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The courtyard was now quiet in the lamplight, after Arbogast had passed his judgement.

Then came the sound of sobbing. The thing on the moss-carpeted ground that had once been a man now wept in deep, pathetic sobs. It was pitiable, but also nonredeemable. Too long had the crone lived in the shadows of Mirkwood doing things that were best hidden by the deep wood.

"Where will I go now?" he asked, his face pressed in the moss and fern. "This old keep is home...has been since long before." He lifted his head and Morirúsë saw his eyes and recognized the look. It was one of a man reaching back into the depths of memory, to a time that might have not have been so dark. A cracked tooth smile spread over the wrinkled face, "Maybe to where green carpets the ground and blue spreads across the sky...and...sunlight?"

The companions realized that this had once been a man. A normal man that lived his youth outside the wood. Perhaps he had been a Woodman.

Fyndylsnitch rose to his knees, his hands reaching out around him to find his staff that aided his old body. He turned an inquisitive eye to Arbogast, "May I take my pets with me? Can I retrieve them from the cold wells?"

It was Esgalwen that spoke first, "What pets, old man? And what are the cold wells?"

"My pets...I tend them. I take care of them...and they take care of me."

The Dúnadan felt ice run in her veins, as she thought of the undead things that had just recently faded from the courtyard. Her hand tightened on her sword, "Surely you do not mean the dead things that you find company with?"

"Dead? Dead things?" They could see the old crone making the connection to the wraiths, "Oh no...they are not my friends. They just come when Fyndylsnitch calls. No, my friends are in the cold wells."

Grimbeorn still didn't like any of this.  They should've dispensed a much more final judgement than the one that was given.  Only a growl of disapproval came from as indication of his true feelings.

Arbogast does not move his foot from the staff, keeping it pinned firmly to the floor.  "Speak to us of your pets, wizened one," he says, fatigue lending a heartless edge to his words.  "Nothing will you bear from here - living, dead or otherwise - but that we are satisfied that you shall wreak no further evil with it." 


:ooc: An Awe roll might be the go here.  Matt, Tom, this is your time to shine.

 :ooc: why not? Grrrrrrrrr I'm scary

 :00:

The old man jumped at Grimbeorn's snarl.

"They come to me in ones and twos. Sometimes lost and hungry. Sometimes on foolish journeys. Who knows what would bring them so deep into the wood, but my friends steer them to the keep." A new, eerie smile crossed the old man's face in the soft light of the lamp. It seemed the thin flesh of his lips might split, as they drew tight across his foul teeth. "Some try to get away, but there is no where to go, really. Just here. With me."

"Who are they?" demanded Esgalwen. "Or what are they? And once more, where are these cold wells?"

Fyndylsnitch's bony hand raised to point in a direction back towards the old ruin. "There...the entrance is there."

The companions looked to where he pointed and saw another arched passage that was part of the castle, but yet separate in a ruined ancillary building. The archway was utter blackness.

"They are travelers, my Sweet One," he hissed at her in a gleeful way. Spittle gopped out of his mouth and onto his chin. "You will understand when you see. I speak to them. I sing with them...they make such beautiful songs! The tones range from high-pitched to low, deep moans. They are my pets and I take care of them!"

The last words were petulant - like a child. The old man looked down into the ferns and again changed his mad manner of speaking - now he whispered. "They are my pets. I take care of them. They please me...and if they don't..."

The companions strained to hear his words, but all could see him end by smacking his lips, as his thin tongue slid across.

:ooc: Yeah, it did occur to me to wonder what he was eating all the way out here.

Morirúsë stood tall and kept the light of the lamp held aloft. The brilliance of it shown in the shadowed courtyard and seemed to rebel against the filthy feeling of the place.

"Grimbeorn. You are destined to lead your people and it is to you that the hard decisions should start to fall. What judgement will you pass against this loathsome creature that lives in the shadow and bends the bodies of the dead to its purpose? Your time and the time of your people will be full of hard decisions, and this one is but a sampling of the weight of lordship. What is your will in this matter? For I will see it done."

The naked blade was still in the hands of the Noldo elf, his face calm and serene. None there held any doubt that the Elf would slay the creature if Grimbeorn willed it and not give it a second thought. Esgalwen thought it cold, but also wondered what the endless war against orcs and the shadow would do to her. Would any of them still possess mercy if they had fought for only a fraction of the time of the elf.

Arbogast briefly favours Morirúsë with a dark look.  What is this, then?  Are the Elves ever to be the overlords of Men, to grant it to one line to pass judgement and not to the next?  This the pride of Men will not gladly suffer, nor long... 

A second later, though, his characteristic patience reasserts itself, and the Shadow within him recedes.  Be not hasty, he tells himself.  Long has our road been, and I am exhausted in body and spirit.  I do not rule this fellowship, nor does Morirúsë mean to undermine me.  And there is still one important matter left un-settled.

