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All summer long, the honeybees have droned their soporific way hither and yon over the flower-fields of Beorn's lands.  Now, as September buries August, thoughts turn to the harvest and to reaping the fruits of long labours.  Those who took up axes to reclaim the Dwarf-road from the forest are returning, in twos and threes, to their kin and their hearths, their purses heavy with silver. 

The talk that awaits them is of Wilderland's mixed fortunes.  After a summer without the looming shadow of the Werewolf of Mirkwood, warg attacks have become rare, and the sheep and swine of the Northmen have flourished.  Meat and wool will be plentiful. 

Wine, though, will not.  Rumours have spread like wild-fire in Lake-Town of a poor grape harvest in Dorwinion caused, no doubt, by the hard and cold winter.  Another such, the merchants and sailors mutter, and the kings of the north will need men to venture into the south lands to fill their cups. 

Here in the house of Beorn, however, it seems there is mead to serve to all of Middle-Earth, for the bounty of Beorn's hives has been supplemented by the offerings of his thegns, many of whom compete to match the generosity of their host.  Proud Æthelwold Red-Eyes, Ingelram of the Leap, Walcaud Shield-Gnawer and others raise high their mead-horns and voices alike, and the feast spreads out beyond the hall and into the pastures and gardens beyond.  Nowhere within the hedges is without the sound of music and singing. 

Yet even here, the mood is not all of celebration.  Some whisper in shadowed corners that the halfling's hall to the north has been burned, and all within either taken or slain.  The Viglundings, all assume, are to blame. 

At the high table sits Beorn, plainly dressed as ever but indisputably the master of the proceedings.  Magnificent his tables and open his hand, a great chieftain is he!  At his right, now two-and-twenty, lo!  There is Grimbeorn his son, full his beard and fell his hand, his father's heir indeed! 

See upon a bench Esgalwen, shield-maiden of far Gondor, in animated conversation with a traveller from the Riddermark.  Nearby, merry Tate leads the crowd in a wood-cutting song of the Woodmen that he has brought from the work on the road. 

In the meadow beyond the hall, young folk drink and dance.  Many among them have heard of the exploits of the son of Beorn and seek to emulate (or even accompany!) such a hero. 

Of the companions of Grimbeorn, only Arbogast is not present.  The Fire-watcher left the road to bring his family back to their home by the Black Tarn, and despite his promises he has not reappeared. 

Amidst the revelry, the Skinchanger leans toward his son.  "I'm going away for a while.  I don't expect to be back before the first snow falls.  And before you say anything, no, you're not to come with me.  You'll be in charge here until I come back, assuming I do.  One of these days, I'll be gone for good and they need to know that you can lead them in war and speak the law in peace.  It's time to give them a good look at you and let them judge what you're made of."

The time away from his homeland has served the heir of Beorn well for it has given him perspective, won his people friendship from without the lands and new trade as well, but mostly experience that few beyond his father has accomplished.  News of the deeds of he and his companions has spread and notice has come from the Woodland Realm to the fiefs of the Wood-men in the mid-vales.  What started with his father's aid of the Dwarf companions and appearance at the great battle to reclaim Erebor has now brought fame, some fortune, but now envy and suspicion from the world without.  No longer are he and his father's line able to go as openly as they once did in these parts.

Grimbeorn had returned now actually more eager than before to stay for the encounter of Shadow-beast had taken more from him than any task.  He felt more than just homesick but an ache or yearning that welled from deep within.  His father saw and felt it in him before even his son was close enough to embrace.  Days the young man slept after his first appearance at his father's hall and when he awoke, some relief he felt but not complete.  That eve after a meal of honeycomb and fresh bread, his father beckoned him to follow and they slipped out into the moonless night.  The face of man was shed and their true nature was revealed.  That night the stars were danced to by the bears upon the Carrock and for rest of the moonless nights.  Grimbeorn now felt whole again.

---

"Actually, father, I wasn't going to ask.  With my companions, great and fell deeds have been done to right evils of the past and protect our peoples.  Now I need to be here and you know it.  But may I inquire to your errand?  This sounds secretive, even for you."

"As it should!  It's my secret, and I'll keep it for now.  The time may come when it's your turn to know about it, but not yet.  Not while you've more important things to do here."  Beorn rises from his seat, causing a brief hush as heads turn toward the high table in expectation of a speech.  But he waves them away and the conversation resumes where it was left.  Beneath the raucous noise, he says, simply "I'll fill my belly and empty my bladder, and then I'll be off.  Make sure the trials for the moon sickle are fair.  And don't bother the bees."  With that, he stomps out of the hall into the private quarters. 

As he does so, the light of the torches by the door reflects from a steel helm inlaid with gold, and the familiar face of Rorin enters the hall, passing a furred cloak to an attendant with brightly-bejewelled hands.  Esgalwen, sitting nearby, hears the end of his conversation with someone outside, "... of course, and sterling work too!  The road is now clear of trees from end to end.  But we have grander things in mind than some Elf-track, and there are none in any land that could match Durin's folk in the laying of stones!  Now, where is the master of this house?  Erebor would pay his respects!" 

Closer to the high table, Grimbeorn's ears catch the whispers of several thegns gathered beneath one of the great pillars.  He recognises Claudas Bare-legs by the kilt he wears, but flickering fire-light obscures the rest.  Between the end of one song and the start of the next, he hears Claudas speak.  "It's not right.  They were fools, but those small folk were under his protection, whether or not they knew it.  The old bear is getting lazy, I think..."


:ooc: Alright, the floor is open.  Let's hear what everyone's doing, and with whom.  Tom, Hathcyn can be anywhere you like. 

 :ooc: I will get my post up tomorrow, Paul.

The wandering minstrel from Esgaroth laughed together with Beorn's people as they finished up another chorus. Lifting high his flagon, he called out, "I'd say you lot keep sounding all the more better the deeper we get into this barrel, aye?!" Laughter erupted. "To song and mead and our host's honeybees!" Cheers went up for Beorn before the group all took long pulls from their cups.

"Now who's got a song they can teach me?"

Even as the group of Beorning argued briefly about what song to sing, Tate noted the exchange between Beorn and his son, along with the arrival of one of Durin's folk.

Esgalwen listened intently to Framgar, son of Framdul, as he spoke of the Wold. She was only vaguely familiar with the territory, but its proximity to Gondor and Minas Tirith had her complete attention.

"Thrice now our herds have shown good season, but higher each year is the King's demand. We can only assume our new king's need is due to the increase in outlaws along the Limlight, which then requires an increase in the strength of the Éored that protects our lands. T'is an ever going struggle."

"It is a hard tithing to be sure, but certainly it is the better for all of Rohan?"

