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Between his efforts to endear himself to his rescuers, his idle boasting and his near-constant complaints, Viglar only rarely falls silent between the leaving of the farmhouse and the companions' return to the pier at Woodland Hall, by which time night has near-fallen and Luindîs lies slumped over the gunwale of the boat as if slain by sheer exasperation.  Between the litany of hollow words, however, a tale emerges of darkness and betrayal. 

"Oh aye, it's a tale you'll wish greatly indeed to hear, for I know the true import of what Little King Mogdred has done, and whose designs he has wrecked!  It was the winter afore last, if I rightly recall, when both father and I decided that it would be wise (https://rpg.avioc.org/boards/index.php?msg=34290) to venture south (https://rpg.avioc.org/boards/index.php?msg=34307) and seek the aid of the Necromancer who rules the southern forest.  Father clearly couldn't go with a war agin' Beorn's folk on our doorstep so I went myself to speak with his voice.  It wasn't an easy journey, let me tell you, for we ran afoul of such things as you can't even imagine along those dark paths..."

"... so, after we broke free of the spell, gave the slain to the waters of the bog (there being no dry wood to burn them) and slew the last horse so that it couldn't spread any lingering foulness to us, we came to that pile that I'm told is called Fenbridge.  Lo and behold, it seems that we weren't the only travellers to come there, for five rough-looking types (from the forest road, by the look of them) and a wench had come as well, and were ready to set off deeper into the mire!  Oh, she had a weird air about her sure enough, but I'd not seen a comely maid in a while and I thought I'd try..."

"... well, despite all that we made good time along the orc-made road and I found myself being welcomed into the black stronghold itself as an honoured guest at what proved, to our great fortune (or so I thought!) to be a great gathering of folk from all over Wilderland.  I recognised the ruffians from earlier and their kinswoman, though she had nought but scorn in her eyes now, as well as River-folk and Leofrings and grey-faced Dwarves... and Mogdred stood there among them all tall and proud before the black-robed king of that place, with everyone around him all bowing and scraping like it was his castle and he was king of everyone there.  Let me tell you, you'd not catch me on my knees before that snake..." 

"... so then I asked outright: 'What do my father and I have to do to get all these orcs on our side?' and do you know what he said?  I'll tell you what he said!  He said, in that creepy loud-whispery voice that he has, that all we had to do was seize the Old Ford and he'd aid us with orc-armies.  Of course, I knew that was just his first offer, so I stood strong and argued until he agreed that he'd pay us in gold and silver into the bargain!  Nobody in all Middle-Earth haggles better than a son of Viglund!  Now, clearly I wasn't watching ol' Mogdred at the time, but I know he was watching, and listening, and nodding that pretty head of his, wearing that fancy circlet he wears now..." 

"... of course, by that point Mogdred's horsemen had closed in on the bank and his archers were keeping up their volleys, so he said 'Flee, my lord!  The day is lost!'  And of course I was never going to do that, because I'm as great a warrior as can be found in Wilderland, even knee-deep in rushing water and with an arrow in my arm, so I just smashed my mace against my shield and yelled 'Slay me if you can, weaklings, and we'll see how large a pile of you I can make before I go!'.  But then something hit me in the back and I fell over, and I suppose I must have knocked my head on a stone because that's the last thing I recall for a while..."

Interlude::

The yammering continued as the party made their way up stream. Hathcyn was adamant and forceful that one member of the house come back with them to relate what they had told.

The husband and wife would not be parted and their youngest son still shaken by what he had seen that day. The Longspear paid a wergeld in gold for the son, though he yet lived. And he paid a ransom for the father to tell his tale at the circle. In the end the wife and youngest son stayed to care for the wounded boy and Hathcyn swore oaths that the man would not be slain by his hand.

In the end the parting was long. He agreed that he would tell the council what he saw and heard, but only if his family came with him. They all feared the reprisal of Mogdred. So the injured son and all the family were now loaded into the boat and headed up stream.

The gunwales sank low in the water, the small craft was overburdened. The elf and the Longspear did most of the work seeing the fatigue and hesitancy in the rest of the party. Together they poled the small, near swamped craft, into the center of the stream. The Elf argued that the center made their task harder, but the Longspear insisted.

The small river craft made it's way into the center and the progress of the party started to slack as the current pushed them in the opposite direction.

The Longspear took a dangerous stance and stood in the boat. He took the cloaked warriors war gear in his arms and tossed it over the side.

"Here is a gift to Dusk-Shadow, formed in the likeness of a daughter who the elf calls Ulmo. Tribute and geld I offer to her whom the trout ask their leave and the river will bend its course."

The mail and iron waffled as it sunk to the bossom of the river. The small craft continued to lose its progress. Then a thump was heard sounding at the bottom of the boat. The craft slacked its drift abd then as if fresh oarsmen plied the craft it surged forward against the current.

Hathcyn looked into the water and saw a smiling auburn haired face, hair colored like rippling water kissed by a setting autumn sun. Trout leaped into the boat and flapped in the bilge. And the eyes of the water nymph spoke to the man telling him he was marked now forever. Sealed by kiss and by tribute.

