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Woe, Grimbeorn son of the Skinchanger!  Woe, Esgalwen sword of Gondor! 
Woe, silver-voiced Tate!  Woe, steadfast Hathcyn! 
Hear now of the ill tidings brought to the hearth of the folk from north and south:
An army dark and desperate, a cruel king's to command
A friend lost and alone, from fellowship's bond to fettles of the foe fallen! 
Hear now the words of the ancient and wise:
As winter proves the shepherd and the storm proves the sailor,
So does the battle prove the warrior, and the judgement prove the king.

Without ceremony, Grimbeorn and Hathcyn put spurs to horses and ride for the north.  The House of Beorn is left in the care of Ingelram of the Leap, a firm friend of the Master of the Folk since the first days after the Battle of the Five Armies, and a man discreet enough not to inquiry as to the business that the young lord may have with the Dwarves. 

Skies and tracks alike are clear before them, the autumn wind driving the clouds from the Anduin vales and the thousand tasks, great and small, of the harvest calling all hands to the fields.  The cool, air burns in Grimbeorn's lungs, making him feel alive in a way that he has not since the flight from the skirmish.  Hathcyn, likewise feels the joy of being abroad at such a time, but finds that the cuts in his legs and belly still pain him, and that he cannot long abide the motion of a galloping steed. 


:ooc: Let's do some Travel rolls to see just how badly this wound pains him during the journey:

Grimbeorn

:00: 1d12 : 12, total 12
Rolled 4d6 : 5, 6, 2, 2, total 15

Hathcyn

:ooc: And it looks like the answer is 'yeah, not at all, actually'! 
I'm awarding Grimbeorn an AP for the roll, since it was a great success and he can tag his Hardy attribute.  (:csu:)

Nonetheless, Hathcyn is as proud a son of Wilderland as ever lived, and puts aside the cares of a body he knows to be healing to be by the side of his lord. 

Following broad paths, the pair come by late afternoon to a sorry sight.  Where once stood a fine and comely house (though sized, it seems, a little smaller than Men might ordinarily build) now stands naught but a ruin, some of its blackened timbers still standing and the stone floor below as yet unreclaimed by sod and weeds.  The Easterly Inn will no longer welcome travellers coming south from the Forest Gate. 

Though the smell of ash and smoke has long since been swept away by wind and rain, it would seem that fresh violence has been added to older sorrows.  The body of Curwen, one of the young followers from the morning when began the pursuit of orcs and outlaws, lies splayed in what may once have been a pantry, his skull brast asunder and his eyes and lips given up to scavenging beasts.  The presence of much old, dried blood tells of a desperate fight in the ruins. 

Though days have passed, the trail of several men can still be made out, following the path to the north. 

:ooc: If anyone needs a reminder, Curwen was one of the party that Grimbeorn sent north to investigate an attack on the Easterly Inn (and who have not since been heard from). 

I'll allow a little time here for RP (or anything else that you want to do) before moving the journey on.  The trail can be followed with an easy (TN 12) Hunting roll. 

:ooc: Okay, I'm going to move things on when next I get a chance.  First, though, let's see whether either of you can follow the trail:

Grimbeorn

:00: 1d12 : 11, total 11
Rolled 3d6 : 6, 5, 6, total 17

Hathcyn

Grimbeorn's grief became vocal when he recognized the fallen man.  "What devilry is about that thwarts even our most simple and humane of ventures?!  This shall not stand and our revenge will be had." His hand tighter to the reins in one hand and his ancestral blade in the other.  "Come, let us take these slights and use them as fuel for the trials ahead of us!" At that, the heir of the Bear spurred his steed onward at a greater pace than before.

"Most likely the men of the north have done this. Too often have the folk of the north felt their raids and attacks. Other folk in the valley have felt their depredations as well, and more frequently because they have not the name or reputation of your father as lord that gives these folk pause."

Hathcyn looked at Grimbeorn.

"Lord, I must confess, I for a time roamed the wild too with a band of unruly men, before I grew tired of such a life and bent my shoulder to more noble pursuits with the dwarves. While not all my deeds were just I will swear that it was against these northern people we preyed in return. I can not swear that we may not come across others who will know me. This may be to our advantage with our numbers so small, but I ask your forbearance of these deeds at least, if I have not yet earned a pardon for them."

Grimbeorn thought on this as he rode before responding to Hathcyn.  "I know that no man is a saint and those that come to our lands seek respite for some reason or another.  As long as you show us honor and act with courage, your past trespasses need only remain known to you and only follow you here if you let them.  You relinquish those misdeeds of the past and move on.  We will not enquire to them and will only listen to grievances against our own if they be of a heinous nature."