"Yes, it is better...but long do I for the easier days."

Esgalwen made light with a joke, "Have there ever been easier days?"

"Ha ha ha...perhaps, not dear Lady! Perhaps not." The Rohirrim's guffaw was almost singly as loud as the Beornings around Tate.

Esgalwen suddenly noticed Rorin enter the hall and she quietly pardoned herself from Framgar's company. The Dwarf's smile went broad across his face at the sight of the woman, "Esgalwen! Lor, but it's been a long while!"

"Gracious, my dear Rorin," replied the Ranger with a happy smile of her own. "I believe your beard has grown longer and looks as if you need wrap your waist with it, so as not to trip!"

Rorin cut loose a loud laugh and then gave Esgalwen a kind, if not aggressive hug.

"When the other lads of our Company of the Helm showed up to aid us with the road, I thought for certain I would see your fair face among their ugly mugs. I was sad to see you were not with them...and truly I feared for a moment that something had come of you. Arbogast quickly dismissed such ill possibilities, but he himself knew little of your doings. Where have you been, Lady of Gondor?"

Esgalwen quickly began to tell the master-smith of her work in Dale and representing Ecthelion of Gondor to the North. She spoke of how in the King's service, she went to Erebor, Thranduil's realm once more, and even east to Dorwinion.

"It was a very busy year for me. But certainly no more busy...if not even a bit easier, than the undertaking by you and my fellows."

"Erebor! Garn if I hadn't heard that! If I had, I would have seen to it that you were given good reception and your stay a memorable one."

"Do not worry, Rorin. King Dain was very receptive to my presence and he was quite the host. So tell me, what goes on with your road?"

"There is much to tell, my Lady, but first I must see to addressing the Master of this House. We shall talk shortly, yes?"

"Of course, Rorin! It is a wonderful to see you, once more!"

"Aye, and you, too, Esgalwen."

Rorin strode away towards the small dais where sat the Beorning father and son. The ranger went once more to fill her mead cup and then looked around to see if any of her friends were available. She only saw Framgar and decided she would not leave the Rohirrim to himself, with no good friends to speak to, on this festive night.

Hathcyn Longspear too had spent his time on the Dwarf road. A season working there for the dwarves was becoming a rite of passage and a shared experience for many men in the Anduin vales. As a result of the shared labor the networks of friendship and connection had grown beyond the bounds of accustomed valleys and hills of youth. In some ways this was a strength, as the boundary lines between strangers and outsiders was widened. In others it meant that the authority of the thegns and their access to a wider world was less unique and therefore their position was threatened. The evidence was even here in the Hall of Beorn. Common men like Hathcyn tipped glasses and sang songs with richer men. While these distinctions of class were less strict among the confederacy of folks that had come to recognize Beorn as lord the threat to their traditional power by these new men was real. Not all looked kindly on the presence of such men so near the levers of power and not all smiles were genuine.

"Come master bard! You have collected enough of our songs!" Called the tall man to the bard Tate.

"These are well known to us and oft times repeated. Sing something about dark haired Dorwinion women who smell like the spices of Rhosgobel!"

Hathcyn pounded the table with his hand and took a moment to fill his mouth with salted fish and more mead. His hands calloused from a spring and summer of hewing rock and tree for the road. He quickly saw the dwarf enter the hall.

"What's this!? The road wardens second! The font of coin and work, the despoiler of tree, root, and spider.  All hail Rorin the Roadmaker!"

The man raised his horn and took a drink, rivulets of it over flowing the rim and mouth alike to trickle down his beard. Then raised it high again.

"All hail Durin's Folk! All Hail the road Warden and his overseer! Great is their skill and welcome more is honest coin for honest work!"

There was but a moments pause and he launched into one of the axe songs of the road. Those who knew the labor also knew the song and many scattered voices within and without the hall took up the chorus. Other men, richer men, or greater men who knew not the toil of the road, its camaraderie, or its songs frowned in their cups while the men sang. Even in joy there were the seeds of discord.

Quote from: Telcontar on Jan 29, 2018, 10:22 AMAll hail Rorin the Roadmaker!"

...

Even in joy there were the seeds of discord.

:ooc: Brilliant stuff.  Keep it coming.

The Workman's Axe Song (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YCnYsy7B40o)

:ooc: That's cool!  I can't wait for him to record Live at the Dungeons of Dol Guldur!

Before Hathcyn's song can end, from his bench rises Wulfdan Broken-jaw, mead-addled and wrathful, young son of an old thegn.  Before Hathcyn he casts his horn, Beorn's mead spilling on the rushes.  "ENOUGH," he cries, voice rising above the din.  "I'll not share bread and drink with kin-slaying filth!  You are not wanted here!" 

All is suddenly silent, and the eyes of every guest turn first to the confrontation, and then to the high table.  Almost immediately, murmuring begins as Beorn's absence is finally noticed. 


:ooc: A quick awareness roll...

DC 14 Awareness 3

Before the hush descends completely, Grimbeorn is sure he hears someone in the knot of thegns say "... something needs to be done." 

Hathcyn stops as struck by a blow, but he is not silenced fo long.

"If your face matched your name there would be no cause for complaint then. Shall I remedy that for you?"

The silent eyes looked on to the board of Beorn and found naught whom they expected.  The mead-addled eyes of the young ruffian too big for his britches and not good enough for the drink of his father's bees saw challenge reflected from those of Grimbeorn.  The heir of Beorn stood, horn in hand.  "Wulfdan, I suggest you take a lesson in what I do next."  In no time had the full horn been emptied down his throat, not a drop missed.  Wiping his mouth to sleeve, he continued.  "You'd do well to remember that that is the proper and true use of the mead of Beorn in his home and anywhere else it is served."  A raucous laughter came from all around as Grimbeorn strode in short time to thegn's son and Hathcyn.  "Shall we leave the insults to field of battle for you well know that ill words spoken against man's guest is made against that man."

But before the inebriated mind could respond, Grimbeorn turned from the two and embraced the newly arrived Rorin.  "My father and I greet you, friend, for it has been far too long.  A horn for this honored guest, the road or maybe just the distance from pony to doorstep find you looking thirsty."  Before joining is companions of the road and travail in revelry, he announces, "The Contest of Speech shall begin when those who wish to participate have finished this cask of mead."  Leaning down conspiratorially to his Dwarf friend, "I hate this part as much as father."

There was much clamor to the fore by those wish to win his father's sickle.  The cask itself was nigh as big as the heir, there will be plenty of time to talk with his companions before the slurred, messy oratories begin.

Hathcyn Longspear lifted his mug and toasted the son of Beorn then filled it again. A smile was in his face but the eyes that fell upon Wulfdan contained no mirth.