"From fish kisser to fish whisperer I see." Lundis murmured.

"Eh," Viglar sounded broken from his own rambling and oblivious to what just happened.

The High Elf shook his head, he seemed beset by wild spirits of the wood and water and plagued by the ignorance of men.

"The Longspear is a fish speaker. Add that to his titles when next you introduce him."

:ooc: Brilliant writing, Tom.  Thanks for dealing with the hanging plot thread.

The words of the worm of a man caused distress to Gwaithlim.  The signs and sigils, those beings he encountered, spelled much danger to all.  He knows this information should be shared with those greater and of keener sight than he.  "Where is a Wizard when you need one?" he thinks.

Hathcyn wanted to correct his Wife-brother. He wanted him to be clear of speech and direct in his thought. He stopped himself. This would make him less genuine and more coached. His ramblings had truth for those who would listen to them.

He felt that here, uncoached, were damning arguments and food for thought. Mogdred, whom he attributed ill intent, was far more dangerous. He thought him simply embracing a culture he felt that he had been unjustly sundered from. Here however, was proof he was in league with the dark spirits of the swamp. Now he had transgressed from a political rival to one of deep enmity. If he had any doubt of his previous slanders, any residual guilt at his machinations to defeat Mogdred's bid as war leader they were washed away. His wife-brother was perfect in his vanity, in his baseness, and in his dissimulating nature to prove beyond a doubt the guilt of Mogdred.

In the bilge of the boat was a dead swordman of the Hill. Cowering cold was a crofters family. Each in their own way proof of the guilt of this false king. This unwelcome aid to their cause would surely persuade the council of woodmen.

The wheel of seasons and events was turning. The Longspear felt as if many of their deeds and trials were coming to a conclusion. Mogdred could not be Warleader of the Woodmen. Ætheldreám would not be accepted. She was a good choice, but when he thought about it not the best choice. His own folk barely accepted Grimbeorn. Arbogast was the choice. He was the leader of the Woodmen that would be reluctant to lead but decisive when need arose. He should be War leader of the woodmen.

Viglar talked, the elves were silent. His pole idly thrust itself into the river, but the current carried them on its own, forward. Forward to the Doom-ring of the Woodmen, forward to their fates.

The Longspear stroked the hair torc around his neck closed with a silver fox and mouse and not for the last time wished Aestid were here or he with her.

Though he did not realize it his noble armor inlaid with the lines of a fox shone in the dim
Light of the evening. The glimmer contrasted and joined the reflection of the water and light as they boat sped into the docks of the Woodmen. Their absence was noted, ans a cry went up from the docks on their approach. Sardoc the hound of the Greenstone howled at their approach.

"Now, now all here must play their part in the fate of the Wood-men."

Late is the hour and dim the day when the Fellowship at last ties the boat once again to the jetty, for the sun sets early and deep amidst the depths of Mirkwood.  Nonetheless, a small crowd is gathered to see them arrive, word of the morning's doings having passed around the small town and an eagerness having built to know what end may come of them.  Despite her aches and heavy limbs, Esgalwen cannot suppress a wry smile as she accepts the hand of a Woodman-wife to climb out and on to steady ground.  Another boat both borrowed and returned.  Perhaps, though darkness may fall about is, our fates do not turn entirely for the worse!

The evening-songs of frogs and crickets are so loud in the air that at first she does not hear the words that the woman says to her, and it is not until she looks once again and marks that it is the hand of the lady Verwyne that grips her own that she hears and understands: "Boon friend of my kinsman, what hurts you have suffered!  Come!  Spend this night with my husband and I, and in the light of morning I would hear your tale." 

Hathcyn steps from the boat, a string of healthy big trout in one hand. Though his thoughts are far from fishing.

"I would speak again to the Elders. I have news and tidings that will not wait for the rising of the sun."

The hound Sardoc took up the meaning of his friends words and howled into the coming night.

"Sardoc, old friend, my guess is Mogdred has already fled the coup. However send word to your friends among the woodmen. His treachery is known and proved. Mark where he is or has gone."

"Bad nose, you smell like fish." The hound laughed and then bounded into the night.

"Woodmen, I have here witnesses to the perfidy of Mogdred. I call him stand witness and hear these accusations in the Council Hall."

He looked to Vilgar, "soon you will have a part to play brother. The first step on the path of revenge, but with it mark it is also just. Let us carry our parcel to the hall and show the Elders the werfeld we took for the abuse of my kin and of my war chief."

"Lundis, you are a star child and the twilight is your realm. Find the dwarf, there is much that he too would like to hear."

The Longspear was hot with anger and the need for justice he now held in his hand and in the voice of the crofters the guilt of Mogdred.

He called to several idle woodmen who stood upon the quay.
 
"There is an injured lad here and a family that needs comfort. Bring him to a healer or if none can be found carry them to my bower and my folk will care for them."

The Longspear made a fist and slammed it into his open palm.

"Mogdred."

"You move hastily Longspear" said the High elf.

"I must. Vilgar and the dead body will not remain a secret long in this place. My guess is Mogdred will flee at the news of our arrival. He will seek the safety of his men and withdraw. Tonight we destroy the image of the man, in the days to come the man himself."

