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As the outlaws disappear into the wood, the Fellowship of the Helm continues its journey southward.  By unspoken agreement, the outlaws venture ahead and make no further contact with the companions, though they can be heard from time to time as the two groups come close to each other.  Keeping the Dusky River in sight to their left, the Fellowship sees a small boat go by, borne swiftly by the current of the river, which is not so languid here as it is in the lower country to the south, and the heaving backs of the man and woman who row.  Ingomer, it seems, is not content to wait for the call to arms to arrive with the companions, but has sent his own messengers ahead. 

The second night out from Woodland Hall, the Fellowship makes camp close enough to the outlaws to overhear their conversation over supper, and singing for some time thereafter.  Their concerns are, in the main, common and worldly things: the stealing of wayward sheep and the taste of ale warmed by the spring sun.  But as with all other Men away from their kindred and homes, their words belie a longing for loved ones left behind, be the speakers never so rough and ill-reputed.  They speak of their fellows in other bands, for the outlaws have grown in number, it transpires, as folk have fled the madness of Caewin in the east, or the consequences of hard decisions made over cruel winters.  The outlaws share a black and grim humour that tells with great eloquence of meagre beginnings, awful misfortunes and lingering ill-blood.  One song in particular is repeated on occasion both day and night:

  From the marsh beside the creek
  Malgo's body rose.
  Leeches on its fingertips
  Mud between its toes. 

  Through the gates of Woodmen-Town
  Malgo's body came
  Looking for a worthy man
  Vidans was his name. 

  Past the guards and through the door
  Malgo's body crept. 
  Sat itself beside the pallet
  On which Vidans slept. 

  Tossing, turning, whimpering
  In the moonlight dull,
  Vidans woke to see the pits
  Of Malgo's grinning skull. 

  To the folk of Woodmen-Town
  Vidans told his tale,
  He was Malgo's murderer. 
  Justice did prevail. 

  In the marsh beside the creek,
  Where the willows grow
  Vidans' body hangs above,
  Malgo's sleeps below.


:ooc: I'll do the usual Travel rolls.  Since you have the outlaws effectively scouting ahead of you, I'll ignore any :~~: that results in a Scout-based incident.  Otherwise, based on the skills you guys have, I'll break the roles down as follows unless I hear any objections:

Esgalwen: Look-out
Grimbeorn: Guide
Hathcyn: Huntsman

Rollin' rollin' rollin... (Travel TN 16)

Esgalwen


Grimbeorn


Hathcyn

:ooc: Okay, Esgalwen gains an AP and Hathcyn gains two Fatigue.  (:csu:) 

We also get to roll to see what kind of hazard our intrepid heroes have fallen arse-backward into:

That'll be our Huntsman's problem.  Let's see what's at stake:

By the third day out of Woodland Hall, the rough ring of steadings surrounding Wuduseld has been left far behind, and that surrounding Woodmen-Town has not yet been reached.  The woods, however, seem to teem with life: birds flit from branch to branch, squirrels vociferously dispute each others' territory and sleek, black pigs snort and snuffle beneath the ancient, gnarled roots of the trees. 

One of these does Hathcyn almost snare on an afternoon when their supplies begin to run low, only to have it slip his clutches and lead him on a chase so merry he almost forgets himself, letting the creature run on and on until the companions' campsite is far behind him. 


:ooc: Weariness - the great slayer of PCs!  I'm going to say that, if Hathcyn fails his Hunting roll, he's enjoying being Swift a little too much, and it'll take him hours to find his way back to the others (making him temporarily Weary until you get a good night's rest in a safe place). 

:ooc: Tom, that's a failure unless you care to spend Hope on it... 

EDIT:  While I'm doing a bunch of mechanical stuff, I'll point out that, as it's springtime, you can sing Arbogast's song The Trees Are Coming Into Leaf (https://rpg.avioc.org/boards/index.php?msg=31866) with a successful Song roll (vs TN 14).  Success means that you're Inspired until the end of the adventure.  You can 'spend' the inspiration to add two success dice (i.e. 2d6) to any single roll.  If you get more successes than there are PCs (unlikely, but possible with great and extraordinary successes), you add an extra Fellowship point that vanishes at the end of the adventure if nobody uses it. 