"Wait a while before you make your judgement, friend," he says, a heartbeat later.  "For you have not yet all the knowledge on which to base it."  He takes up Fyndylsnitch's staff (for the old stories always mention the staves of wizards and sorcerors) and, once his war gear is once more stowed away, a torch from where it lies guttering in the strange green light.  Holding the torch aloft, he moves toward the dark entrance to the Cold Wells. 

"Esgalwen," he says as he passes the warrior-woman, "will you join me?"

With Nimronyn held before her, Esgalwen nodded at Arbogast's request.

The two walked to where the portal opened into the stone structure. The keystone came to a point like an arrowhead, but was Dwarven in its design. The craftsmen who built the keep built it for strength, but still maintained the aesthetics of their folk. For a brief moment Esgalwen wished that Rorin was with them, for surely the Dwarf would know the nature of this structure.

Light from the torch flared and popped in the settling fog that hung in the courtyard, and it cast into the opening. The two companions felt a chill. It was as if the darkness within did not want to reveal its secrets - instead devouring the light. Arbogast reached his hand in and moved the torch about to see and a stairwell down was revealed.

It was a narrow set of steps that disappeared into the earth. Atop the stairs within the chamber, on either side of the descent, was the rusted remains of barrel rings manufactured by some cooper in a distant past. The wood that might have once been tarred and bound within the iron bands was long gone - eaten by termites, rotted, or used as kindling for fires.

Cobwebs of normal sizes, but dense from many spiders weaving over many seasons, draped the ceiling and walls. The stairs were set with paver stones, but these were cracked and broken, and would make the descent dangerous.

Grimbeorn interjects.  "Stay thy hand but for the moment," he sighs.  "It is one to have stricken an enemy down in battle.  It's wholly different to do so whole when they are at your mercy.  We shall see if this worm knows how to speak without any deception.  If it proves false, it won't see it's next breath."

Arbogast lowers the torch flame, making sure that Esgalwen sees the broken and uneven stones of the stairwell.  Seeing her nod, he raises the flame again.  He considers unsheathing his axe, but after a moment's reflection decides that the flame may be more effective against whatever abides below and instead unslings his shield.  With that, he begins to descend. 

The elf guessed at what the fiendish ghoul hinted at, but knew as well that his companions would not heed him until they had drunk the cup of sorrow to the dregs. 

Esgalwen laid her hand on Arbogast's shoulder to stay him, "Let me go first. I believe our greatest ally in this well shall be light, so allow me to go forward while you keep the torch aloft."

The Woodman started to object, but then realized her logic was sound and allowed her to start down the stairs first. To the two companions left behind to guard the old man, it was like two curtains of darkness fell closed behind the others as they descended. Morirúsë heard Fyndylsnitch chuckle to himself and whisper, "There they go."

There were a total of forty steps separated by a small landing that turned the two companions around, so as to enter deeper into the hill. The air was foul and still, and the temperature quickly dropped. The walls were wet - where they could be seen under the blanket of dusted webbing - and their breath could be seen. When at last they came to the landing of the second stair, a passage proceeded them straight into darkness. They could hear a tittering and whispers, along with low moaning sobs. The drip of water was also heard, torturous in its incessant pattern. The tunnel echoed in its emptiness, and so Arbogast could not be certain how many voices he heard.

They slowly moved forward, Esgalwen at the ready. The crunch of small mollusks living on the damp stone and snails, along with other unknown things, popped loudly with each step.

"Who?" came a soft, thin whisper. "Spider, ider, ider...went... went to...have to...eyes...pain. Who? Hel...looooo...hungry...snail...spider, ider, ider."

There was a barred chamber on their left. The bars looked like they were not part of the original construction, as the ironwork was shoddy - not representative of Dwarves. The bars were thin and considerably rusted, looking as if they might be broken by bare hands. Arbogast's torch flared into the chamber and revealed a nude, emaciated figure within. Scabs and sores covered the back and arms, along with scars from long-term punishment. The cell was rancid with human feces and other waste.

"Pain..." hissed the person, who's back was to both the companions. Its hands reached for the eyes, and Esgalwen knew that the torchlight was the cause. Arbogast quickly moved it to the side, so as not to allow the full light to enter the cell. The effect was immediately seen, as the prisoner lowered its hands and slowly turned an insane eye to the heroes.

"Hel....loooo"

Outside, in the courtyard above, Fyndylsnitch sat looking at the mossy ground, all the while ignoring his two guards. He whispered to himself, "First comes Biter...he's a nasty one."

Morirúsë was stoic and silent, this was a lesson for his companions that would teach itself. He could regale them with tales of other times and places, but this lesson was best learned first hand.