"Harhold, where were we friend of the road?"

"Root hog or die!"

Quote from: Telcontar on Jan 29, 2018, 10:22 AM"Come master bard! You have collected enough of our songs!" Called the tall man to the bard Tate. "These are well known to us and oft times repeated. Sing something about dark haired Dorwinion women who smell like the spices of Rhosgobel!"

Hathcyn pounded the table with his hand and took a moment to fill his mouth with salted fish and more mead.

"Ah!" Tate cried out in false astonishment at Hathcyn's words (for the women of Dorwinion were quite lovely). "Why would we sing, man, of Dorwinion weeds, when everyone knows that the finest flowers grow 'round Beorn's bees?"

Laughter broke out around, but was cut short by Hathcyn's loud introduction of Rorin.

Quote from: Telcontar on Jan 29, 2018, 10:22 AM"What's this!? The road wardens second! The font of coin and work, the despoiler of tree, root, and spider.  All hail Rorin the Roadmaker!"

As Grimbeorn turns to Rorin, the assembled guests noticeably relax, seeing that violence is no longer imminent.  Moments later, the hall once again rings with loud conversation and music, and the cask indicated by the host begins to be enthusiastically drained.  Nor does Rorin abstain, taking up a large drinking horn, tipped in brass and finely carved, that hangs from his belt and filling it with evident glee.  "By the stony road," he proclaims, "but reunions are thirsty work!"  

With waves to Tate and Hathcyn, among others, as he passes them, the Dwarf accompanies Grimbeorn.  "Bofri sent me," he explains, "after we received reports of trouble by the western edge of the forest.  Some of our distant kinfolk (from the Grey Mountains, originally, and now residing in the vales) were waylaid on their way back home from beginning the paving work.  If the report is to be believed, the assailants fled north with several captives.  We sent some of your people in our employ to search the area, of course, but they didn't find any sign of an outlaw camp."  

He drinks deeply and wipes his beard before continuing.  "When I heard that, I immediately thought of the vile folk we came across last May.  They may not be trading their captives for orcish coin any more, but it seems that your northern neighbours haven't stopped taking innocent folk as their thralls.  Depending on how far they've taken them, there may yet be time to organise a raid in force to free them before your folk have to turn to the harvest.  At the very least, I came to petition your father for some more warriors to guard the western end of the Road.  Tell me, is he about?"  


:ooc: Take an AP in the Custom track for settling the confrontation without violence.  Mark off another one in Perception for the successful Awareness roll earlier, as well.  

 :ooc: Who did you mean for the APs to go to?

"We, too, have heard similar tales about still," sighs the big man.  "I am sorry about your folk.  As for my father... it seems as though you are in search of me actually.  He has taken leave to do as he is wont and left me to address matters, like this festival and petty bickerings of thegns.  It seems as though no matter the good we do about these lands, there is still more evil to combat."

:ooc: The APs were for you.  Now that I have access to your character sheet, I've marked them on there. 

"Would that your words were untrue," Rorin sighs.  "But still, when there is such work to be done, I would have none other than my boon companions at my side to do it!"  His smile fading, he adds "well then, if your father's not here, then I'll make the same request of you.  Think it over, and see if you can have an answer for me tomorrow morning.  It's a serious business if the road is preyed on by bandits and slavers before it's even complete, and King Dain is of no mind to send his own warriors so far from his kingdom's borders, with orcs once more massing in the mountains." 

Meanwhile, word of the commencement of the contests has spread from the hall and into the grounds, and men of lesser rank and fame have come trooping through the doors with empty cups and an expectation of entertainment from the best speakers among their folk and beyond.  Soon, the mead-cask is drained and those who would compete for the sickle begin to make their way to the porch, where a crowd is gathered in the light of bonfires to hear the speeches.  Before Grimbeorn can even announce the official beginning of the contest, young Harhold (who bears yet no byname) strides brashly forward.  "Gathered we are by the light of the smoke-fathers, beneath a silver-strewn sky," he begins, each of his kennings being greeted with a chorus of applause or jeers. 


:ooc: Okay, some quick rules mechanics.  The contest is not limited to Beornings, so anyone who wants to take part can do so.  The contest is based around kennings and euphemism, the more elaborate the better, so it's based around Courtesy.  Those who want to compete will need to make three rolls, against TN 14, 16 and 18.  Anyone who beats all three will find themselves one of the final contestants. 

Obviously, there's plenty of other people to interact with while all this is going on, so feel free to seek out notable people (or each other) to speak to/seduce/beg for favours/whatever. 

Esgalwen watched from the side of the ring of tables and benches, sitting near the Rohirrim.

Men, she thought, no matter where they come from - either here in these simple houses or the high halls of Gondor, they are always blustering braggarts.

There were many men in the House of Beorn now and the mead had run its course, and so blood was high. She thought it better that she remain where she was and let them have their fun. She only hoped that as many as possible would leave the room tonight with all teeth intact.

---

:ooc: Speaking of the Rohirrim - I am sorry, Paul. Above I took the narrative license to name him and make him a shepherd from the northern Wold. You might have had other plans for him, so feel to retcon my post if you need to.

Grimbeorn half-listened to the prose of man after man giving thought to Rorin's words.  While a particularly large and over-indulged contestant is hauled away after falling over his feet let alone words, Grimbeorn leans in to the Dwarf, "Aye, you will have aid from me, my people will aid as they so desire; only with attack or war imminent may I take direct command.  I will make a call for aid when this chicanery is through.  Regardless, those who assail others in my realm, irrespective of race, have forfeited much, if not their lives.  We shall see to that."

Rorin nods appreciatively.  "I have some authority to speak on behalf of the King Under the Mountain to the people west of the wood.  And I say to you that Erebor will not forget your friendship." 

Quote from: tomcat on Jan 31, 2018, 04:20 PM:ooc: Speaking of the Rohirrim - I am sorry, Paul. Above I took the narrative license to name him and make him a shepherd from the northern Wold. You might have had other plans for him, so feel to retcon my post if you need to.

:ooc: I've been doing that to you since the campaign got started! 

:ooc: I'm going to wait a bit to see whether Hathcyn or Tate want to join in the festivities before I move the story on. 

 :ooc: i would need three  :~~:  to get anywhere, so no. Hathcyn while presenting a facade of bravura is actually unsure of his place and how to resond to the challenge he faced.

His oration at an end, Harhold leaves the impromptu stage to polite applause and finds a seat near Hathcyn.  "I think that I managed to get through that without bringing shame on my fam..." he says, before favouring his friend with an awkward glance.  "Sorry.  I meant no offence." 

