During this half-year Fellowship Phase, are we going to be allowed to do an undertaking or was it just the skills/traits purchases?  Im sorry if I missed you mentioning anything about this.

There was something to this land and the folk of it.  "Of it?" Grimbeorn mused, distracted from his previous train of thought.  Yes, he supposed the elvenfolk were more "of" the land and the land "in" them than others.  Men were more transient, using the land to their benefit as they saw fit.  Taking a long draw from his cup, the cool clean water seemed like wine and yet made him more refreshed than he'd been in a great while.  He shook his brow of this heady nonsense.  "I guess you must expect the unexpected, even from yourself, in these lands," he thought.

Time wore on in the Halls of Thranduil but none were aware of its passage.  Goblets were filled, food eaten and replaced unnoticed by the servants, and the gathering eventually broke away along lines of conversation with their participants wandering in different directions within the caves and grottos that made up the domain of king of the Silvan elves in Mirkwood.  The young Beorning saw his path join that of Gandalf and others, and he was content to listen for awhile moreso than contribute.  This was the man that confounded his father those years ago bringing a ragtag group of dwarves and a hobbit to his doorstep.  He also heard that he'd help lay siege to Dol Guldur and shortly thereafter returned in time to fight in the great battle at Erebor.  There was something that drew him in and intrigued him more than the crazy, old Radagast and cryptic Saruman.  There many questions swirling around in his head but resigned himself to let the others ask them, such as how'd he know they needed help and where? and why did he bring them here?

After a bit more conversation, Esgalwen excused herself from the table. It was her desire to have some time alone. Since her departure from Minas Tirith those years back, she had been surrounded by a company of folk.

She missed the quiet of Ithilien. It was so different from Mirkwood. Yes, it was a forested land but it was not so dark - even with the presence of Mordor just over the mountains. Maybe dark was the wrong word, she thought, Oppressive? Yes, oppressive. Here though, in the region of the Elves, the forest lost a bit of that threat.

Esgalwen made her way to the gates of the fortress, but found them secured for the night and the Elven-watch would open the doors under no condition, lest word came from the king. With that path blocked, she wandered through the corridors and tunnels. The subterranean chambers smelled fragrant and there was a warmth that belied the cold surface of the stone. She heard the sound of water and followed it. Coming to a stream that ran noisily down to a cenote, or cistern, that itself was surrounded by mineral stalagmites that reached up to stalactites hanging down, Esgalwen was moved by the beauty. The water rushed over a small fall and into the pool below. The stalactites dripped with water of their own and the cave was filled with beautiful sound. What's more, the Silvan Elves had crafted lamps for the room and they all twinkled with light that bounced throughout.

The Dúnadan woman was suddenly aware of another.

Sitting among the mineral growths, on a slab of stone that made a perfect seat, was a handsome Elf. He looked young of face, as most Elves did, but his eyes were old. For the first time in a long time, Esgalwen was concerned of her appearance. She was in a dress - Elven-made - that clung to her form perfectly. Her hair was down and brushed, and she had even been given a hairpin to adorn it. The bath she had taken upon their welcome to the Elven realm was also a thing that had long been overdue.

She looked and felt like a woman, but still there was a feeling of inadequacy while standing before the Elf.

"My Lady," he said. "I did not mean to disturb."

"Forgive me, Sir, for it is I who have interrupted your peace."

"Nay," he answered. "The beauty of this chamber is beloved of the Elves, but surely your presence has improved upon it."

Esgalwen could not help but smile, "You honor me."

"I am Neldir, and I am chief write to the King. It is I that pens the lays and songs that fill the King's Hall."

"And I am Esgalwen, daughter of Eradan of Ithilien, a Ranger in the Company of Éothor, who himself perished along the southern eaves of Mirkwood. I am sorry to say but I do not bring things of beauty to our meet."

"On the contrary, my Lady Esgalwen, you bring beauty indeed. I see in your face, though distant, the light of Valinor as it may be seen in the blood of Beren and Tuor. Surely you are Dúnadan - the folk of Westernesse?"

"Yes, I am of that line. My father, Eradan, traces our family to the Faithful - those that followed Elendil and his sons, Isildur and Anarion, back into Middle-earth, before the breaking of Númenor."

"Then mayhaps we are cousins of long distance relations, for I may trace my kin's path to Beleriand and Elu Thingol's realm of old." He smiled and plucked at the small harp that she could now see upon his lap. "Before that land fell into the sea. You see, we share much history!"

The two smiled at one another.

Neldir stood and walked over towards her, "May I offer you my bench? Perhaps you would like to stay and listen for a while? I am composing even now a lay of Tuor and Idril and their desperate escape from Gondolin."