Then he was lost. His mind filled with its own memories of long ago. He recalled clearly the faces of friends and comrades that had escaped or been released from the Dark Enemy of the world. In those days the folk of Caranthir swore great oaths to one another to not allow each other to be taken captive. To slay each other if wounded or let sharp darts fly from bows if they were overcome. Such was their fear of the dark places of Angbad. 

Of all those who returned, by redemption, by cunning escape, or by the malice of the enemy to do harm, none were the same. None who saw their pained faces believed for a moment they would be healed of it. In their hearts they grew hard, the gruesome battles with the enemy meant no quarter.

He returned to the present and felt in his hand the ancient sword bright, sharp, ready, willing to bite. Was he the sword, or was the sword him?

He heard the creature chuckle.

Here the lesson would be learned again thought Morirúsë they will learn as I did the malice of the enemy.

:ooc: Okay, Arbogast is going to try for some Insight to see just how much person-ness is left in this guy:

It is all Arbogast can do to repress a visible shudder at the sight of the wretch before him, and try as he might, he cannot muster the courage to meet the creature's eyes.  Without a word, he moves on to the next cell. 


:ooc: Just as a matter of interest, how many cells can we see in this corridor? 

:ooc: Paul, I attached a pic below that envisions my mental image of the cold wells.

I think of them as once cold storage and an actual well source for water, back when the Dwarves built the keep. The cold wells were then turned into pens by the orcs, or maybe evil men of Mirkwood.

The pic illustrates the layout, if not how it actually appears in terms of lighting. There are a total of six actual pens - four on one side, two on the other.

I think you know, too, that your Insight was not enough. I will post again with more story in a moment - have to help my daughter.

Esgalwen stepped back in horror at the sight of what had once been a man. The naked body had been mutilated in areas unclean and both wondered if they had been self-inflicted, in his madness.

They quickly moved to look in the next cell down and were once more greeted by an abomination. The skeletal figure within was sadly alive, and lay in a fetal position moaning in a deep, guttural way. Arbogast could see it was a woman and her left leg was gone at the knee. The wound was rancid with corruption - the flesh a blackish-green and smelling horribly, among the other horrible smells.

Again they moved to the next pen, only to find another scene like before. How these people were still alive was astounding, unless some dark power was at work here. How anyone could do what was done, to another human being, was beyond the pale.

Esgalwen wanted to wretch, but struggled to keep her wits and composure. There were three more cells and she was not sure she wished to see anymore. She turned to look behind her and the ghoulish facade of a skeletal man was before her. He stood at the bars of his pen and reached out towards her. What teeth he had were bared and he gnashed them hungrily.

"I smell your blood!" he hissed. "I smell your flesh. It is fresh and ripe...so much better than what rots down below."

The Dúnadan woman reeled backwards, bringing Nimronyn about to swipe at the terrible visage. It was then that she felt the floor under her feet give way...

Grimbeorn began to worry for his friends. They had been down there too long and he wanted to go down to see what was keeping them.

"Careful your step..." The sound of the old man making whispered japes, once more, brought both companions around to stare into his glee-filled eyes.

---

:ooc: First, I need a Corruption test TN 18 from both Arbogast and Esgalwen, due to this most Blighted of places.

Second, I need a TN 18 Awareness roll from both Arbogast and Esgalwen, followed up by an Athletics roll for both. The TN for the Athletics roll will be determined by the degree of success for the Awareness roll.

The Awareness is for them to notice the trap door in the floor of the cold wells. If successful, the Athletics roll needed for both will be 18 (great success 16, extraordinary success or  :g: will be 14).

The Athletics test will be for Esgalwen to either save herself from falling, or Arbogast catching her arm and keeping her from falling. A fail by both will mean she disappears into the hole.

Arbogast's weariness will play into all rolls.

I will make the rolls in a new post.

:ooc: TEST ROLLS

Corruption test
TN 18 Wisdom 4d for both PC's



Awareness test
TN 18 Awareness 2d for both PC's



Athletics test
TN determined by Awareness success above Athletics 2d for both PC's

:ooc: Results

Wisdom test
• Arbogast crushes the Wisdom save with a 20 success

• Esgalwen fails the Wisdom save with a 15

Awareness
• Arbogast barely failed his roll with a 17; he could make that a success with a :vv:, but it will not benefit his Athletics roll by reducing that TN.

• Esgalwen fails her roll with a 9

Ahtletics
• Both PC's fail their rolls with an 11 and a 5, respectively.

In a flurry of activity, Arbogast saw Esgalwen react in horror to the sickly man. The light from his torch flashed about, as he twisted and turned from each terrible scene.

The skeleton of a man grasping at his companion.

The sound of Esgalwen stumbling.

And she was gone.

A gurgled laugh emanated from the prisoner as Arbogast looked at the tilted floor where his friend had just stepped and then fallen through.