He sits in uncomfortable silence while others take their turn upon the host's porch.  When it becomes clear that Gelvira Chalk-cutter will win this year, as she did last year and the year before, he points out the conversation between Grimbeorn and Rorin.  "What do you suppose they speak of," he asks.  "It is late in the year for more talk of work on the road.  Perhaps there is some secret doing afoot between them!  Did they not venture together to dangerous places in search of glory and treasure?  And no mean treasure did they find, if there be any truth to what I have heard!" 

He thumps Hathcyn on the shoulder (harder, perhaps, than he really means to).  "You should go with them!  What a way to restore your good name!  No, I am mistaken.  We should go with them!"


:ooc: Thanks for the reminder!

Thump! went the last contestant, Old Harl, falling over before he could get a word out of his mouth.  Laughter all around including from the heir, he has yet to say one word in this contest in all the years his father has held it.  "So ends this contest with the usual tradition.  I have no doubt we all know who won this again... Gelvira! Men, beware the woman who can drink you under the table and still outwit the lot of you sober.  Now that you've had a bit of time to sober up or not," he says looking on to the form of Old Harl being drug off to his chair, "it is time for the next event, the Contest of the Eagle -- which of you has the keenest, the quickest eye."

 :ooc: How much of the contests do you want to RP, how long will they take, and how much of the day is left?

Hathcyn slapped his companion on the shoulder.

"Truly! We should offer our help to our host if for his excellent drink if nothing else."

 :ooc: paul, can you list the events and applicable skills for them so that I can make a better informed decision.

 :ooc: No!!! Late to the party it seems. Sorry, I wasn't able to post last night. Tate would have taken part. If there's still time, here's Tate's rolls; otherwise, please disregard.

Round 1 - TN 14



Round 2 - TN 16



Round 3 - TN 18

 :ooc: Haha! Success! I'm willing to let it stand that the Beorning woman bests Tate. I have a sneaky suspicion our GM has a practiced knack with kennings. Poor Tate would be put to shame...  :-[

"Wait!" comes the call from the back of the crowd, where Tate wrestles a last chunk of sausage into his mouth.  "I mean, that was certainly a good speech, but I feel that we, one and all, under-appreciate our host: Grimbeorn, son of Beorn, mead-bearded ring-giver who for our sakes gave blade-tribute unto the Beast of Mirkwood!"  On the porch, Grimbeorn rolls his eyes, not even attempting to hide his irritation, while Rorin laughs uproariously.  Even Esgalwen finds that she cannot entirely suppress a smile at the brazen nature of the Lake-man's interruption. 

Tate's oration is a fine one indeed, and it draws a huge cheer from the crowd.  Before the applause has time to die down, though, Gelvira once more strides up to the porch, her eyes blazing with enjoyment at the unexpected (and unaccustomed) challenge.  "Hail indeed, claw's-hand, master of the mead-mothers!" 


:ooc: No need to RP this (as much fun as that would be) - we'll just do a quick roll-off.  Rules as per the core book - both sides are looking to beat the basic TN (14), and accumulate the most  :%: -es, with ties broken by comparing the Feat Die result. 

Gelvira: Courtesy 4

Quote from: Telcontar on Feb 01, 2018, 09:01 AM:ooc: paul, can you list the events and applicable skills for them so that I can make a better informed decision.

:ooc: There are seven contests held as part of the current festival:
- an oratory competition to find those most orate of speech
- games of thimblerig (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shell_game) to find the quickest of eye (Awareness)
- a foot-race run through a muddy obstacle course, during which contestants must keep a torch alight (Athletics)
- a field seeded with small baubles, in which contestants seek stones engraved with the word 'moon' (Search)
- an all-comers riddle contest (Riddle)
- a contest of lays and song, and (Song)
- a contest to stare down a bull (a mean best named Gnornung) and back him into his pen.  This is seldom won by any but the bull.  (Awe)

The oratory competition usually happens on the first night, with the rest following over the next day, sometimes two.  Grimbeorn has advanced the schedule a little, but nobody's complaining - the festivities will carry on for a while before everyone passes out. 

Beorn chooses one of the seven winners to receive the sickle.  He doesn't usually give a reason for his choice. 

EDIT: Any wishing to join in the thimble-rig games may do so.  In case it needs saying, hold off on any further rolls until the contests are announced.

 :ooc: Thanks Paul!

[/Final Round = TN 14b]

Rolled 1d12 : 3, total 3

Rolled 3d6 : 2, 3, 4, total 9

 :ooc: Damn you, dice gods! Why now?!

Looks like Gelvira wins handily.


Tate winked at the Beorning woman,  "Many spoken-penance to you, oh sense-pleasing High-Truth, post-holder of word-ambiguities."

...Silence... as the words fell flat...


 :ooc: Is this the spot where I can spend a point of hope and use Tate's cultural blessing to gain 1 XP?

And do I get to score an AP in the Custom's line for the original three Courtesy checks?

 :ooc: Are characters allowed to participate in multiple contests? If yes. Tate is to participate in:

- games of thimblerig to find the quickest of eye (Awareness)
- a field seeded with small baubles, in which contestants seek stones engraved with the word 'moon' (Search)
- a contest of lays and song, and (Song)

Also... I just noted that you already added two advancement points for Tate's interruption. Thanks!

 :ooc: though i am low man on the totem pole with skills I'll try awe and awareness. Like the greek funeral games even in failure there is often fame.

:ooc: Characters are absolutely allowed to participate in more than one contest. 

Quote from: Posterboy on Feb 01, 2018, 08:51 PM:ooc:Is this the spot where I can spend a point of hope and use Tate's cultural blessing to gain 1 XP?

Not this time - the consequences aren't serious enough. 

There is a peal of good-hearted laughter at the young man's stumbling finish, which redoubles as Grimbeorn ends the contest with the words "As I was saying..." 

In the courtyard, the games of thimblerig begin in earnest, the challenge all the greater for the flickering firelight, and the mead that has been consumed throughout the night.  Many, not fancying their chances, begin either to make their way to guest quarters or to bed down near a bonfire, according to their station. 

"Come Harhold! If we are to sleep another night in a field let us muck about in it first. Here is a challenge where I may acquit ourselves well enough or at least be given chance to offer our services to Grimbeorn. The ring giver is not here, but the son is."

Hathcyn Longspear filled his tankard anew and headed to the challenge field.

As the crowd moved towards the next game, Tate made sure he past by Esgalwen. He gave her a wide smile, "Tough bunch tonight! Should have kept my yap shut."

Continuing with the crowd heading out, he said, "Come on! Let's test our skill this next one!"

:ooc: Okay, roll dem bones! 