"Cold words Hathcyn."

"Worse days are coming. Arbogast as War Chief of the Woodmen is a candle in the night that may build a fire of unity once this puppet of the swamps is cast down."

"You hate this man."

The Longspears eyes burned, but he paused. "Wrath drives me. You see it truly. Let me see it through this night."

He stopped and gazed at the twilight on the river and was quiet for a moment. Viglar strugged with the cloak wrapped body and the farmers climbed out of the boat.

"You speak truly. I'll let Viglar and the Crofter tell their stories and let the truth speak for itself. My drive for revenge may beget a greater woe."

The Longspear breathed the heavy night air on the river.

"Thank you, a see know the fingers of a fey mood clawing at me."

The Longspear toiched the hair torc at his neck and again wished Aestid were here.

"This was a long day" he murmured.

"And it will be a new one soon enough," comments the elf idly.  "Send word to where the captives reside if you need me; I will remain with those we brought to ensure no further evil befalls them until their recounting is done.  I cannot say whether a draught of wakefulness to see you through the night or one of sleep, but either way, my friend, get some rest."

Not long does it take for Verwyne to bring the crofters to lodge for a time beneath the richly-carven timbers of the house she shares with Aodhan and his kin, and to place the body of Viglar's man in the cool of the caves worn from the cliffs beneath Wuduseld.  Viglar is eyed warily by Hathcyn's few followers about the evening fire as he settles himself down, already asking for meat and ale. 

Shortly afterwards, Arbogast finds the Thane of the Greenstone.  "Much does it gladden me to see you safely returned, for when I learned you had departed in haste and without leaving word I feared greatly whatever may have moved you to do so.  But now I see the treasure you have won and praise you for the winning!  For Esgalwen has told me already the worthiest parts of his tale." 

His stomach rumbles at the scent of woodsmoke and cooked food, and though his face remains impassive his heavy eyelids speak volumes of the long discussions he has watched.  "For the greater part of the day," he sighs, "the elders have done little but bicker about protocol and precedence, and who should speak before whom.  I cannot but think that the Viglunding aethling's tale will prove a welcome change!  In my wildest fancies, I confess that I hope that alone will sway them to our way, but no doubt more words will need to be wielded before the prospect of Mogdred's kingship is truly banished.  Know this, my friend, he has not fled this place, though the news of your going and returning must surely have reached him.  Some design he must yet hold, and I have not yet riddled what it may be." 

The Longspear reached by the fire and handed a pointed stake to his friend. A fire roasted trout was skewered on it.

"Take this Firewatcher, there are plenty and seasoned with salt from the Mountain Hold and berries and seeds from the pines. A good catch, take food and sit by my fire.

The Longspear picked at a fish of his own and drank deeply of the mug of beer that was always filled by the small barrel near him.

"A great darkness is it work. A malice drives our enemies to scheme in webs greater than our own designs. The attack on the Carrock was not by chance and the story my wife-brother tells confirms that we do not face singular enemies but a league of them working in harness. All centered on the Bilge Keep in the swamp, that thorn in the southern wood."

The Longspear licked his fingers and tasted the fat and salt of his catch. Raised his mug and looked around to make sure none sat too close.

"I will open my heart to you Arbogast of the Black Taryn, Yeoman of the Wood and keeper of the Flame. First and truest door warden of my own hall.

We must build for our people islands of refuge for our peoples in their dwelling places. I myself have sent to the Road Warden for a master mason. I seek the build a great burg, a millfort of men for my folk in the Greenstone land. A wall around it for the refuge of a great number of folk and cellars below for stores. For the protection of mine and those who may come to me. I do not seek to build a warren to hide in. Only a bulwark of stone like the dwarves for refuge so that I may endure while others come to my aid. So it is with axe and sheild. One defends the other thrusts. I will make ready a hold should the hammer fall on me, but also I must make ready to march to the aid of my allies who may take the blow before I. If each build a burg greater than their own need then the safety of neighbors is assured and if trapped faith, like at the Tarn, friends march to their relief. This is my vision for the march lands of the forest and river."

"I will name as ally any woodman hold that pledges the same for my people. A warchief among the woodmen who agreed with me would make this an easier task. If this is not to be then I shall try one hold at a time. And once more I extend to you in friendship, not in charity, a place for you and your family in any and all hours beneath any roof I hold any power over."

"We need to unite or perish. Mogdred will gnaw like a cur on a bone at anything left to him. His cut throats make us weaker when we could be stronger, in that he is right. He is right that we must join. However, its the darkness in him that twists a virtue into a vice. Like the love his father had for him. Even that he has now twisted to ill purpose. I confess that I hate the man, but my words are still true."

"Your offer is heart felt and appreciated Hathcyn." Responded the Woodman.

Hathcyn tossed the spine of the fish into the fire and stirred the coals with the spear before tossing it in.

"I also intend to ask a great favor of Ætheldreám. Though she doesnt know it yet."

The Firewatcher cocked his brow at this change of subject.