Disdaining the ill-favoured ruin, Grimbeorn and Hathcyn ride on a way, making their camp that evening beneath the open sky of the wold.  The trail left by the Men who came to burn and pillage is easily followed, and they are clearly leading Man-sized prisoners to the north. 

The following day brings them, without incident, to the fringe of the Elfwood.  The noon-day sun turns the red and golden leaves of the wood into a display as brilliant as stained glass, for these trees are unlike the tangled and spiteful growth of Mirkwood, and there enough space even for mounted men to move comfortably.  Even this late in the season, the branches are alive with robins, bramblings and chaffinches, their song lending an air of serenity to the journey. 

That serenity is broken when the pair come across the site of Rorin's ambush, plain as day on the main path.  The bodies of two men lie broken, bloodied and despoiled by the now-hidden scavengers of the wood, and splashes of dried blood yet linger on some of the nearby trunks.  Rorin, it seems, did not go quietly with his captors.  Nor has he lost any of his prowess with his maul. 


:ooc: Some Search rolls, to save time:

Grimbeorn

:00: 1d12 : 11, total 11
Rolled 2d6 : 2, 5, total 7

Hathcyn

"Look around," Grimbeorn orders.  "Mayhap there is something here that can tell more of this tale."  Try as he and Hathcyn might, however, there is naught to be found save for a busted wineskin, still redolent with the sharp sent of sour mead.  Grimbeorn, eyes narrowed, wordlessly leaves it where it lies and mounts back up.  "Onward," he grunts.  

The remainder of the day passes without words.  The two Men follow the trail from glade to glen, here and there passing the remains of a small cottage long since put to the flame.  Viglund's appetite for thralls, it would appear, have not abated, and the independent cottars and smallholders between his lands and the Beornings' have borne the brunt of it.  That night they make camp in one such ruin, the tumble-down walls lit by the brilliant flames fed by Elfwood deadfall, which eagerly catches tinder-sparks and burns long and warmly.  

The next day the pair ride into the lands of the Viglundings.  Grim lands they are, though these southern vales are greener, Grimbeorn finds himself noticing, than the scrub trees and stony soil that lay about and beneath the house of Argil's clan.  From here, the trail becomes something that might be called, by the charitable, a road, which winds from hilltop to hilltop.  By the end of the day, it brings into view a low tor, on top of which rests a hall surrounded by an imposing palisade and several watchtowers.  As the pair ride closer, a group of guards herds a collection of thralls, clad in scraps and rags even in the autumn chill, from the surrounding fields toward the gate.  They are watched by a grinning man who cradles a large spiked mace in one arm and a wineskin similar to that which they found in the Elfwood in the other.  

"Ho!" he calls as they ride closer.  "What fine day it is that brings new guests to Fystenheorth!"

:ooc: Tom, in Matt's absence, do you want to be Grimbeorn as well, for a while?

 :ooc: i am not sure what Matt's plan was, but sure. Quick question, is this a pitstop to where Rorin is or is Rorin here? I'm not a hundred on how we ended up here. 

:ooc: From what I read above, you guys followed the trail north to where the Easterly Inn lay in ruin, then to where Rorin and his company had been ambushed. From there, you guys followed the raiders trail to the land of Viglundings and have caught up with the captives.

But that is me - I am sure Paul will clarify better what, where, and how.


BTW - cool music, Paul! I am keeping that track.  ;)

:ooc: Yes, that's right.  The wretches being hustled back into the fort aren't the specific ones whose trail you've been following, but dollars to donuts your guys are here as well.

 :ooc:  well my plan certainly didn't involve attacking or even seeing the viglunds at a stronghold, but there it is.  Addressing the pillaging and attack on beorning settlements and rorin's expedition are foremost on his mind.  He would attempt to be diplomatic but a duel isn't likely out of the question.

:ooc: With the best will in the world, they had a day and a half on you guys.  It's not too late to turn around, though: 'Fystenheorth?  Damn, sorry.  We were looking for... uh... a different hall.  Never mind.  Catch ya later!'

Assuming that you don't take that route, though, we'll be in Encounter mode again ('cause God did I build a lot of encounters into this scenario), including introduction rolls.  And Insight rolls to begin with:

Grimbeorn

:00: 1d12 : 7, total 7
Rolled 3d6 : 5, 1, 6, total 12

Hathcyn

:ooc: Wow, you two can read this guy like a book!  Grimbeorn and Hathcyn both have two bonus dice to use in the upcoming talks.