Esgalwen returned Tate's smile, "Oh, I don't know. I think they rather enjoyed watching you trip over your tongue! But you can always leave it to a woman to win an argument...or a kenning, as the situation may be."

She lifted her own cup and followed him out into the courtyard.

She knew the game that was before her, seeing it often on the streets of Minas Tirith. Cups, dice, cards...chance. It was always a draw.

"Yes," she said to Tate. "This I will participate in."

---

:ooc: Thimble-rig Awareness roll...use the results as you want, Paul.

TN ?? Awareness 2d

Quote from: Telcontar on Feb 02, 2018, 02:18 AM:ooc: though i am low man on the totem pole with skills I'll try awe and awareness. Like the greek funeral games even in failure there is often fame.

:ooc: interesting...a brand new character?

:ooc: Sorry, Doug.  The TNs will be the same for each contest - 14, 16 and 18.  It's an elimination system, so you need to pass each in sequence.  You're good for the first one, so carry on (and take an AP out of petty cash). 

 :ooc: Here's Tate's rolls:

Awareness = TN14



Awareness = TN16



Awareness = TN18

:ooc: Wow, Tate's coming in with a wet sail!  I'll hold off until everyone else who wants to has rolled, but feel free to give a bit of narration (and take 2 AP). 

 :ooc: Can you give a small description of how thimblerig is played here? Are there a whole bunch of tables with lots of sleight of hand artists moving peas under thimbles?

:ooc: That's precisely what I had in mind.  The boards start pretty low to the ground, but as the rounds progress they're lifted up on to trestles so that the growing audience can get a good view.  The final round will be played up on the porch, in easy view of Grimbeorn and the assembled thegns.  There's no history of cheating (at least, at this festival), but you can't be too careful. 

 :ooc:

Esgalwen's other rolls

TN 16 awareness 2d

Esgalwen laughs as she discovers the cup hiding the acorn, but then marvels at the game-man's sleight of hand. With each consecutive tipping of a cup, and seeing nothing underneath, the ranger applauds her adversary but steps away with her elimination from the contest.

She looks at Tate, "They are good. Choose carefully."

Something in the rogue's eyes told her that he would not be settling with the same results.

 :ooc: I'm hoping to have some narrative up later tonight... I had something written but got logged out prior to posting and then lost the post.  :'(

 :ooc: yes, Paul had me use the generational rules which netted me only 10 extra XP to
Make a guy. I forgot how far we had come!

Awareness tn 14



TN16



TN18

:ooc: That's a fine showing from young Hathcyn. 

I thought that using the generational rules would help with the power escalation problem that you've mentioned, Doug.  It does introduce the problem of how to balance challenges for experienced and new characters, but I think that'll be alright as long as everyone gets equal time in the spotlight. 

Quote from: tomcat on Feb 03, 2018, 04:45 AMEsgalwen laughs as she discovers the cup hiding the acorn...

Tate had listened carefully as Esgalwen played the first round. Even over the din of the crowd, the minstrel's ears could distinguish the sound of each of the individual cups as they slide across the wood table. He watched as the game-man finished his moves and the ranger from the south guessed correctly.

"Nicely done, m'Lady," Tate clapped her on the back. "Move over, move over, now... my turn." He looked the game-man briefly in the eye and nodded, "I'm ready," as the man dropped the center cup over the acorn.

As the game-man began to shift the cups around, Tate locked eyes with his friend – oi! A man could lose himself in your eyes! He thought. With a broad smile, he quipped, "Did I ever tell you that this is my favourite game?"

The game-man stopped shifting the cups, and Tate without looking away from Esgalwen, put his finger on the cup hiding the acorn. Tate gave the ranger a shrug as if to answer her unspoken how'd you do that? question.

With a wink, Tate got up. "Let's try the next table."

The next table was slightly higher. An odd height, Tate noted. Too tall to sit at, but to stand gave the contestant an odd angle to examine the action.

Again, Tate's companion went first. Tate carefully watched the game-man slide the cups around and, at one moment, was pretty sure the man palmed the nut before deftly placing it under a different cup. Whether Esgalwen saw the move or not, Tate couldn't say as she chose the third cup and found it empty.

The woman looked at Tate, "They are good. Choose carefully." Tate stood before the table, looking at the game-man intently as he answered Esgalwen, "I seen that." To the man, he simply said, "I'm ready."

The game-man returned Tate's look and started to mix the cups around. Sure enough, Tate caught the man shifting the nut around between cups, even as he was moving the cups. Not bad, Tate noted as the action slowed down. Hovering over the middle one, the minstrel commented, "This is where you want me to think it is." Moving his hand over the right-side one, Tate locked eyes with the game-man and grinned, "And this is where the nut should be." Finally, Tate moved his hand to tap the left-hand one, narrowing his eyes as he chided the man, "And here's where you misplaced it."

Moving to the final round, Tate stood next to a table the height of a tavern's counter. Once more, he locked eyes with his opponent, an elder Beorning with a glint in his eye. Tate grinned back, "A worthy opponent, I see. Well, then, play on. I'm ready."

The elder man placed the middle cup over the acorn and then quickly, with a speed and deftness that seemed to blur the cups, seemed not possible for a man his age, he slid the cups expertly and smoothly around. Still, Tate was able to follow the pattern and, when the game-man stopped, the minstrel smiled broadly, "That was beautiful to behold, good sir. Such excellent handling of cups. However..." Tate's eyes moved to the cups before him. "I believe the nut is back where it started." He placed his finger on the middle acorn and was rewarded with the nut.

Tate moved up to join the final competitors. "Wish me luck!" He called out to Esgalwen.

 :ooc: Here's the roll for the final round... I'll be booked for most of today..

[/Awareness Roll = TN ??b]

Rolled 1d12 : 6, total 6

Rolled 4d6 : 3, 5, 3, 6, total 17

 :ooc: If needed, I'll invoke Tate's Burglary specialty. Tate's practice at sleight of hand helps him to spot the tells of others.

Tate is clearly the favourite of the crowd as he moves to the porch where, before the son of Beorn and the assembled thegns, he competes with Ethal the Unkind to be the first to correctly identify the cup hiding the pea.  The young man watches the cups move with bewildering speed and deceptive motions, conscious of the Beorning standing, hawk-ready, to pounce upon the cups as soon as they lie still... 


:ooc: Ethal's roll:

Awareness 3

... which he does, lunging forwards as if trying to block the path of the man of Esgaroth to the table.  But Tate, watching his competitor as closely as he does the cups, is the quicker by the space of a breath, and extends a lightning-fast finger to identify the correct cup.  The crowd, unable to easily see the contest, seem to hold their collective breath - Ethal is clearly not a popular man - and look as one to Grimbeorn for his pronouncement.