If you want to narrate a flashback, you can already have done this, in which case you can add the dice to any of my rolls above. 

 :ooc: no Hope for this. We'll need it in times to come.

:ooc: Probably the right call, with Woodmen-Town as close as it is.  Okay!  Proper story to follow tomorrow, when I get a minute.

 :ooc: post to follow tomorrow

:ooc: Cool - I think we're all happy to wait and see what you make of this.

The sunlight and the woods lured the Beorning on. Just out of sight it seemed his query bounded and he was in hot pursuit. The stag seemed to tease him, just a glimpse, just a rustle, just out of reach. He quickened his pace, and then was running. His living body bounding through the woods as his fox form was want to do. Then he ran for the joy of running. His legs carrying him over the collection of mulch at the forest floor, passed fallen timber and moss covered stone. He felt the urge then to yell, but restrained himself. The energy instead put into his run, swiftly he flew without a thought to the distance he traveled and the game forgotten.

He stopped to slack his thirst and in the water noted the passage of the sun in the sky. The purpose of his task now recalled to mind. The thoughts of man again entered into his thoughts. Strange he thought...never could he recall so keenly feeling the desire if the fox with his daymind. His mind had been clear interested only in the passing of trees and speed. Then it came to him, the fox in him ran straight and true towards the Tarn.

Hathcyn returned to camp empty of game, but fixed in purpose.

As the embers of the days fire began to glow low the fatigue of his running was upon him and he desired sleep. He knew when he lay down he would soon be asleep, but no rest would he get.

"Esgalwen, will you sit with me this night?"

The Lady of Dale looked at him strangely not sure about what the question meant.

Preoccupied with thought he now saw her look and laughed.

"No, not like that. I must night travel tonight. The fox stirs in me to a degree that I feel the need to run even in my waking moments. I must try again for the Tarn. The Firewatcher must know that we are coming. Even if to just shore up his courage. A great joy it was to us when we were captives of the Orcs to know you were in pursuit and while we labor now again for our comrade he knows it not."

"Of course Hathcyn, what must I do?"

"Just sit with me and watch. My body will be oblivious to peril while my spirit runs free of its mortal coil. It likely be a long and uneventful watch and if I need to go again tomorrow I'll ask Grimbeorn. Should I begin to show wounds or signs of struggle I must be awoken.  The harm to spirit will manifest on my body and it is possible to be killed on my walk. This is a risk I must take, Arbogast needs to know we are on our way."

The Lady of Dale nodded and took up a position at his side.

"I'm ready."

Hathcyn threw himself on the ground and was soon asleep. The weariness of the chase assisting the quick passage. He knew he would suffer great fatigue, but the need was great.

The Ranger saw the calm come over his body, his breathing slowed. From the outskirts of their camp a red fox with a silver tipped tail appeared and gazed upon them. Then in a flash it was gone, running through the woods.

The night hours passed and Esgalwen sat quietly by her friend's side. She occasionally took up a long stick and poked at the embers of their fire, there only to provide light and safety as only dry bread was available for food. Still, she did not want it to burn out.

Hathcyn's breathing would rise in rapid, short breaths and then return to the deep, almost imperceptible ones that concerned her more. She kept a steady gaze out into the night, seldom looking at the fire so as not to ruin the limited distance she could see under the stars - made difficult even more by the countless leaves above.

Her sword was unscabbarded and neatly stabbed into the ground. The Elven tracery along its length would begin to glow a faint light should creatures of the Shadow approach, primarily Orcs and goblins. Easily at the ready, she left the sword there and held, instead, her relaxed bow with an arrow nocked.

Hathcyn worried about weariness overtaking him from this night travel and Esgalwen harbored these same thoughts for herself. As the hours passed, she decided she would wake Grimbeorn to take over her guard. There was no sense in two of the three companions suffering weariness, especially when they soon might enter battle.

