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

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

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. 

'Tomorrow morning' is a fungible sort of time, right guys?  It can totally mean 'up to two days later'. 

EDIT: It's now going to be three, because goddammit, work.

  we posted at the same time.

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

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

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)?