:ooc: Nice rolling!  Everyone who competed gets AP as per usual.  Tate gets his third Perception AP for a great success coupled with a Trait. 

 :ooc: Sweet!

Tate looks around the crowd as the pronouncement is made, his face merry and bright, fist pumping the air as he let out a cheer. Looking back to Ethal, Tate extended his hand to Beorning, "You, good sir, were an excellent opponent. Were we to compete again next year, I have no confidence I would be victorious."

 :ooc: Courtesy Roll if needed to make things go smooth...

Courtesy Roll

 :ooc: I'll invoke Tate's Merry distinctive feature if needed. Tate's jovial smile and infectious laugh puts Ethal at ease and helps the Beorning put the contest into perspective.

Hathcyn blury with the mead of Beorn sets his mind to guage the location of the nut. His focus was rewarded with a few early wins, but he is soon swept aside by the better men at the table. The Longspear laughed and drifted to the side of the crowd.

 :ooc: paul, are you marking the APs or are we?

:ooc: I started out marking APs, but I've given up due to time constraints.  Mark away, boys. 

:ooc: I'm leaving things open for a bit in case anyone (especially Matt) has more RP they want to add.  If I don't see any activity by later tonight, I'll move the plot along. 

Grimbeorn's laugh and booming voice is as infectious and effective as his father's.  "It seems the man of the Lake has bested my folk this day.  This trial goes to Tate!  Pray lake-man tell what would you do with the sickle if it were bestowed upon you?"

Quote from: GandalfOfBorg on Feb 04, 2018, 04:38 PMGrimbeorn's laugh and booming voice is as infectious and effective as his father's.  "It seems the man of the Lake has bested my folk this day.  This trial goes to Tate!  Pray lake-man tell what would you do with the sickle if it were bestowed upon you?"

Tate's eyes widened at Grimbeorn's question. "M'Lord Grimbeorn, I cannot even imagine such an honour." He honestly paused to collect his thoughts for a moment. When he spoken, it was with sincerity and seriousness. "Your gift would be an heirloom of my house, a prized treasure. It would be the showpiece over my hearth and, with it, I would teach my kin the songs of your people, starting with how your father turned the tide of the Great Battle; how you, Lord Grimbeorn, slew the Beast of Mirkwood; how your house has united a mighty people, brave and true, a shield and spear in dark times. And I would tell them I know this first hand for Lord Grimbeorn allowed me the honour to walk amongst his people for a time." With a slight bow, he finished, "This is what I would do with such an honour."

Tate's answer causes visible consternation on the faces of the assembled thegns, some of whom begin to cast suspicious looks between the Lake-man and the heir of Beorn.  But any words that might pass between them are drowned out by the roar of approval from the crowd, and the resumption of music and dancing among those who still have the energy.  Ethal's lip curls, and he takes Tate's hand with obvious bad grace before stepping down off the porch and pushing his way out of the torchlight.  The mood continues merry, and the celebrations carry on into the night, but by and by the silent moon finds fires banked and all about them aslumber. 

The following morning sees the crowd assembled for the foot-race.  Before them stretches a narrow causeway, a steep earthen berm and a series of hurdles both high and low, and the earth between each soaked and churned into a sodden morass.  Eager participants are beginning to gather at the starting line to receive their oiled torches.  They are boisterous, these young men, and already there is pushing and shoving among them as they jostle for a prime starting position. 

Nearby, half a dozen men goad and drag Gnornung into his pen.  A smaller crowd has gathered by the sturdy fences and is now moving uncertainly, listening to the bellows of the bull and anxiously trying not to lose face by appearing unwilling to face it. 

Rorin, staying close to Grimbeorn as the host approaches the assembled runners, says little, lacking the fine humour of the previous night and clearly impatient to leave in pursuit of the captured Dwarves. 



:ooc: Is anyone interested in competing in the race?  Alternatively, there's honour to be won by trying to stare down a penned bull without being gored. 

"Not exactly what I would expect but it would be your choice for your time with the sickle."
---
Before the next day's contests commenced, Grimbeorn addressed the contestants and other important nobles at the festivities.  "Before we continue with the games, I need to speak with all of you. It has come to my attention that kin of my friend Rorin here has been taken by men, likely from the north mountains or Vigs, passing through this realm doing so.  It is an offense that I cannot stomach and plan to pick up the trail as soon as the trials are complete.  If any of you will follow me, be ready the morning after tomorrow.  Now let's finish these trials."

 :ooc: Gonna take a hard pass here on both of them...

Would Tate notice the suspicious looks of some of the thegns and, if yes, would he understand why they were concerned with Tate's talk?  


As Ethal leaves the porch, his pride bruised, Tate simply shrugged after him and turned towards Esgalwen. "Seems not everyone is pleased with the results." His eyes softened, and he smiled at his friend, gave her s light bow, "M'Lady, can I entreat you to one dance before I retire for the evening?"


:ooc: Doug, if Esgalwen says "yes", during the dance, Tate will ask her if she noticed some of thegns tense up during his talk and if she knows the source of their consternation.

If Esgalwen refuses, Tate will give her another low bow and a winning smile and a "As you wish..." before retiring for the evening.

 :ooc: Also... is the Sickle like the Stanley Cup? The winner has to return it for the next year's games? Or would Tate actually get to keep it?

:ooc: The sickle gets returned every year, but there's no reason Tate would know that.  I've played things on the assumption that he's unintentionally mis-spoken and ruffled a few feathers among those who would otherwise benefit from the prize. 

 :ooc: Ah... I see... twice in one night Tate sticks his foot in his mouth. This boy definitely needs to get some sleep.

Grimbeorn's words cause a ripple of excitement in the crowd.  The jostling of the young men becomes even more urgent with the implication that ambitious geoguth not only have a chance to impress their lord-to-be, but may soon do so on the field of battle. 

Hathcyn Longspear has a mind to go, but first he has to avoid being gorged by a bull.

Esgalwen watched Tate's feet as he danced to the upbeat strumming of lute, accompanied by flute and drum. It was jovial and hypnotic, and she felt that no sooner had she learned the series of steps that the musicians drew things to a halt. She laughed aloud, breathing hard as she did.

"I almost kept up with you," she said smiling. "You North-men and Vale-men have quite the jigs - fun but feet-sore!"

"You kept excellent time," he replied.

"Now you are just trying to flatter - you saw my steps."

The two strolled out from the lantern lit pavilion where the musicians began another tune. Tate became more serious and asked of any indiscretion that Esgalwen witnessed, when he addressed the Beorning leader. Seeing he was serious, the ranger changed her own demeanor in response.