:ooc: I know this scene isn't very 'Tolkien', but I hope it is okay.

The books speak generally of the horrors of the Shadow, but never goes into great detail. Well, I like details and I think a little horror is good for every RPG.

Anyway, if this type of scene takes from your Middle-earth, let me know and I will either keep them limited, or not at all.

 :ooc: No problem here, Morgoth did worse to the Elves to corrupt them into orc filth.  Sauron no doubt hasn't done any less, nor Saruman to create the Urukhai.

:ooc: Same here.  As a long-time Call of Cthulhu GM, I like a bit of The Creepy. 

 :ooc: Now that is a game I have always wanted to try, but have never had the chance.

Arbogast's wordless cry echoes up the ancient stairwell before emerging, broken and distorted, into the courtyard.  

In the darkness beneath the earth, Arbogast thrusts the torch at the skeletal figure, driving it back from the bars as it recoils from the flame.  Paying as much heed as he can to where the Dúnadan woman trod, he feels around until he finds the hinge of the trap door, then depresses it enough that he can fit the torch through the gap.  Below the lid, in a rough-hewn pit some twenty feet deep, lies Esgalwen, silent and still.  In the flickering torchlight, the Fire-watcher cannot mark whether she still breathes.  

Once more, his voice echoes from the darkness as if from the throat of some ancient and hoary beast.  "Ho!  Bring rope!  Bring the lamp!  And BRING THE WORM WHO WOULD BE THE NEXT NECROMANCER!"

 :ooc: Grimbeorn and Morirúsë will need to roll Awareness rolls TN 18 to hear Arbogast's call.

I also want to poll the players - does the company carry rope? It has never been said what makes up your Traveling Gear, and I am fine if you have it with you. I just want each player to honestly answer the question for their PC, as to whether you believe he has rope on his person.

:ooc: Awareness

TN 18 Awareness by PC

Arbogast sat in his own silence, although around him the shrieks of the insane filled the chamber.

He was unsure if they had heard. Should he return to the surface and leave her alone? Should he wait longer?

In the courtyard, the two companions watched their captive, oblivious to anything going on below.

 :ooc: Grimbeorn is of course deaf to anything but his own thoughts.  As for rope, nope for the Beorning.

Morirúsë stood silently, as if carved from stone or frozen in some ancient spell. He heard nothing from below and waited only for the drama to play its course.

Hearing no answer from above, Arbogast begins to think desperately.  He certainly has no rope to hand, and there is nothing about the dungeon that might suffice.  But then he recalls the tapestries and banners that adorned the hall above.  Old and mildewed as they are, they may yet be strong enough to bear the weight of the fallen woman. 

He goes to climb the stairs but stops, turns back and uses the Warden's Axe to wedge the trap door open, making sure that the bearded head is secure on the lip of the pit, and that it is well beyond the reach of any in the cells. 

Emerging once more from the darkness below, he looks to Grimbeorn and Morirúsë.  "Our captive has attempted to betray us, and Esgalwen is in urgent need of aid.  Come, please, and help me.  I would spare you both the sight of what abides beneath our feet, but this I cannot do alone." 

The elf looked at the face of the man as he returned to the courtyard, and simply nodded when he spoke. Internally the ancient elf girded himself to be confronted with more horrors, not new, for there was little that would be new, but more he expected to be burdened with.

By the scruff of what could only be called a neck due it being between head and shoulders, Grimbeorn grabs the pitiful creature and drags it not so kindly with at full pace into the blackness whence went and came his companion.

With Morirúsë's help, Arbogast sets about cutting down the sturdiest looking wall hangings and fashioning them into a sling long enough to reach the bottom of the pit, and large enough to contain a Man - or a woman. 

"You and Grimbeorn are each mightier than I," he says.  "When we go below, you two will need to lower me into the pit so that I can place Esgalwen in the sling." 



:ooc: Please, please please don't make either of us roll Craft for this.    [<

The makeshift sling complete, the trio - along with their captive - moved to the dark archway and started down. Morirúsë led the way with his lamp, allowing Arbogast to carry the heavy tapestry-made sling.

Grimbeorn felt the same disgust at the sights and smells that came from the gated pens, which only made him handle Fyndylsnitch with a little less care. The Woodman hurried down to where his axe still held open the pivoting floor trap and he went to his knees to begin to lower his fashioned rope. The Elf came quickly behind and beamed his light into the hole, and both stopped short - Esgalwen was not present below.

Only Nimronyn reflected the cold light from the lamp, but the base of the hole was empty of the woman.

Around them, the giggles and moans made the cold wells even more frigid.

Arbogast briefly considers asking to be lowered down into the pit, but the light, even from the elven lamp, is poor for searching.  Instead, he turns to Fyndylsnitch.  "Alas," he cries, loud enough to briefly silence the tittering from the cells.  "We are undone!  Your cunning has defeated the lordly emissary of Gondor!"