Fleet and soundless flies Hathcyn's spirit, the miles passing beneath his paws.  About him, as before, the night wood is alive with sounds and smells bespeaking a great abundance of life.  Owls and fireflies flit above him, mice and shrews scurry through the leaf litter, all entirely unpeturbed by his passage. 

As before, however, this liveliness gives way to a wasteland, and the wholesome scents of the loam and trees are joined by those of orcs: sweat, blood and waste, but also the slow deaths of plants uprooted and trees hacked apart.  The smell of woodsmoke that surrounds every mannish house, be it that of pauper or king, is magnified manyfold, and underlying it all is the corruption of the mist from the Black Tarn. 

Knowing this time that the forest is aswarm with goblins, Hathcyn approaches obliquely, waiting, listening, smelling and moving unobserved. 


:ooc:  I'm going to give Hathcyn an easier time on his Stealth roll (TN 12) this time around, since he has a better idea what he's dealing with.  Let's see how he goes:

The goblins go about their business, unknowing of the interloper in their midst.  Despite the urgency of his journey, Hathcyn finds himself fascinated by the variation in orc-scents that carry to his nose, for curiosity is the bane of many creatures beyond cats!


:ooc: Let's see just how much he picks up...

Awareness 

A motley force it is indeed that has gathered here!  He smells not only the rot-and-mulch of the forest goblins he encountered a week before, but a marshy odour that he knows for that of orcs who have crossed the valley of the great river from the Misty Mountains.  Then there are hints, tantalising flashes of a mephitic reek that he has encountered only once before, in the messenger-goblin who brought tidings from afar to the warband of Kurgak in the Long Marshes.  It is the unmistakeable mark of orcs who have made the long journey north to Wilderland from their holes and fastnesses in Mordor, the dread and awful land of which he has heard but little, and that in fireside tales that served to frighten much more than inform. 

He sees crude and bloody decorations that he knows to be signs of different bands and tribes: here the wing of some great bird nailed to a tree, there a pair of mannish hands, their skin red and rough with dried blood and their sanguine stumps abuzz with flies, dangle from a bough, bound together with what he hopes is twine. 

No simple war party is this, he thinks to himself.  Some greater will has gathered these creatures, and holds them bound to its command. 


:ooc: Tom, you have an option here: push forward to make your presence known to the defenders of Black Tarn Hall, or look around for the orcs' commander.  The first will require either an Athletics roll (to jump the palisade, as before) or an Explore roll to find a gap in the timbers large enough to wriggle through.  The second will call for at least one more Stealth roll. 

 :ooc: the primary mission is for his friends comfort so I'll try for the stronghold. I figure it will be harder getting in than getting back out. So if there is time I will do more recon.

I'll roll explore as it has a better chance if success, and while the LM always rolls better I'll give it a toss to see what tale the story has to tell.

 :csu: ?

:ooc: It is now.  I should commend you, I suppose, for at least thinking about keeping your AP tally up to date. 

Skulking, creeping, darting from one hidden place to the next, Hathcyn seeks a gap in the palisade.  The wan and shifting light of the moon through the mist casts deceptive shadows that now invite his attention, now reveal timbers set flush against one another, or a gap too small to attempt.  Finally, after much darting too and fro, there it is: two timbers knocked askew by some desperate struggle where hasty repairs with hempen rope are now failing, leaving an opening too small for even the gauntest and gangliest of goblins, but just right for a fox! 

Summoning all his speed, he breaks cover and streaks like a falling star across the cleared space before the defences of Black Tarn Hall.  Choosing his moment as carefully as he may, he leaps... and lands in a slightly ungainly tumble within the bounds of the palisade.  The scent of putrefying flesh, already strong in the nearby woods, becomes stronger still, and his nose twitches momentarily toward a small pile of dead orcs, dragged from where they fell and left to rot for want of wood to burn them. 

In the dimness, hidden by darkness from mannish eyes but plain to those of a night-goer, a man plucks something again and again from a protruding leg at the bottom of the pile.  Though he bears a rude helm of iron and leather, and his face is hidden by his prodigious beard, his age is betrayed by his fingers, gnarled and twisted by hard years.   Not long does Hathcyn need to behold him to realise what he does.  How desperate must these folk be, he wonders, to seek maggots begat in orc-meat?