"She is not whole and something needs ro change for her. I thought to ask her to take several of my spearmen south. To make an introduction to the Lords of the Stone land so that they may learn their way of war and their wisdom. I would do this to enrich myself, but also to lever her into heading south again. I feel deeply she must see her own land again and then decide whether her place is here or there. I will ask her to nudge her and give her the choice to decide, but I think it best and this is partly a chance to compel her duty to step in the same way her heart directs."

Hathcyn pressed a larger and fuller mug into the hand of his friend.

"And now..."

Looked back and forth and side to side again.

"Let me tell you a tale. A tale worthy of the men they call Firewatchers. A tale that shall resound to your glory in the telling."

The Firewatcher was curious at this strange twist in the evening.

"Look me in the eye and know that I speak the truth. Look."

He paused.

"I was kissed by the river daughter Dusk-Shadow." 

Dawn breaks late the following day and heavy hang the clouds above.  The youths who climb to the gabled peak of Wuduseld call down that they see lightning flashing on the slopes of the Misty Mountains as the gathered elders, grumbling all the while about stiff joints and old pains, emerge from the mead hall and descend the hill, following the path outside the palisade to the doom ring. 

With them go many of the folk of Woodland Hall who have no pressing business for though few know the tale whole, word has spread that the state of matters has shifted and grave news will be revealed.  And so it is in front of a crowd as great as any he has seen that Arbogast steps forward to raise his voice.  "Folk of the Wood, hear me!  No joy does it bring me to lay these tidings before you, but they must be heard and known." 

Turning slowly about to look as many in the eye as he may, he stops to point out Esgalwen where she stands next to Hathcyn, the two Elves and a small knot of the Greenstone Thegn's followers.  "Here stands Esgalwen of Gondor, who Men now name for Ætheldreám.  A great hero is she, known by name to all under the Western Eaves and far beyond!  Yet by her own word, and that of others whose honour is beyond reproach, I know now that before yester dawn she was struck by surprise and without cause by men in the service of Mogdred.  This they know for they followed their flight south along the river, guided by none other than the River-maiden Sunshadow, who blessed them with her kiss." 

Murmurs abound at this, for though the River-maidens are known to dally from time to time with mortals, rare indeed is the day when they choose to do so with those not of Balthi's folk.  Across the doom-ring, Mogdred's face is stony, betraying none of what may fill his heart.  "As you see," the Fire-watcher continues, "my friend was freed from her brief bondage, but not alone for another captive of the King of Tyrant's Hill was found beside her!" 

Seeing the moment come, Hathcyn steps aside to reveal Viglar, who moves hesitantly forward into what he clearly sees as a throng of enemies.  As he does so, the Foresthelm whispers "Now speak, and speak truly." 

"Ah...  Greetings to all you good wood-folk," he begins.  "I'm Viglar, aethling of my father's folk, and this is my tale..." 

Though nerves make him stutter and his tale wanders near as much as it did over long, lazy hours in the boat, the son of Viglund tells of his journey to Dol Guldur, and of Mogdred's presence at that black council.  He tells of the plot for Viglund to seize the Old Ford and, in tones dripping with wounded pride, of Mogdred's interruption of those plans and his own capture. 

Around the ring, the companions watch the faces of the elders.  Some show disbelief, others outrage, fear or simple shock.  It is plain that some are rethinking their former support for the son of Ingomer.  But how many, wonders Gwaithlim, and who now do they look to?


:ooc: I'm going to do some Insight rolls to see how well you can gauge the current levels of support for each candidate.  You can each get another roll after watching the debate for a few hours. 

Arbogast


Esgalwen


Gwaithlim


Hathcyn


Luindîs

:ooc: Looks like Arbogast and Esgalwen did acceptably well, and Hathcyn reasonably so.  The two Elves, perhaps less used to reading mortal faces, not so much. 

In any case, I've marked the elders and their preferred candidates that you've managed to collectively riddle out in the table. 

EDIT:  Oh, and all successful rolls are :csu:.

Hathcyn waits for the words of Viglar to settle on the elders then pulls him back.

"Good, you may find the truth suits you." He whispers and pats his shoulder.

The Longspear steps forward, his noble armor oiled and buffed. (Bonus encounter die and tolerance improvement)

"Elders, when last I spoke my words rose a few hackles. Now however, we stand in the Doom Ring and not the Council Hall. Some may say to themselves, 'this is Viglar wife brother to the Longspear, this may be a plot.' They would be wrong. Any who know or seek to ask will find I am not held fondly by my wife's kin. Not on this word alone do I provide proof."

Hathcyn motioned to the circle and a bundle was brought forth. Wrapped in a red cloak the form was dropped near Mogdred. The Longspear bent and uncovered the face of the deadman.

"Here! In proof twice told I offer this wergeld to Mogdred for the abduction of my War-chief. A sword-thegn I return to you."

He looked from Mogdred to the Elders, "but that is not all."

"Listen now to the tale of the crofters, 'subjects' of this petty tyrant. Let their words be added to the scale of the other proofs."

 :ooc: i have a follow up post but I am waiting to see how the farmers are received and if anyone else has comment.

:ooc: Yep, sorry.  Post coming as soon as I can - not too long of one either.