Dropping his face into his hands in a gesture of despair only half-feigned, he continues.  "Will you tell us what fate has befallen her, that we may bear the tale back to her noble kin in the lands to the south?"

:ooc:  I'll give you a Persuade roll, but can the difficulty be lowered to reflect Arbogast's Cunning trait?

:ooc: Or possibly not.  Y'know.  Only if you think he needs it.   :P

Morirúsë was silent in his work and silent in their descent into the pit of the tower. When they reached the hinged door trap the base nature of the Noldo elf was gaining control and the wisdom and patience he had attempted to maintain for those who would inherit this land slipped in the face of the horrors of the place.

The light of the lamp blazed, giving perhaps the first wholesome light the place had seen in years, but when the eyes of the elf fell upon the pit that the Lady of Gondor had fallen into the embers of his wrath were stoked. His skin was wane and pale, his features took on the look of sharp angles and deep shadows. He grew fey and wrathful while his eyes seemed to blaze and the his blade to flicker. In this moment any who knew his name, knew why he bore it.

He stood barely restrained from killing the creature and then doing the same to the wretches in the cell. His wrath and vengeance was held back by only a thread of restraint, that the creature would speak and spare him the task of ripping the place apart stone by malice filled stone.

Arbogast fed off the wrath of both of his companions and his plea came out in a hissed demand that hinted of repercussions. Fyndylsnitch jerked backward as the Woodman aimed his anger upon him, and pulled free from the Beorning's strong grip. Finally loose, he crab-walked backwards only to push himself up against the iron bars. From inside, thin, bony fingers grabbed and tore at his throat, while broken teeth tried to bite at his ear that was now against the cell door.

"AI!! Help me! Please, help me! I will tell you all if you aid me." The old man reached back to fend off the wretched creature within the cell, only to have his fingers grabbed and bitten.

The Elf and Men could see that the thing that had once been a man had torn flesh and drawn blood.

"TELL US NOW!" boomed Grimbeorn as he grabbed the old man and hoisted him into the air. The affect caused the tomb to become silent - the sad prisoners reeling back of their own volition in terror. They now, all three, cowed back in the darkness of their cells.

"Below," hissed Fyndylsnitch, his throat closed by the Beorning's grip. "They took her. They live below. They have lived here long before I came...and they are always ravenous. You must go now...you must hurry." The gnarled old hand was raised and pointed at the pit in the floor. "They will consume her."

:ooc: Ah, shitbiscuits.

Arbogast's gaze meets that of Grimbeorn.  "Lower him into the pit, if you would.  Perhaps he knows yet more than he has spoken.  Perhaps he can show us the way to these things he fears." 

"No."

The elf spoke.

"Slay him or release him, but do not take him with us. The only aid he can offer will be to summon more of his undead and I will not fight along side them and we have not the ability to watch him, he will only betray us. Smash the pivot so it will not close upon us and let us descend into the darkness and horror. May the price of wisdom not be too high to reclaim our friend."

The elf took two steps towards the Necromancer and his ghouls, sword raised...

:ooc: Awesome...

I do need a Corruption test from Grimbeorn and Morirúsë, as they are now down in this blighted place.

I will roll it in a minute.

Grimbeorn snarls at the creature in his grasp.  "Agreed," is all he says in response.  With his free hand, he opens the nearest cell and tosses Fyndylsnitch into it.  Slamming the door shut, he picks up a gnawed, broken bone and jams it into the lock and breaks it off to permanently disable it.  "Let's get Esgalwen and purge this place."

:ooc: Corruption tests

TN 18 Wisdom by PC

:ooc:

• Grimeborn succeeds with a 24 great success

• Morirúsë fails with a 13 and gains 1 Shadow  :csu:

Finding a large metal bar that lay rusting in a corner, Grimbeorn wedged it into the crack between the pivot and stone wall, and then put his entire body into pulling. The old bar began to bend, but not before there came a cracking pop. The pivot was cracked and the trap door now leaned at an odd angle, wedged by its own weight in the chute down.

The passage was open and it would not close behind them.

Morirúsë stared at the creature that was called Fyndylsnitch, as he lay bleeding in the darkness of the cell. Anger filled the Noldo's heart and all he wanted was to deliver this man to whatever Ilúvatar had in store for Men, beyond the bounds of life. It left an impression on his soul.

Arbogast secured the knotted tapestries to one of the strong iron bars and let them drop down into the darkness below. Hitching his shield onto his back, and securing the Warden's Axe, he began his descent. The torch that he had carried was dropped to him once he was on the ground below, and he held it aloft to see. The chute exited in a passage that looked like the one above. Arbogast could now see the engineering that had once been here - this was no secret trap set by the old wretch that had lived here, it was some kind of supply chute for box or barrel. The old gears and pulley system could be seen rotting and rusting on the walls. The Dwarves had probably cold stored in these old cells, and moved the empty - or perhaps full - containers from one level to the next. In its long disuse, the chute door in  the floor above had become an effective trap for the unwary.