"I would be most honored, Master Composer," said Esgalwen.

For the first time in a long time she did not feel like a warrior. She did not have dirt under nails that were broken. There were no stains of earth or travel upon her clothes. Tonight, she felt like a woman. And though there was no chance that her current company could be more than an acquaintance, she would allow him to whisk her away to lands forgotten and feelings that she always held close inside.

Neldir began to play and Esgalwen listened and smiled. The Elf sang in a language that she was barely familiar with, but still the music prompted images of forests and mountains and lands that were far richer than any she had seen. Without knowing, Esgalwen drifted into a deep and contented sleep. When she awoke, she was in a comfortable bed of soft sheets and she wondered if the grotto and Neldir had been but a dream.

OOC: I'm ice fishing in utah this weekend, but i do want to post. Give me a reasonable chance.

Bandy set aside his discomfort his weariness, and his fear and then
Proceeded to eat and drink in a way that only a Hobbit could. In fact Bandy ate enought to make up for all the meals of the Shire he had missed since coming to stay in this frugal land. The elves marvelled having never been in the company of a Hobbit before and only a passing acquaintance with old Bilbo at Erebor. As the Hobbit took on more food, he also began to converse more with those around him or even those whom came near the sphere of the Hobbit. Questions of all type and of all things were fired off and the answers filed away, but remembered because astute follow up questions would appear as he went along. The Hobbit sat long at the table and with mirth and jokes of his own relaxed the dwarves a bit. Bofri wondered aloud if the Hobbit were not a cousin or close relative of his Uncle Bombur.

His whole life, Arbogast believed in his heart that he knew Mirkwood as few others ever could.  Despite this, the Silvan elves find new wonders to show him.  To begin with, he has never seen the forest so alive with animals.  Where the creatures of the Western Eaves are shy - heard, but rarely seen - the Woodland Realm seems to beckon its creatures forward.  He sees, not only the great boars and deer of the wood, but ermines, ferrets, badgers, squirrels and a host of birds for which he has few names, but which the elves appear to know almost individually. 

Roaming further, day by day, from the Elvenking's door, he comes one day upon a party of elves holding an impromptu feast in a grotto formed by a knot of ancient roots.  Spread out among them are the fare of the forest: meat and berries, nuts and vigor-giving herbs.  And wine - more so perhaps than seems wise, given the dangers even of a place long inhabited by the twilight folk.  Beneath the starry light of elven-lamps, harpers and flautists play, and couples dance barefoot among the roots and toadstools. 

"Greetings to you, wood-wanderer," comes a call from among them.  "Come, join us.  There is fare enough for all here!" 

"My thanks to you," he replies as he gratefully accepts a cup of wine (for a hitherto unmarked thirst is now powerful within him).  "I am the Fire-watcher." 

"Why, then I am the harpist!  And they are the dancers, and they the revellers and lovers and poets beneath the boughs." 

Arbogast makes small talk with his new companions, but finds his gaze returning once and again to the lamps. 

"Ah, you like our stars?" asks an elf-maid, seating herself nearby and following his gaze. 

"They are passing fair," he replies.  "And they remind me of my childhood.  For in the great hall of Woodmen-Town hangs such a lamp, though greater, perhaps, than would be needed here." 

As the revel-party, by some unspoken consensus, begins to pick itself up and move to a new site, Arbogast finds himself telling the story of Balthi the Young, the Grey Wizard and the recovery of the Lamp from deep within the bowels of Dol Guldur.  His listeners seem rapt, and he finds his normal care of speech falling away as he describes the people who live beneath the light of the Lamp, and their lands and homes.  He dances, drinks and joins his own voice in chorus with those of the elves, and in doing so lets his cares slip away, unnoticed. 

The party comes to rest, in the end, beneath the branches of a vast and ancient oak, planted (so his companions say) by the father of the current Elvenking, in a prior age of the world.  It is likely the drink, he decides, that causes the not altogether comfortable feeling of being regarded - considered by the ancient tree. 

Gannon, the harpist who first invited him to join them, begins to play a new melody.  "Fire-watcher, here is a song for your handsome wife and pretty daughters!" 

At this, Arbogast blanches, for he had neither intended to speak of his family nor realised that he had done so.  But Gannon has already begun to sing:

"There is a girl with a stair in her hair
Made of thorn and thistle and bone. 
There is a girl with a stair in her hair
And she climbs it to be alone. 

There is a girl with a coin in her fist
made of breath and hunger and cold. 
There is a girl with a coin in her fist
Who will buy whatsoever she's sold. 

A girl with a voice and a girl with a name
A girl with strong hands and eyes like the rain
A girl who's so young and so easy to bruise
A girl with nothing to lose, oh
A girl with nothing to lose. 