Forth stand the crofter couple, the husband plainly drawing strength and courage from the wife's ire.  Their dress, drab and plain next to Hathcyn's lordly armour and helm, is still stained with the blood of their wounded son, and the husband shudders to see once again the dead man at Mogdred's feet. 

"Most of you know us," the croft-wife begins, "for we are close kin to those who dwell here.  But, for the newcomers," (here she shoots a barbed look at the two Elves) "I am Woda daughter of Havnar, and this is my husband Ewo son of Ewolc.  Long have we enjoyed the protection of the river and the warriors of Wuduseld, but the days are growing dark and no longer can these alone defend our hearth.  When word came to us of the victory of King Mogdred we rejoiced, for at last here was one who had the strength of spears to defend the folk!"

Ewo nods and takes up the tale. "To his side our boy went, carrying out vow of support.  When he returned, he brought with him three strong warriors, one of whom now lies here before you and the others will be buried in mounds near our home, for they brought also this man," he says, pointing to Viglar,"and a promise of three fat swine in the autumn in payment for his keeping."

Another round of murmuring begins around the outskirts of the ring and many of the assembled elders look visibly nonplussed.  Esgalwen, folk-wise from years of dwelling among the clans of the values leans toward the Elves and whispers "By the laws of the wood-folk, such a valuable captive should have been brought to the hall to be placed in the keeping of the clan as a whole. By not doing so, Mogdred seems to show that he doesn't trust them."

"Should that bind a king, though?" asks Luindîs, "Especially one who was disowned by his kin?"

"The Woodmen are proud," the Ranger answers "and will think twice before pledging themselves to one who holds their laws and customs lightly."  Or so I hope, she adds to herself.

Having stood back from the ring with the beginning of the crofters' tale, Hathcyn now shushes the whisperings around him as the two continue.

"... before the arrival of this man, who named himself for Haftmund, with the tall woman there bound and beaten" Ewo gestures first at the dead man in his red cloak and then at Esgalwen.  "This was not part of our bargain with the king, but three swine is three swine and so we agreed to hold her as well."  He finishes with a recounting of the coming of the Fellowship to the Ranger's rescue speaking plainly of their terror at the raid and the near-slaying of their son.

As the two step from the doom ring, Mogdred folds his arms and maintains his stony face.  Instead, it is Dagmar (https://rpg.avioc.org/boards/index.php?msg=35737) who stands forth, bright the morning sun on her golden bracelets.  "True it is that the king saw fit to keep Viglar apart from the great Woodland Hall, for he knows that many foemen, in willing league with the dark things of the Wood, dwell even by the light of bright fires.  He could not risk the son of such a one being freed to wreak further woe upon the innocent."

Casting her gaze now at the laik of Haftmund, she adds "This man knew Esgalwen of Gondor, for years ago she dwelt among us and accepted the generous hospitality of the king's own table.  When he saw that she now strives against those who took her in as a lone and pitiful wanderer, his wrath overtook him and he acted rashly, and without the command of the king."

As she speaks, one of the warriors who stand behind her, mailed but without weapons, shifts uneasily.  Hathcyn, Esgalwen and Arbogast mark the face of Athala the Leofring come, it seems, into the service of he who she accounted a thrall-taker and officer of Dol Guldur. 

"What further proofs are needed as to the perfidy of this man?"

In later ages he was know as Hathycn, Half-King of the Road. In this hour he spoke his true name before the council and cast a mighty spell.

"I am Eacgrl, the fox-brother, kin-slayer, Long-spear, the hall burner, spider hunter, tree feller and road builder, wight foe, mountain climber, bear friend, standard bearer, stone riser, hound speaker and fish whisperer, wall builder, cow-herder, boat borrower, orc foe and spiders bane, ring sword giver, defender of Carrock, the Forest-helm of the Greenstone Land, Gate-warden of the Forest Gate, Thegn."

His voice rose high for all to hear. His noble armor glistened like fish scales in rainbows of oily color and in the far ancient customs, ill remembered and long forgot, he sang the spell for Mogdred's doom.

"Beneath the blood-red moon's bright gaze, 
Where shadows shift and shadows sway, 
The warrior's wraith, with wicked blade, 
Brought death upon the darkened glade. 

With iron hand, he struck the soul, 
His heart, a furnace, black and cold. 
The victim's cry, a wailing call, 
Echoed through the forest hall.

A kenning rang from his cruel deed, 
The "sword-song" sung with savage speed. 
The "raven's feast" was swiftly set, 
And men would weep and never forget.

The sky did darken, clouds did swell, 
As gods of old would cast their spell. 
No joy was found in blood-stained soil, 
No home for those who killed in toil.

The murderer's name seared in time, 
A shadow cast, a silent crime. 
But in the circle-stone, warriors spoke, 
Of how the red-streaked cloak did soak.

The blade, the blood, the life so lost— 
What is the price of life's dark cost?
This false, treasonous, uncrowned King
Axe-men, sword-men, blood they bring.

Slave, despot, unruly, ungrateful son
In dark woods to shadow runs.
I name you. Mogdred, enemy of the wood and folk
Before your kin this doom is spoke!"