But to this man, he is naught but a creatures of the woodlands.  Arbogast surely is within the hall, and it is there that Hathcyn goes on cunning paws, wriggling under a door with scarcely more difficulty than he passed the outer barrier.  Within, he spies some six score forms, many reclining on improvised pallets or the bare earth floor, their scents heavy with the tang of blood.  A similar scent mixes with the familiar signature of the Fire-watcher, and briefly the spirit-fox fears that some dolorous blow has laid him low.  But no.  Though his eyes are sunken and his limbs slack with fatigue, he holds his wife to him and in the light of the fire is revealed as uninjured, if not wholly hale. 

Focussed as he is on his family, Arbogast does not spot the fox until Hathcyn prods his leg with a paw.  The Fire-watcher starts from his reverie and looks fearfully down before furrowing his brow. 

"I know just such a fox as you, that would be bold enough to enter a hall of Men and molest those it found within.  Hathcyn?" 

Hathcyn, pleased not to require an introduction that is difficult, at best, with a vulpine snout, nods his head. 

"Aha!  Then my messages have been heard!"  Powerful as the look of sheer relief is that comes across the haggard face of the Fire-watcher, the scent of his emotion is even moreso.  "Tell me truly, do you come as the harbinger of a host?" 

Another nod, fox-eyes meeting man-eyes throughout. 

"And you will be..." for a while, Arbogast plainly struggles to calculate the miles and days.  To assist him as much as he might, Hathcyn scratches a crude design into the dirt, suggesting a lamp. 

"Near Balthi's hall!  Then you are not far, not far at all!" 

The Fire-watcher, released from some inner tension, slumps against the side of the sleeping booth, the forces of sleep already conquering him.  "I shall tell them in the morning: my friends approach, and we shall be delivered from our torment.  'Til then, we shall endure.  And afterward, life shall go on..." 


:ooc: Behind the scenes, I've been steadily depleting Arbogast's Hope points as the siege drags on.  After this, I'm going to restore one.  On a personal level, nice going, Tom! 

:ooc: You probably have a bit under an hour before dawn snaps Hathcyn's spirit back to his body.  Anything else you want to do?

 :ooc: sweet! I like it. Since I dont need to worry about making it back I'll try my luck at a better recon of the Orcs.

Hathcyn has enemy-lore Orcs so he'll know what to look for.

Once he is certain that his friend slumbers peacefully, Hathcyn takes his leave and passes once more out into the cool of the early morning.  Already, he feels the tugging of the approaching dawn drawing his spirit back to the confines of his body, and yet there remains an important task yet to do!  He passes by the old sentry without alerting the starving man, and with a gathering and releasing of his small body's might, he is once again without the protection of the settlement and darting into the woods, intent on finding whatever fell being is the lynchpin of the goblin army. 


:ooc: I'm going to be pretty quick about this, because I feel like we've spent long enough on this side mission.  First, He'll need a Search roll:

:ooc: ...Huh.  I can't honestly say that I was expecting that to work. 

Okay, moving on.  If it were anyone else, I'd make them roll Stealth, but being Wary and Swift is a pretty good combination to get that done without a roll. 

:csu:

Like liquid night, he passes from one knot of brawling, singing and entirely unwitting goblins to the next, following the subtle clues that show the power of one band over the other.  Ever closer does he move to the terrible will that binds together the foes of the Men of the Black Tarn, until finally he comes beneath a great oak, its spreading boughs now crawling with forest goblins, beneath which a knot of orcs that the Longspear knows for black Uruks of Mordor, bandy-legged and bulging-armed with skin the colour of blackened iron.  Seven in all, they jostle and bicker beneath a tall and sharpened pole, on to which the head of a long-dead Man has been rammed and bound with wire. 

Though he has not long enough to watch the orcs to reckon which might be the leader, and in any case the answer might be different by the next night, this is clearly the standard to which the goblin host has gathered.  Marking the sight of it, and the orcs who defend it, he allows the rising sun to draw him back to his body and opens his eyes.  Red are they, and aching.