The Woodman picked up Nimronyn and slid it into his belt, while Grimbeorn and then Morirúsë made their way down the makeshift rope.  With both lamp and torch, the hallway was now well lit and they could see footprints in the old dust and the evidence that Esgalwen had been dragged away.

As his companions climb down the line of tapestries, Arbogast examines the footprints by the light of the torch he holds aloft.  Despite the flickering shadows, it may be that there is some tale they may tell, even if it is only how many creatures bore Esgalwen from this place. 


:ooc: Rolling Riddle:

Arbogast was not the hunter Grimbeorn was, but he still was able to read tracks.

Whatever had drawn Esgalwen down the passage walked on two legs and there was at least five of the creatures, whatever they may be.

He hoped they were naught but Orcs, or goblins, or maybe even the legendary Men of Mirkwood - evil Men under the Necromancer's sway.

The stench in the pit was worse than that above, owing to the meager air flow from the entrance.  Down below, though, the putridness was ghastly.  "I doubt even fire or the light of day could fully cleanse this place," said the Beorning.  "We shall find out nonetheless if I am correct.  Come."  Without further word, he proceeded down the corridor in search of their friend amongst the madness and gripping the haft of the axe ever tighter.  He listened and sniffed the air as he could bear to find any sign of Esgalwen's location.

 :00:

Result +3 if the darkness/torchlight about would count as darkness at night

Grimbeorn walked past the cold wells that had once been used for food and material storage, but now it looked like they were nests. Straw and other odd items littered the floor of each, the original contents stolen or rotted away. He noted no sound or smells as he passed, but noises came from before him, as if a whisper was on the wind.

The other two companions followed in kind and they came at last to the end of the short corridor. The light of the lamp and torch opened into a vast vaulted chamber, presenting six  other openings, three arched on the far wall, two on their left and right, though only the left was arched - the other looked like it had been dug out. The doorway on the left side of the far wall was larger than the others, its arch decorated with stones of many colours. The Torch flickered and guttered revealing a flow of fresh air crossing the room. A narrow vertical chimney, leading to the surface was at one end of the chamber, while a set of stairs down was at the other.

A pool of water filled the better part of the vaulted room. In its center, lay the still form of Esgalwen. Her clothes had been torn at, as well as her flesh, but she was still in one piece. But was she alive?

To the companions right, emanating from the dug out hall came the whispered words.

Her soul will be mine and whence I am finished, you may have the meat that is left behind...but you will not touch her until I command.

To the order came a chorus of low mewling, or moaning.

 :ooc:
:00:


"Quiet, creature, we are not here to bandy words with the likes of you.  I am Grimbeorn, son of Beorn of the Carrock!  Your master above has been dealt with and we shall do the same with you or any in our way.  We have come for the woman and this place will be purged of the Darkness by one manner or another."

Arbogast, his spirits buoyed by Grimbeorn's bold words, keeps the torch high as he moves into the room.  He casts a wary eye at the pool, the bottom of which is obscured by the reflected torchlight. 


:ooc:  Doug, I'm guessing that the pool is pretty shallow, and that Esgalwen is lying in what is basically a large puddle.  Is this right?

:ooc:  You are correct, Paul.

Arbogast moved to Esgalwen and was pleased, upon close inspection, to see that she still lived. Her breathing was strong, but her brow bled where it had struck stone, as well as in other locations where her flesh had been torn.

Grimbeorn stood in defiance of the Shadow that spoke within the well, and beside him was the ancient Noldo.

From the right passage, a shape began to emerge from the darkness. It was itself a Shadow, but the blackness of its form glowed a terrible un-light.

FOOL! Hissed a whispered voice. Do you not know death when it is upon you? This is my realm and you are trapped within it, to suffer at my whim and to die at my command.

Behind the shape, other shapes shambled into the light of the torch and lamp. Where the one was a spectre of a Man, the others were corporeal, though they were not among the living. They moved like beasts, or curs, at the command of their master. Foul dwimmerlaiks! Living but not alive. Feeding of the flesh, but fulfilling only the need to corrupt.

The ghouls spread out in a semi-circle around their master. I am beholden not to any living master! The fool lives at my mercy, and makes recompense with the blood of the living.

:ooc: I was just about to ask if the voice we could hear sounded like the Spectre of Gundabad, but Doug has thoughtfully already answered that. 

What do you think, guys?  Fighting retreat back the way we came?  Or do we just try to hit these guys hard enough to put them down fast, despite the fact that two thirds of our number are ready to drop where they stand? 