Silence filled the ring and assembled people, his words a dweomer no one soon broke by speaking for it hung upon all like a pall and the morning sun seemed dim.


:ooc: As we seem to be culminating here towards an end or at least a pause to the game I figured now was the time to reveal a literary device I have been toying with since way back when I made this character. Hathcyn wasnt his true name, this was the name he was know of in later days in the telling of these stories. That's why I was always adding epithets or mixing them up. As if the narrator were speaking of him.
The character goal was that one day he would be a Half-King of the region, since the woodmen and Beornings had no real kingship tradition. So this Mogdred King thing really underlines in my mind how his story went. Casting down a false King, uniting the Vigs to his own people through his wife and with strong influence over the Wood-men of the south. A crown-less king, Hathcyn. 

:ooc: Incredible.  The standard of both writing and storytelling in this game continues to blow me away.

:ooc: Right, we've all waited long enough!  Let's see how Hathcyn's (Eacgrl's!) Song skill backs up his words!  I'm chucking in a +6 bonus in recognition of you actually writing out the poetry that spills from his lips:

Voices of the great and meek alike are already rising in ire towards Mogdred as the King of the Toft and Tyrant's Hill at last breaks his silence.  "Such brave words!  But I cannot but ask myself what manner of a Man names himself for half a king?  Truly, the night darkens around us and it is for those of us who dare to seize the brand and light the warding-fire.  Half measures shall not see us through what is to come!" 

"And what is to come, say you?" asks Caewin, a fey look in his eye.  "Will your strength alone defeat those who even now make war upon us, upon all of Rhovanion, from their wains?  Will you -"

His questioning is cut short by the roaring of Mogdred, his hoarded patience at last all spent.  "What foe is this, you gilt-clad fool?  The kings of Rhovanion are long buried and the wainriders now spoken of only in tales of old!"  Turning his gaze from the lord of the Sunstead, he addresses the Doom-Ring and the gathered folk beyond it.  "I tire of this pass-time for the old and the weak of heart!  Hear the word of a king: this morn you shall kneel and hail me as your lord and giver of laws, and in return I will be your shield against the darkness and your sword against your foes.  Those who will not bow to me will find no friendship, but be left to their own defences when the orc, the wolf and the spider draw near!  I will pay no heed to the wailing of their womenfolk, nor their children-"

And here, he is at last silenced for unseen behind him Athala, who has moved like a stalking cat closer and closer to him, draws her knife and swift as a falling star plunges it into his throat.  As Mogdred's words are mangled into a shrieking gurgle she has time enough to look at him and ask "What of their children?  Will you make thralls of them and bring them before the Necromancer, as you did to me?" 

The Ring at once erupts into chaos.  Mogdred's men surge forward, seizing Athala as she holds high her bloody knife for all to see.  "Mogdred's reign is ended. Death to slavers! " she cries as they cast her and plunge their own knives into her belly, her back, her neck, staining the soil with more blood of the guilty and the executioner both.

Hathcyn, called Foresthelm, stood at the center of the Doomring. His helmet gleamed with the sheen of battle and the fire of resolve. His eyes, sharp as the keenest blade, flickered over the gathered crowd of warriors and elders, all silenced by the grim deed that had just transpired.

Before him, Athala stood with bloodstained hands, her eyes wide but unwavering, her chest rising and falling in quickened breaths. The tyrant lay dead at her feet, a man whose name had been cursed in every village, town, and hut. A man whose reign had poisoned the land, whose cruelty had scarred its people. His throat had been cut by Athala, and his lifeblood spilled upon the ancient stones, the red of it mingling with the black earth like a final prayer.

Athala was no longer a slave—no longer a mere shadow of a woman bound by chains. She had risen, a vengeful flame burning in her heart. She had struck the tyrant down with the strength of one who had nothing left to lose, but everything to reclaim.

The air hummed with tension, the blood of the fallen tyrant still fresh on the ground. Hathcyn, stoic as the forest itself, stepped forward. Her eyes met his, wild and yet tempered by the fire of her deeds then the light dying in her eyes as the blades of the men of Tyrannt's Hill blades bared descended.

"Traitor!" one of the guards spat, his voice like the crack of a whip. "Murderer!"

The crowd stirred, but none moved to intervene. The doom of the Doomring had claimed them all.

Athala crumpled to the earth, her life spilling away with the blood of the tyrant. Her eyes, once bright with defiance, dimmed as the forest seemed to mourn with her. The earth drank deeply as the blood mingled and doom found them both.

The air in the Doomring grew thick with tension, and the silence that followed the tyrant's fall was soon shattered by the cries of those who had witnessed the death of their ruler. The stone circle, ancient and weathered, seemed to groan under the weight of history as the council of elders, long out of touch with the pulse of the land, convened in haste. Their voices, trembling with fear and disbelief, echoed beneath the twisted branches that loomed like dark hands above them.

It was not a gathering of unity, but a convocation of broken hopes and whispered doubts.

The elders, gray-haired and frail, muttered amongst themselves, their voices a tangled mess of fear and uncertainty. Few of them had seen a true battle in years, let alone fought one. They were the keepers of old knowledge, guardians of lore and tradition, yet they had failed to recognize the shifting tides of the world beyond their wooden halls.