By mid-afternoon the day after Hathcyn's nocturnal wandering, the companions have left the outlying steadings behind and have come within sight of Woodmen-Town.  Where Woodland Hall stands proud and clear above the surrounding trees, Woodmen-Town almost seems to wrap them about itself, such that the transition from the narrow path through the undergrowth to a cleared area where graze a handful of sheep and cattle, to the thorn-topped wall of wood around the town itself seems almost a gradual thing, not a hard line separating the lands of Men from the wild beyond.  For this has been for centuries a home of the Woodmen, and they have shaped it just as it has shaped them. 

Their coming has clearly been announced already by Ingomer's river-borne messengers, for no sooner are they spotted by lookouts than they are ushered, not to the Hall of Balthi, but to the market-tree, where the warriors of the town are already gathering in great numbers.  A hundred, Grimbeorn reckons, are at arms already, and more are expected.  As they draw near, a cheer goes up to greet them.  "Hail new arrivals!  Hail keen eyes and fell hands!" 


:ooc: Over to you guys for anything you want to do.  I would suggest, given Hathcyn's Weariness, that you overnight here, but it's really up to you.  You can give them a stirring speech and push straight on, if that's what you want. 

 :ooc: how far are we from The Tarn? Two more days?

:ooc: You're about six days away from Black Tarn Hall, or eight if you go via Rhosgobel.  So technically I shouldn't let you spirit-fox all the way there.  But he's Swift, and he's a fox not a bear, and it makes a better story this way. 

:ooc: Doug, Matt, feel free to chime in here as well.  I know it's been the Tom-as-Hathcyn show for a few days, but we still love you guys!

Since its already almost evening i think we should stay here. The few remaining hours of daylight may allow the gather force behind us to close the distance.

Hathcyn, spent from the last night's labours, accepts a mead-horn and collapses gratefully before a fire, not to stir therefrom for some considerable time.  Esgalwen and Grimbeorn, known to the kin of Arbogast, are cheered and introduced to a bewildering number of warriors young and old, as well as wives, cousins, elders and children.  Every person in Woodmen-Town who has dreamed of winning glory with axe head and bowstring, it seems, wishes their name to be known to these famous outsiders.  The shieldmaidens, of whom the Woodmen host counts a great number, are especially eager for the recognition of Esgalwen of Gondor, champion of many lands.

As the fires die down, the conversation shifts from the immediate circumstances to what awaits them.  Though the warriors of Woodland Hall have yet to arrive, the Woodmen are not concerned.  Armies necessarily travel slower than small bands, and Munderic, whom the Woodmen know for the Ponderous, is considered hardly a leader who will drive his men tirelessly onward.  "They will be here tomorrow, or the next day," comes the constant refrain. 

Meanwhile, the folk of Woodmen-Town debate whether to bring the Lamp of Balthi with them.  "Its light will shield us," say some, "and guide more of us home than would otherwise return from a battle." 

Others scoff at this thinking.  "The Lamp is far too important to risk in battle," they say, "save that the whole of the Folk is imperiled.  With the warriors days away to the south, its light is needed here to protect the old and the young, who might not defend themselves against the dark things that dwell in the forest." 

Come the dawn, the companions awake well-rested.  Amid the excitement and trepidation of an army readying itself to march, they gather once again the gear of war to their hands. 


:ooc: It sounds like there isn't a lot of extra preparation you guys want to do here, so we'll move things along.  You can involve yourselves in the debate over the Lamp, or not, as it suits you - you'll notice that I left it unresolved.  When you're ready, we'll do the journey thing again as you head to Rhosgobel.  Your outlaw scouts should be waiting for you by the time you arrive. 

EDIT:  Mechanically, a night's rest with friendly company in a safe place clears out all your fatigue, and Hathcyn is no longer Weary. 

:ooc: Sorry, Paul - I am here and keeping up. I just haven't had the time to post.

This post will fall on the night of the Woodmen debating the taking of the Lamp.