Here is a girl with a stone on her tongue
Plucked from a wave on the shore. 
Here is a girl with a stone on her tongue
That keeps her from asking for more. 

Here is a girl with a key in her hand
And here is a door with a lock. 
Here is a girl with a key in her hand
Who is wondering whether to knock. 

A girl with a voice and a girl with a name
A girl with strong hands and eyes like the rain
A girl knows all of her lines and her cues
A girl with nothing to lose, oh
A girl with nothing to lose."

Arbogast opens his mouth to protest, but the wine has long ago reached his head and is sacking his mind like a conquered city.  Wordlessly, he cries out as he falls to the ground among the roots and toadstools, to become another decoration for the elven dancers.  Above him, Gannon continues to play, and to sing. 

"Yours is a girl who will never be missed
If she's borrowed or broken or sold. 
Yours is a girl with a stone in her fist
And oh, she will learn to be bold!

Yours is a girl with a voice and a name
A girl with strong hands and eyes like the rain
A girl can fight and a girl who can choose
A girl with so much to lose, oh
A girl with so much to lose."

____________________

It is five days later when Arbogast stumbles once more to the Elvenking's door, filthy and starving, having woken lost and alone. 

If we are doing undertakings this Fellowship phase, I'll visit the Sentinel Oak (Heart of the Wild, p 79). 

  oh man you put your foot in it now. You said to much!

before I continue our story, can I ask two things, Paul?

1) is the minstrel's song supposed to have such a dark omen to it? Want to make sure I am reading it right and that there is not a hidden meaning.

2) you as a player know about the lamp of Woodmen town, but only the Wizards and the descendants of Balthi knew of its existence, as an Elven lamp. Gandalf never told any Elf of its finding. So the second question here is a two parter - is Arbogast descended from Balthi's line and did he speak of the lamp normally or reveal it while in his cups?

I will move the story on when I hear from you.

No worries at all.  Gannon's song is portentious, but not of anything specific (like Arbogast's fever prophecy was).  I mainly put it in to show that the Wayward Elves can be real dicks when there's mortals around to have fun with. 

As for the lamp, I like the idea that Arbogast had no idea it was of elven make until he saw the smaller ones in the grotto.  Once he had that second piece of information, connecting the two wasn't going to be hard for a guy with Wits 6, Riddle 3 and Cunning.  I think he probably wasn't drunk - more likely under some sort of subtle enchantment to make him carefree to the point of carelessness (and which also allowed the group to travel 50 miles from near the Elvenking's hall to the Sentinel Oak without him really noticing). 

Ooc: and you have doomed us all!!

Doug, I may have something in as well but it will really be filler so dont wait on me. I'm not really sure how much free time we have to play with either. 

Realistically, we're all doomed anyway.  Making it our fault (to whatever extent) means we get to be tragic heroes sewing the seeds of our own destruction, rather than just being schmucks who couldn't handle the myriad threats of the world. 

Which is not to say that I've forgiven you and Matt for having us fight those spiders. 

  Dunno what you're talking about, doomsayer.  I plan to live forever, er, well, at least until Sauron comes knocking on everyone's door.

Rorin woke with a start and a grunt as the great eagle set down on the soft earth, he scrambled to his feet and quickly counted his companions and, satisfied that all had arrived in relative safety, Rorin turned his attention to the tall man dressed in grey who called himself Gandalf the Grey. Rorin had heard this name and, if his memory served him well, that was the name given by men to Tharkun himself! Amazed at the company's good fortune, Rorin didn't even protest at being brought to the halls of the elves, and the promise of a great feast further served to make the dwarf feel at home.

During the feast though, Rorin could feel the eyes of their hosts dwell a little longer on him than on the others, and with more suspicion. And as a result he was not his usual raucous and boasting self, electing instead to speak of his homeland with Bofri.

The two dwarves spent the bulk of the evening going over plans for the road, the state of the restoration effort in Erebor, and the comings and goings of their other kinsfolk. Being now in the land of Elves, Rorin felt the burning desire to explore the vast caverns and deep places of the Dwarven Kingdom. Soon, he promised himself, soon he would return to the Mountain and spend a time with his kin.

Hey all, first - I will allow a Fellowship undertaking as long as it is not labeled a Year End undertaking (and it is within reason - i.e. geographical, time limited, etc.)

I am sitting here looking at my screen. My eyes are screaming with a headache. The funk has been going around our house with my wife and kids. Point is, I am just in a cruddy low right now with a bad cough (but hopefully no flu bug). I will get my post up shortly when I can concentrate and make the narrative worth it.

Sorry

Hope you feel better soon.