The arguing grew louder, voices overlapping, as the once-proud council descended into madness. Hathcyn could not bear it. His hands tightened on the shaft of his spear as his gaze flicked to Athala's crumpled form, still lying amidst the stone circle, her breath gone. The guards moved in like a pack of wolves, still keeping their distance from the elders, knowing the old men and women held no sway over the weapons in their hands.

"There is no time for this," Hathcyn growled, his voice rising above the clamor, his eyes flashing with the urgency of the moment. "The fate of this land lies not in our petty quarrels, but in what is to come after this."

As the chaos roiled within the Doomring, the council of elders, once a pillar of stability, had crumbled into disarray. Athala, the murderer and savior, lay broken on the earth, and the guards, having done their grisly work, now lingered like vultures over the remains of both the tyrant and the woman.

Hathcyn's mind raced, his thoughts burning with urgency. He could feel the weight of the moment crushing him, but within the weight, he saw one final chance. Still a breath of hope.

"Arbogast," Hathcyn called out, his voice reverberating with purpose. He gripped the arm of his friend and looked deep into him. "You are the one who has the strength and wisdom to carry them through this dark hour. Now, NOW is your time to lead and prove that you are the best leader of the Wood-men. You alone have the courage to bear it, show these folk here and now that it is true. This is your chance, bought in blood. You must bring them through this darkness for no one else will."

 :ooc:
Ok Paul, here is your chance to drop the LM screen for a moment, dig deep, and take back the mantle of player.

The chaos in the hall swept over her like an ocean wave - something she had only seen once, as a young girl when her father had taken her to Linhir in the far south of Gondor. The cries of men and women, along with the sound of death and dying, filled her ears.

It was too much. Esgalwen, daughter of Eradan had seen enough. She had dealt enough. She had been wounded enough. Too many now gone - friends, children, family... all too much and all seeming for naught.

She had come to the Vale, what seemed a lifetime ago, on an errand to learn. To find answers for a Steward that was now lying in the halls of his fathers. She escaped death even as her ranger companions were taken by orc blades. To justify her survival, the noblewoman-turned-ranger then attempted to take on the mantle of diplomacy, speaking to and for her new Lord in Gondor. It was by her machinations that Mogdred, now bleeding out the last of his life, received the weapons of war that he bared against his own.

It was too much.

Esgalwen felt at the scars under her leather jerkin. In the cacophony of her thoughts, the ghost of Orophin came to her. The Elf gave her a pitied smile and he spoke, "It is impossible to stave off evil from outside, when it grows within. Do not fret this decision, Esgalwen, daughter of Eradan. They will have to find their own way through the Shadow. You have given all you could."

Tears filled her eyes, even as Hathcyn called Arbogast to the fore. She drew Nimronyn from its scabbard, laying the blade atop the long table before her, and quietly slipped from the hall.

A ranger and warrior no more - the woman of Gondor moved with those that fled the hilltop. She made quick her stop in the tent where her things were stored, and then while she could, saddled her horse and rode from Woodland Hall.

---

:ooc: Gents, this is a Woodmen story anymore. I don't have anything left to contribute with my Gondorian. Steve brought her into the game nearly ten years ago and left her for me to assume as an NPC, and then my character. I see her too torn between duty to home and bloodline then trying to aid in unifying a people that are not hers. I can see her watching Arbogast and Lindwine grow a family and wondering if the wounds she has taken over the years has made her barren. I can see this failure with Mogdred breaking her resolve, as I wrote above.

I will continue to read our story, as it comes to whatever conclusion is in store, but Esgalwen removes herself from this tale. If she gets home, I see her returning to the obscurity of minor nobility within the courts of Minas Tirith, where she will do her duty and be betrothed to another of the blood of Númenor.

Hopefully, you all find this an appropriate end to her tale.

Gwaithlim watched in horror as the events unfold before him.  Never before did he feel absolutely powerless to stop them as well.  Still watching from the sidelines, his head swims as the companionship he's known for sometime seem to dissolve and tear apart at the same time.  These tidings are dark indeed for the Men on this side of the Misty Mountains and he is not sure that he can be of much more service to them.

Then he sees something that confirms his fears, Esgalwen dropping her blade with a clang to the table and leave with bitter tears and sorrow.  He knew those tears well, having shed them himself in ages past.  He tries to get to her before she leaves but is unable to make his way through the throng.  He does grab her blade, for if she is to leave this place and tread the paths back to her people, there are still perils to face along the way.

Finally leaving the tent, he searches over the camp to find the Gondorian woman.  "Lady, I believe you dropped this."  She could barely look at the elf or the blade in his hand.  "Leave it.  I renounce all that I have here in these lands and in the north.  I cannot bear this sword any further for its memory holds too much grief and sorrow, where now I find that all that I have strived to build sundered or turned to ill."

The elf nods, figuring her mood as much.  "Where will you go now?"

"I will return to my people.  I will return to Gondor and do the what is expected of a good woman of noble lineage.  I must leave all of this behind, it has broken me."