:ooc: Just so you all know, the passage right behind the bad guys is a stairwell that leads outside. The wind is blowing into the well from here.

I will allow that Esgalwen is on the edge of consciousness. It will allow a Healing or an Awe test TN 14 to revive her. One will mean that herbs or natural minerals (smelling salts) are used, the other is to shock her awake.

The Degree of Success will determine how quickly she will be able to commence any assistance in your combat or flight.

Success - 4 rounds

Great Success - 2 rounds

Extraordinary success 1 round

Seeing that she still breathes, Arbogast wastes no time.  As the dwimmerlaiks and their spirit overlord spread out, the Fire-watcher feels in his belt pouch for the herbs that will awaken Esgalwen's mind and give strength to her limbs.  He chews them enough to allow their taste to begin to fill his mouth and then transfers it to hers, working her jaw as firmly as he dares.  Awaken, he bids her.  Wake, and bring the fire of the Dúnedain to this place!


:ooc: Rolling Healing:



I'll spend Hope if necessary. 

:ooc: ... which it is.  :csu:

:ooc: That is a success, and so she will be out of it for 4 rounds.

I will still allow the Awe roll, if someone wants to make it, but it will only affect the situation on a great or extraordinary success. No more Healing test options are allowed, as that method has been used.

She stood on a balcony that overlooked the lower two rings of the white city, Minas Tirith. Sunlight dappled across the many tiled roofs below, and sparkled off the spears of the city guard that stood the walls.

Her grandfather had passed and the family had just returned from the Tombs - where the remains of generations of Gondorians lay. His name was Elrohir and Esgalwen thought of him fondly. It was he that told her of their history back to the days of Númenór and how they were heir to the Blood of the Faithful - Númenóreans who settled in Ithilien beside their lord, Anárion. They resided in that fair land until 2460 T.A. when the Watchful Peace ended with the coming raids of Uruk-hai and the Haradrim. Soon after, they retreated from Osgiliath, as well, to the white city - Minas Anor, now called Minas Tirith.

Tears fell as she remembered the stories and the happy times she spent with her grandfather, and grandmother who had passed a number of years prior. She stared east, across the Pellenor, to where the distant ruin of Osgiliath could be seen sitting abreast the long ribbon of the Anduin. She looked further to the blue horizon where lay the lands of Ithilien - her home.

"Gwen," It was her father's voice. Gwen...it was the nickname he had always called her. "Gwen, I do not like this decision you have made. You know that. It was your grandfather that goaded you into taking up this mantle...a Ranger of Ithilien. He is gone now. You do not need to live up to the dreams that he had, the stories with which he filled your youth. You can come home now. Be a lady of Gondor. Be a lady of our House."

Esgalwen turned to her father, eyes still wet with tears and he felt sadness for her. He handed her a cup of wine that he had poured moments before. She gladly accepted it and took a long drink...but it was bitter. Esgalwen looked to the cup in her hands...

"Gwen, do you understand? You have a duty to your people. Your grandfather was right. In our veins is the blood of the Dúnedain. It is your duty to see that line carried on."

The bitterness in her mouth grew and she shook her head.

"Gwen...Dúnedain...Awaken," he bade her.  "Wake, and bring the fire of the Dúnedain to this place!"

Esgalwen's eyes opened to the flickering light of lamp and torch, in a cold and stony tomb. She felt the water underneath and her body began to tremble with cold. Arbogast's face was close to hers and she reached up to touch the wound on her head, and the pain that throbbed from there.

"Wake, and bring the fire of the Dúnedain to this place!" she heard again.

"Arbogast?" she whispered, as she rolled to her side in an attempt to push herself upright. Her head spun and she failed, but the Woodman could see she was now conscious.

Morirúsë walked slowly into the chamber. He still held a loft the Elven Lamp and it made his face seem chiseled and chipped from the very stone they walked under.

"You have no place here dark spirit! Long ago you should have passed the circles of the world and gone where the spirits of men are to go.
'Auta i lome!"

Morirúsë drew the long blade at his side and it was as if a shaft of moon light entered the chamber and shone upon the pool of water, mingling with the light of the lamp.

The elf stood to his full height, and raised his voice till it echoed and rolled down the hall.

"You have tasted death once, now you will meet oblivion."

That was an Awe roll btw.

Arbogast's heart lifts when he sees Esgalwen's eyes open, and still further when he hears her say his name.  Nodding to her in a way he hopes is encouraging, he readies his shield and stands by her side. 


:ooc: All right, gentlemen.  Let's get this done.  Arbogast will open in Defensive stance, protecting Esgalwen.  First Dwimmerlaik that comes too close gets a torch in the eye. 

