to fit the wain for Caewin, riding ever tall in his saddle with his head helmed in this less familiar land, seems sore loath to leave it, or even to unpack the goods it carries to lighten its load for a while. 

Much as his followers might shake their heads at his foolishness, though, the miles pass beneath the trundling wheels and trudging feet until at last the Fire-watcher, reading some sign plain to him alone, announces that the Dusky River is nearby.  "Scarce more than a mile from here," he promises, but this last mile is perhaps the worst of the journey, for a pothole lurking beneath a cover of leaf-mulch half-devours the front wheel of the wain, the axle cracking with the sudden shock.  From here, the strongest members of the party take turns bearing the load of the front corner, an ordeal that leaves each bearer with aching hands and back. 

Even this ordeal cannot bar the way of the company from their destination, and at last the high mound of Wuduseld can be spied between the tops of the trees.  When at last the wain rolls to a final stop outside the hedge and wall of the Woodmen settlement, to the clear relief of all but Caewin himself, it is plain that they are the last to arrive, for the sounds of a small town of Men all a-bustle come from within the gates.  Without, though, a grim body of Men, hard-eyed and heavily-armed, has made their camp beneath a richly-woven banner bearing a red circle made of intricate knotwork.  Mogdred, it would seem, has come to make his claim. 

That'll bring you the rest of the way, though not in great style or comfort.

That looks like a good place to wrap the scene up.  Let's see how the rest of the journey goes:

Hathcyn shuddered at hearing the Elf mention wraiths and their world.

His hand went to the braided black hair torc at his neck and he drew comfort from the thought of his wife.

"Wraiths. I do not soon wish to be touched by their world again. Perhaps Rahdagast will know more, and have a cure. We must be on guard until then."

Though he wracks his mind and trawls the depths of his centuries-long memory, still Gwaithlim cannot bring to mind any hint of how the hold of the helm might be broken.  It was not, as he understands it, forged with the intention of making it into a tool of domination and ill-intent.  Rather, it has come under the influence of dark things of the wraith-world, and absent their fell clutches he hazards that it will become a simple thing of steel and brass. 

"If I am right in my suspicions", he says, "then this helm is a wraith-touched thing, and it is in the wraith-world that its undoing will be found.  The loremasters of Imladris, who have striven against the evil spirits of bog and barrow since before the rising of Angmar, may know more, or the wizards who have long given their aid and counsel, but I do not."

Story coming soon, I promise.  This week has utterly defeated me.

 
 

Lore - 1d12 : 8, total 8
Rolled 3d6 : 1, 6, 3, total 10

Try to determine an answer as to how to best nullify the dark effects of the helm.  I am assuming its unmaking.

Hathcyn pondered but his question was blunt and to the point, "can it be cleansed and how do we do so? If we take it by force it may break his mind and seems unkind. In a way this brings to mind something Beorn said, about the Werewolf being a fell spirit of possession. Maybe the elders have knowledge of this but I do not."

Gwaithlim responds, "I fear that the lord in is thrall to one, if not more, fell spirits when he dons the helm.  Like any such item tainted by the Shadow, it weighs on his mind even to don it again, to feel its power and use it.  As you said Esgalwen, these folk are no longer a threat to us but they are to the Shadow and its memory is long.  I suspect it remembers the breach of ancient fealty and so wishes their doom.  Sowing discord amongst the Free Folk is ever on the mind of such dark threats."

Hours later, the camp is made and many already lie asleep, the night giving all signs of being cool and comfortable with bright stars overhead flickering through the smoke of well-banked fires.  Mirkwood, and thoughts of the dark things that dwell within, is miles away and few will keep the watch through the dark hours.  Here and there, the soft wind brings snatches of song in a foreign tongue to the ears of the company from the campsite of the strangers and their herd. 

"Who are they, anyway?" asks Luindîs. 

"They are Erringmen," answers Esgalwen, "wandering herders who venture up and down the Anduin valley.  Hundreds of years ago, in old days even as the annals of Gondor reckon it, their ancestors were the Wainriders, who ravaged and conquered before being driven out at last.  I do not know the details, but they are certainly no threat to the folk of the vales today!" 

"Both things are true," Arbogast adds, stirring himself from what many might have assumed was slumber.  "For a lifetime of Men, or so it is said, they ruled the lands east and west of the forest, keeping the Northmen in their cruel thrall.  It was this rule that drove the builders of the lost city in the shadow of Mount Gundabad to abandon their halls and ride south.  But now they are few, and no longer serve the Shadow, and need not be feared." 

"Then why," asks the ever-curious she-Elf, "should our richly-helmed companion seek to raise his hand against them?"