"If you are to return to the south, there are many perils upon that road and without such a weapon, you may not go very far.  If you would allow, let me accompany you back at least as far as Lorien.  I know those folk and the Lady of the Wood protects a fair part of the rest of your journey, her folk could be of assistance to you even if but some rest for a little while."

Looking back at the tent and then north into the lands of Grimbeorn.  "Our friends' trials are only starting but in this new chapter, we are but a footnote."

 :ooc: I believe Gwaithlim's part in this tale is also come to a close for these matters are beyond his ability to influence or make meaningful support.

Esgalwen looked into the eyes of Gwaithlim and saw those of Orophin looking back - not the haunted eyes of Morirúsë that she remembered.

She gave a nod. A smile.

"I would like that, Sir Elf."

She took the heavy weight of Nimronyn into her hand once again and then slid it into its scabbard. It would certainly make for an heirloom of her house, if naught else.

Quote from: Telcontar on Jan 03, 2025, 04:16 PM:ooc:
Ok Paul, here is your chance to drop the LM screen for a moment, dig deep, and take back the mantle of player.

:ooc: Let's see what I can do, then.  If this is the end of our tale, let's make it a good one.

Arbogast is going to roll Awe - not his best skill, but the one that's called for right now:

:ooc: That's the kind of roll I wanted!  Now for some appropriate music:

Arbogast's eyes widen in shock and dismay as he watches the twin murders as a man frozen, a mere beholder to the spilling of blood and the defiling of the doom-ring.  Then, as all around him falls into disorder, the voice of Hathcyn, his brother by the shedding of blood and the sworn man of Grimbeorn his friend of old, cuts through the noise: "Now, NOW is your time to lead and prove that you are the best leader of the Wood-men!" 

Like water thrown on a heavy sleeper, the words shock him into action, and at once he knows what must be done.  "My boon companion," he replies, "If you would have me lead, then fetch me the horn from the high mead-hall!" 

Breaking into a triumphant grin, Hathcyn turns and on feet fleet as a mountain stream races to the gates of Wuduseld, left open in honour of the occasion despite the imminent threat of rain.  He does not stop to explain himself to the door-warden, nor to the gangly-limbed youth set to guard the the Great War-Horn of the Hunter (https://rpg.avioc.org/boards/index.php?msg=35697), but seizes the horn in both hands and is halfway to the door calling "No time to explain!" before any might lift a hand to stop him. 

Returning to the doom-ring, he sees that the scene is, if anything, worse than when he left.  Old women press forward against the men of Tyrant's Hill, their beseeching to try the Staunching Song lost in the chaos and the warriors' blood-slick knives half-raised to stop them.  Nearby Caewin, the light of madness shining in his eyes, gives commands to no-one who harkens to him and various of the assembled elders jab accusing fingers at each other, grey beards flecked with spittle and accusations of treachery.  Neither Esgalwen nor Gwaithlim are anywhere to be seen, but Luindîs stands at the base of a stone upon which the Fire-watcher has climbed and now balances awkwardly. 

As the Longspear passes to him the horn, Arbogast wastes no time bringing it to his lips and calling forth a note long and clear and loud enough to carry above every raised voice and cursing tongue.  "MEN OF THE WOOD, HARKEN!" he calls thereafter in a voice he has trained to carry above the clangor of battle, and bidden or not, each head turns in his direction. 

"Not for the first time, that which never should have come to pass is upon us, and we must be resolute in our response!  But instead we have fallen to bickering and recrimination!  You!" he points to the warriors who surround the two bloodied bodies, "let the healers through to do what they may!"  And to his great satisfaction, they do so, though it is plain that little chance remains to save either. 

"Warriors, hunters, wayfarers all, hear me!  I came here not to seek the title of War-leader!"  His gaze sweeps the crowd, alighting on Caewin, the Helm of Peace now snug on his head.  "I came here not greedy for vain glory!"  He looks to the knot of Mogdred's men, fear and grief now plain on their faces.  "I came here not to seize power, nor to give voice to long-held grudges!"  He looks briefly toward Munderic, then away.  "I came here not at the bidding of any other, but to be the servant of my kin and folk, as ever I have sought to be!" 

He raises the horn above his head to catch the light that breaks for a moment through a gap between the clouds.  "No right have I to hold this horn, and the title of War-leader is not mine to take.  On the morrow, you may raise your axes against me, or you may turn aside from me and hear only your own counsels, but know this: on this day, I and no other will be the shield against the hand of the Shadow that besets us!" 


:ooc: Let's see how they take all that (with an Inspire roll):

For a heartbeat, then another, then a third, not a single word is spoken among the crowd, even the other claimants keeping their thoughts to themselves.  Then the Fire-watcher breaks the silence.  "Murderers though they be, the Men of the red circle came in good faith and in peace, and so shall they leave us.  Those who can, take the elders to the mead-hall.  Healers, if there be life in either of those two, see that they go with them and are laid in a place of safety..."

He has done it, Hathcyn thinks to himself.  Oh, there will be a formal choosing by the crones and greybeards, but few would speak for any other now that he has shown himself for what he is, and those that do will be argued around in time.  With a delighted grin on his face, he looks around for the Ranger and the grey Elf to share his joy. 

But they are gone.