"I cannot think of anything you said that was untoward - but understand that though I have spent many seasons alongside our host, he is still an enigma. In fact, the Beornings, as a whole, are a grim bunch. Fast friends. Fearsome foes. Quiet and grim. Your response seemed honoring to me, Tate, but I am not familiar with all of their customs. I would tell you to not worry over it, for certain it will be forgotten with the new day and the opening of a new cask." With that, Esgalwen's smile returned.

"Will you walk me to my tent?" she asked. The man nodded. And so they walked back to the guest tents in quiet conversation.

Esgalwen found herself staring into the younger man's eyes. He was truly handsome...and witty...and courteous. But he was a North-man. She was not of noble birth, and thus had no obligations to such, but she was a Dúnadan and her family traced its blood back to the few Faithful that followed Elendil to Middle-earth. There were few of that bloodline left and it grew thinner with each new generation of Gondorian. For her to find a husband outside of her kin...well, she thought, it would be the last betrayal of my father's wishes.

The stars shone above. Everything was right about the night. Esgalwen was a woman. Long had it been since she felt like a woman. Standing there with Tate, she looked down at her hands.

"Do you see the scars?"

"What?"

"The scars? Do you see how my hands are scarred from battle? They are no lady's hands."

Tate began to realize where she was going with her words. He took Esgalwen's hands in his own. She did not resist.

"They are coarse and calloused. They have been cut and broken. What you cannot see are the scars beneath. The scars that have marred my body. The wounds taken in battle in a land far from my own." She did not meet his gaze. "Perhaps I have made poor choices for my calling. Perhaps I should have stayed in Gondor and been the daughter my father wished."

"Esgalwen," started Tate...but she slowly pulled her hands away. She looked up to meet his eyes.

"Thank you for walking me to my tent, Master Bard. Understand, I am a Ranger of Ithilien and a woman of Gondor. I am daughter of Eradan, Dúnadan...one of the Faithful. I cannot be anything else...to you."

The woman slipped away and entered the tent leaving Tate with a questioned look.

---

:ooc: Hey Ayrn - just to give you my thoughts on the above.

It is not my intention as a player to assume that your PC is getting hot and bothered for Esgalwen. It is SHE that is struggling with her lot in life, right now.

She has witnessed Arbogast marry Lindwine and they now have a home and family. She is far from home. She is a woman. She is growing older.

Putting all that stuff together, and me as a guy trying to think what the hell a woman would think, I come up with the above.

Esgalwen is falling for Tate - maybe it is just lust - but the life of a warrior is weighing on her.

Make sense? Anyway, the questioned look can be Tate going WTF? Or it could be him going, why is she resisting? Or whatever you want to interpret it as.

Have fun!  ;D

The new day was a rarity for the Company.

As the contestants began to form on the grounds, Rorin looked up to see Esgalwen...in a dress!

The young maiden's hair was loose and flowing down her back. The auburn color caught the sun and shone, creating a nice compliment to the yellow fabric of her bodice. She wore no weapons. Her armor was also absent.

"Do you see this?" asked the Dwarf to Grimbeorn, who stood near. The Beorning looked out into the crowd but missed his female friend entirely, as her change did not register. Not having enough time to deal with the Dwarf, the man went about his duty of calling up the new day's events.

Esgalwen, lost in her own thoughts, did not hear Grimbeorn call out the new games. Nor did she look to find a place among the contestants, or observers. Instead she walked through the yards and around the homes of the common folk that lived there. She came upon a group of elder-women, three to be precise, accompanied by five young ladies that were still in their young teens. The elders were teaching the younger ladies to sew and mend both cloth and skin.

One of the women looked up to see Esgalwen standing there, fair in the afternoon sun. "Lady...you will find yourself more entertained within the walls of the Master. The party and festivities will continue for another few days. Much more enjoyable for ye, I would be thinking."

The other women, and young girls looked to her.

"Actually, Mum...I would prefer the simpler things today, if that would be all right?" Esgalwen came to stand near the log where the ladies sat. The older woman met the young Ranger's eyes, and something passed unspoken.

A crooked, wrinkled hand patted the wood seat next to her, "Right then, come sit near me, m'lady...I have another bone needle here somewhere."

"Esgalw...Gwen...my name is Gwen."

"Right then, Gwen...come now. Let's see what you know."

Quote from: tomcat on Feb 06, 2018, 08:40 AMThe woman slipped away and entered the tent leaving Tate with a questioned look.

Tate gave his head a shake, Oi! But she is an sorceress! Leave me spell-bound, she does!

He shook his head once more, gathering his wits about him. Too much of the bee's mead, I'd say... for me and here. The minstrel began to make his way to his own bed. Along the way, many congratulated him for his victory at evening's game. Tate had smiles and thanks for them all, but his thoughts were his own.

As his head finally lay down on his cot, Tate found his himself chuckling at himself, For all your bravado and panache, you are still chained to fearing how you have offended... Time to forget yourself for a while.

Quote from: Telcontar on Feb 06, 2018, 02:12 AMHathcyn Longspear has a mind to go, but first he has to avoid being gorged by a bull.

:ooc: Cool.  The series of TNs is the same as the first two contests (14, 16, 18) but any failure means that Gnornung attacks.  Roll away!

Hathcyn Longspear awoke with the day as did all the other fire pit sleepers. Many it seemed had got but a little slip, but slipped back into the revelry quick enough. The man from the north knew what games he had a chance in and those that he did not. So with the morning he began to ready himself for the contest with the bull. One did not really practice for such an event so he stretched, had a glass or two of beer, and then made his way to the bullring.

The young man saw quickly enough that the list of contestants in this contest was quite small, but had a pretty large crowd. As he approached for his turn it was just in time to see the prior man jump the fence and avoid a great rush of the bull. The crowd it seemed favoured the bull over the man. Bracing himself, he waved to the crowd, took a swallow of honey mead and jump to his place....

AWE



awe2



Awe3

The tall man squared off and faced the bull, to his surprise the beast backed away from him towards its pen. He laughed and faced the crowd to recognize their cheers. As he set his sets back towards the bull he saw that whatever influence he had gained against the beast was lost when he looked away. Instead of retreating towards it's pen the great beast shook its head and came forward at him, none too pleased.

Blasting breath from flared nostrils, Gnornung lowers his head and charges, and the cheers of the crowd turn abruptly to cries of alarm. 


:ooc: No need for a new thread for combat, I hope.  Unarmed, I am assuming that Hathcyn will attempt to escape combat when it's his turn (TN 15).  The assistance of Men on the fence will give him an automatic attribute bonus to do so. 