---

Worry grew in Esgalwen's heart like a weed that fills a garden. Hathcyn's recount of the conditions of the Tarn had only helped to exacerbate her fears. The fact that the muster was taking so long and even necessary that they must serve as envoys to each settlement struck the Gondorian as odd.

At the table in the Hall of Balthi, she questioned the elders. "We have been marching for days now, from the House of Beorn, since word came to us of the plight of the Black Tarn. First to Ingomer of Woodland Hall and now here, only to move on with the new day to Rhosgobel in hopes that we can persuade them, too, for help.

"It makes me wonder the purpose of the Folk-moot that most of us here attended, per Ingomer Axebreaker's call,  those years past. Was it not agreed upon to unify the Woodmen of the Vale for mutual protection? Why must we plea with each other for assistance?" She munched thoughtfully on a the piece of bread in her hand. "In Gondor, we created an alliance with your folk that lived within the northern vale, under Eol. He rode to Gondor's defense and so was rewarded with the lands of Calenardhon, which is now called Rohan. That alliance has always remained strong between our folk."

A few voices rose in murmur of that story and how Eol and his people won great renown. Esgalwen continued when the additions to her tale faded, "In the south, we have fashioned a series of beacon towers that run along the length of the northern highlands of the White Mountains. These towers are in place to serve both the King in Rohan and the Steward in Gondor, to call for aid of the other in times of need. Perhaps such a thing would help the Men of the Vale? Perhaps a series of towers could be built along the eaves of Mirkwood from Amon Bauglir to Rhosgobel, to the lands of Beorn north and Mountain Hall in the west, as a means of sending word for aid?"

Fridwald, old in his years answered, "And who would build such towers, Lady? And who would man them?" His tone was not scornful, but matter-of-fact. Esgalwen simply shrugged, "Like the opening of the road to the north, it would be upon you all to make such things happen and a watch force created. In Ithilien, I am part of the same -a group of Rangers that keep eye on the fences of the Black Land. Each town would build their towers and provide the folk to keep watch. It would be good for all! The resources are easily available with the sea of trees on your doorstep."

The wizened elder looked at the Gondorian and nodded. "It is something to consider. It would have given Amaleoda and her folk a way to send word to us all."

It was then that the conversation turned to the Lamp of Balthi - the question was whether it should be taken south in this endeavour.

:ooc: I hear you, Doug - I've had a post in the back of my mind all day.  It's now a quarter past five and I've only just got the chance to put fingers to keys.  Expect something tomorrow morning, hopefully.

Grimbeorn gnashes and gnaws at the slow pace of everything while his friend people whither away without aid and it spills over.  "Bring the Lamp or don't, in and of itself will not guarantee victory or protection, but that which you provide yourselves.  But know this, that Lamp at the head of a vanguard would strike fear in the foe and embolden the faintest of hearts where it shines.  The goblins will come to fear it more and pay you more heed in the future lest they think of such a brash venture.  Let this debate be done and we mount to rescue your kin!"

 :ooc:
 :00:

The following morning, cheers and well-wishes speed the Fellowship of the Helm on its way, though perhaps not so many as accompanied their arrival, and they venture once again beneath the boughs.  Grimbeorn's determination to press south as quickly as possible is infectious, and the three keep up a steady march through the winding trails of Mirkwood's eaves despite the protestations of the horses. 


:ooc: Travel rolls (TN 16) for this leg (bonus dice from the outset (https://rpg.avioc.org/boards/index.php?msg=32750) of the journey still apply):

Esgalwen[size]

:00: 1d12 : 6, total 6
Rolled 3d6 : 4, 4, 2, total 10

Grimbeorn[size]

:00: 1d12 : 10, total 10
Rolled 4d6 : 6, 6, 4, 3, total 19

Hathcyn[size]

:00: 1d12 : 6, total 6
Rolled 3d6 : 5, 1, 4, total 10

:ooc: As expected, nobody had much trouble with that - especially Grimbeorn, who's absolutely crushing it.  :csu:

:ooc: Nobody rolled a :~~: but story reasons call for a challenge for Esgalwen, as the company's lookout:

Awareness (TN 16)

:ooc: Ayup, she's aware as fuck.