With no fear in his eyes or heart, Grimbeorn ignores the curses as feeble from the shade.  Heartened by the sounds from his companion, Grimbeorn picks up the Dunadan woman, leaving one arm free to wield his axe.  Encumbered though he was, he was still able to fight.  "Move aside," the Beorning gestures with his weapon, "Depart this place lest you court oblivion this day."

 :ooc: I'll throw out another Awe if necessary.  Otherwise, Grimbeorn will be Defensive.

:ooc: Throw Awe, mate - the rolls don't cost you a red cent! 

 :ooc: Only if I don't roll  :~~:

 :00:
Use Hope if it will make a significant difference.

:ooc: Oooh, reverse fate-tempting!  Well played, sir!

 :ooc: open atance for me when that time comes.

An echoing laughter filled the chamber as Morirúsë stood forth, the lamp in hand.

The dread spirit's eyes blazed whiter in the darkness of its shadowy form, "Ancient fool! Your power is weak now in this world. It is you who fades, though you know it naught! You think I fear the light that shines from thine device. T'is no mighty work of your kin. T's nothing but a feeble ornament so as to make your mirth. It is you who will find your death here."

The Noldo was tired. His body was weary from travel, but more so from ages of the world. Time weighed on his being, though it could not affect him. Behind the undead spirit, the creatures  moved forward, as if they were dogs upon a chain waiting for their master's release. The light from the lamp diminished when the spirit raised its hand and exerted his power.

Arbogast stood at the ready to defend Esgalwen, should the monsters attack. She was slowly returning to herself, but still was unsteady.

And then Grimbeorn strode forth before the shade that wrestled with the Noldo Elf's spirit. The mighty Beorning shouted and a power that was within him, part of his lineage and still not understood, escaped forth as he bellowed.

Immediately the foul dwimmerlaiks were cowed and they scampered backwards into the shadows and raced in multiple directions to find a place of hiding. There also came a great wail that echoed from the other side of the grave and the dread-spirit seemed to diminish into a dark mist. The lamp of the Elves grew brighter of a sudden and the shadows within the room abated once more. The heroes were alone.

---

:ooc: Okay... here is how I am interpreting all of this:

First, Morirúsë only rolled a 14 due to Weariness. Though it might have been a good roll in normal times, you are all in a terrible Blighted place. I have been giving the Elf Lamp a little bit of strength over the weaker-willed, but it is still only a Sylvan lamp - not one of those created by the masters of Eregion.

Second, I am not sure if you guys are filling my request for an Awe roll to shock Esgalwen back to herself, or trying to cow the undead. I, of course, have assumed the latter in my above narrative and so the undeads' reactions.

As for Grimbeorn - with his Epic roll of achieving a :g: and two :%: :%:, I am applying this as a Forward Stance Intimidate manoeuvre even though combat has not yet begun. The result is to reduce up to 4 hate points divided equally among the Enemy.

So...I will say AWESOME roll! I will not say this is over.  >:D

The sound of Grimbeorn's rage shook Esgalwen, and the thick clouds within her mind were shredded away. She was truly aware of where she was now - the water around her saturating her clothes and chilling her body.

Again she pushed herself upright and moved to her knees. Looking up, the Ranger saw Nimronyn hanging on Arbogast's belt and everything came back to her - the terrible wretches within the cells, the tilting floor, and falling into darkness. Esgalwen reached out and Arbogast felt her hand clutch his arm as she pulled herself to her feet.

He met her eyes and she saw the caution in his own, and she nodded. "I am well enough to fight, my friend...but I will need my sword."

 :ooc: my intent was to awe the enemy.

Arbogast carefully returns Esgalwen's sword to her, noting as he does how her hand gripped the hilt strongly and without trembling.  "Come," he says to the companions, "let us away from this place.  The Shadow waxes about us as we tarry."

:ooc: give me some insight (narrative/dialogue) as to your path of departure. Or where you wanna go next if you wanna look around.

I am attaching the full map.

You guys have two choices:

1) go back to the chute where your makeshift rope is, back up a level, and then the stairs out to the ruined courtyard.

OR

2) go down the stairs and out the passage in front of you. Just know that it is pitch dark out there, as it is the middle of the night.

 :ooc: i think two is the leaser of two evils and the easier path

:ooc: Agreed, since:
a) we can make our way back to a defensible location in the Beacon Tower once we're outside, and
b) it's downhill, and Arbogast is seriously tired.

 :ooc:  Grimbeorn is going forward,
so #2.

:ooc: I have been in a bit of a quandary over the last two days not knowing if I should leave this scene end as it is, or would the fell-spirit seek to consume at least one of your PC's. After all, he had a viable candidate laying there when you guys interrupted.

Grimbeorn gave us an incredible roll of Awe, but this is the shadow's domain and...so I am in my quandary.

So, I am letting the dice determine what will happen next. Do not worry about what the dice roll means - I have it at this end.