DC 16 (assuming a Defensive stance) Gore 2d

:dmg: will be 5 on a successful hit. 

:ooc: Battle roll for Hathcyn:

:ooc: ...and I probably should set up one of these:

Situation: Hathcyn is stuck in a pen with an enraged bull

Combat Advantage dice:
• Not a thing (unless he wants to use a Hope point...)

PC/NPC		PARRY :+~:		ARMOUR :<>:		HOPE :vv:		END :<3:		STANCE
Hathcyn	•	4	•	0	•	13/13	•	29/29	•	Defensive

ENEMY		PARRY :+~:		ARMOUR :<>:		HATE :@:		END :<3:		NOTES
Gnornung	•	3	•	2d	•	3/3	•	21/21	•	n/a

STANCES

Forward - action order 1 Close combat TN 6+ parry Forward Stance maneuvers (http://rpg.avioc.org/webimages/lotr/tor/forward.jpg)

:<>:

Open - action order 2 Close combat TN 9+ parry Open Stance maneuvers (http://rpg.avioc.org/webimages/lotr/tor/open.jpg)

:<>:

Defensive - action order 3 Close combat TN 12+ parry Defensive Stance maneuvers (http://rpg.avioc.org/webimages/lotr/tor/defense.jpg)

:<>:

Rearward - action order 4 Ranged combat Must be 2 other PC's in Close Combat May not use if outnumbered 2:1 TN 12+ parry Rearward Stance maneuvers (http://rpg.avioc.org/webimages/lotr/tor/rear.jpg)

:<>:

From any Stance Escape combat Must start in Rearward or roll TN 10 + highest attribute level of opponents Athletics roll. On success, may safely flee from the scene of combat

Hathcyn avoided the rush and realizing that discretion was the better part of valour beat a hasty retreat.

Vaulting over the fence the man laughed as he went calling for the next man to come forward.

Grimbeorn oversaw the contests with detached interest, his friends came and went from his side as they partook of the festival, both enjoying and as entertainment.  Never far from his thoughts though were the kidnappers and their victims.  While in the early morning, he spoke to the animals faithful to his father and sent those willing and swift to the far ends of the realm in search of news of them in hopes that word would return before he left to follow them.

:ooc: Rolling dice for no particular reason.  Go ahead and talk among yourselves...

Standing briefly atop the fence, Hathcyn feels the wind on his face.  It is of the north, racing cold along the path of the great Anduin from its source, where brood the Grey Mountains and grim Gundabad.  Above his head wheel, not the hawks he assumes them at first to be, nor the great eagles of the mountains, but carrion-crows, their calls raucous and discordand. 

In the distance, their shadows still long this early in the morning, he spies a small group of men bearing a burden toward the House of Beorn.  It seems for all the world to be a boat. 

He stands piosed on the split rail fence. His body over to the safer side, but still his feet upon the rails giving him a boost.

He shades his eyes with a hand and then give a cry pointing.

"Oii! Something strange this way comes. A boat borne by men and driving crows in thier wake!"

She counted three holes in her fingers. Three!

I can successfully put my sword through an orcs chest or feather a wolf at distance, but I cannot push a needle through cloth without drawing blood!

The other seamstresses were being polite, but it was clear on their faces that the ranger might be a lost hope. The older woman, who was named Brunihild, looked at Esgalwen, "Ya're not holding it right, girl...you are going to..."

A cry came from the Ranger as she watched another pinprick of blood appear on her index finger.

"Seems you're right, Mum. This is not the simplest of tasks."

The other women croaked, "Nay! If it were, the men-folk would be doing it." Chuckles and giggles were heard around the circle.

Esgalwen went immediately back to the previous conversation. It seemed an odd thing that the circle of women in most communities were ignored by the men when it came to information - they were a bank of stories and details.

"So...about the young maiden you spoke, Druessel, what was it she saw again?"

"Well...she comes a'runnin' back from her chores down near the Little Bend." Esgalwen questioning look made the woman explain. "Little Bend is a small river that feeds into Andewn. There's Big Bend, too, but we don't wash clothes there. Nor do we fetch our waters."

Esgalwen smiled to herself at the accented speech and words, even as she deciphered such words as Andewn the great river.

"So Drues is washing her clothes in the rocks there and she hears this callin' and yellin' of men. Now mind you, t'was just mornin'...sun has barely broke. Drues has always had a habit o'early startin'. Get'em done soon, so as to not be lackin' daylight, she always says to us." The old woman chuckled and Esgalwen smiled again at how the tale just seemed to go in every direction. The other women added their own Drues' quotes and habits, and how the Little Bend had good rocks for beating clothes upon.

Finally the story came back around, "So now she's sittin' low in the river bed and reeds be coverin' her form and she tells us a small barge craft - pole barge...ya know them? They are used a'plenty along the river to fish, move goods, and more. Anyway, this morning barge is filled with hard men...blonde and burly, she said. Vigs, she was sure! They are always makin' early raids south. So's she's a'watchin' and sees 'em lead at least four Dwarves onto this float. Dwarves? I say...where there be Dwarves round here? But Drues, she just wrinkled her nose in that way she do, and says, I tell ya they were Dwarves! And none to happy with their condition, for they's were shackled - or roped - and we knows what Vigs do with peoples they catch."

Another woman chimed in, "Not gonna be long afore the Master calls to arms. They canna be doing this no more to us. Season after season, they raid and take a few away. Gonna be blood, I guarantee it."

"True enough! Dwarves...oddest thing." And the woman went back to tending her sewing.

Esgalwen had heard enough. Her fingers were sore. Her bottom ached from sitting so long upon the wood stump. These were softer duties, to be sure, but they were not easier. She looked down at the dress she wore and knew that it was time to return to Esgalwen the Ranger. She stood and handed Brunihild the bone needle and laid her portion of the fabric-work where she sat.

"Ladies, much have I enjoyed your company today along with the labors at which you work, but I must be off now. I need to speak with Grimbeorn and see about this news of Dwarves and Vigs. Thank you for everything."

Brunihild stared back at Esgalwen with a twinkle in her eye and said, "Right now, love! Be on your way now!"

With her far enough away, the old seamstress turned to her sisters, "Off to speak to Grimbeorn, she says!" There was a chuckle. "She was right fair of the eye, but not much there to work with! Her hands were not deft to the needle." Again the ladies laughed. "Off to speak to the master...oh my!"

Even as the seamstresses joked and continued their work, the Dúnadan woman made her way to the tents. Once there, she closed the flaps and quickly saw about changing from the beautiful dress she had borrowed, and back into the clothing that seemed to fit her better.

Esgalwen left her tent in search of Grimbeorn and the others that were in her 'new' company.