:csu: for Grimbeorn's great success. 

:ooc: Sorry, I should perhaps allow you to back up, if you want to.  If you would prefer to do something other than approach the hill fort, let me know and I'll retcon the earlier posts.

 :ooc: i must have missed something somewhere with a hasty read, but I'm tracking now. This one is going to be thorny. Grimbeorn stinks of ransom money and Hathcyn is about one solid blow away from ending up a gongfarmer in chains.

 :ooc: paul, will you give me some more information about this place. Is it a trade center, does it have a slave market, is it a frontier burgh in which things are collected and sent further into the interior?

:ooc: First and foremost, the place is really rough-looking.  Where Beorn's House is obviously the hall of someone who enjoys watching things grow and be fruitful, and most Beorning steadings are built with some thought to being pleasant places to spend long winter nights sharing food and song, Fystenheorth is clearly built to be defended.  There's no sign that there's space inside for a market, and there's only one path going to and from the gate.  There's no display of wealth such as you might expect from a trading centre, no matter how mean or small.  There's smoke wafting upwards from somewhere inside, but otherwise there's barely any sign that it's even inhabited. 

As part of your Insight roll, I'll give you this: This is the home of someone who wants you to fear them, either because they're insecure in their domination of the area or because they genuinely don't understand any other way to relate to their neighbours. 

Is this a place that people would come to to buy slaves? Or any other type of bussiness?

:ooc: Potentially - let's see how much Hathcyn and Grimbeorn know:

TN 14 Lore
Grimbeorn

:00: 1d12 : 9, total 9
Rolled 2d6 : 6, 1, total 7

Hathcyn

:ooc: Okay, Hathcyn has no clue.  Grimbeorn, however, knows that the wealthier of Viglund's followers come to trade for thralls from their overlord from time to time, though they will all probably be known by sight by the inhabitants of Fystenheorth.  Other Men have also been selling truly unfortunate people to the orcs of Mount Gundabad. 

As Loremaster, I should remind you also that intentional deception is a Misdeed.  You could trick your way in with some good Riddle rolls if you just wanted to let them assume that you were here to buy slaves - but you'd need to RP that out a bit to explain how you were going about it. 

 :ooc: man, frodo and sam really didnt need the hassel of another shadow point when they dressed as orcs....

Talk about insult to injury.

 :ooc: matt, what do you think? i have little to no plan at this point. If they figure out who you are we are hosed.

:ooc: Remember also that they probably aren't going to recognise Grimbeorn by sight (except for a poor farming family miles to the north).  He's reasonably famous in the area, but it's not like there are pictures of him circulating. 

Yeah well the full on deception angle isnt an option either.

:ooc: That's just one option.  You could also try to brazen it out - 'I'm here on the business of the Lord of the Beornings, and I'll talk to the organ grinder, not the monkey' as it were.  That'd just be a straight up Awe roll, though at a slight penalty because you're not actually introducing yourselves. 

The ride had cooled Grimbeorn's temper only slightly but the ordeal had worn out him and his companion. He had no desire to bandying words with this person. "We have come a long distance to speak with the master of this place.  You will take us to him now."

:ooc:
 :00:

:ooc: Matt, back in style!

Spluttering with indignant rage, the young warrior drops his wineskin and reaches, somewhat unsteadily, for his mace.  "You sod-born bastard!  I'll crack your skull and leave your body for..."

"VIGLAR," comes a bellow from above, and instantly all the challenge seems to drain out of the young warrior.  An indistinct face appears at the top of one of the towers.  "Don't be an idiot, boy!  These men are Beorning emissaries, and we are honourable folk.  You'll not lay a finger on them!  None of you will!"  Viglar leaves his mace where it lies and reaches down to reclaim his wineskin, which even now slowly trickles its contents out to be drunk up by the earth.  He shoots Grimbeorn a look of undisguised hatred as he does so. 

"Bring them up," concludes the voice from above, "and give them ale.  They shall enjoy the hospitality of the house of Viglund." 

Still fuming, Viglar nonetheless complies without question, leading them up the winding path to the oak-wood gates, which are heaved open by grunting warriors in dull mail.  Grimbeorn and Hathcyn are ushered through a low door into the longhouse, where the air is thick with lingering smoke and the smell of Men living closely together.  The banked hearth seems to fill the room more with shadows than with light, but the gleam of firelight on cold iron is unmistakable.  Clad in mail of his own, Viglund sits on a throne on which are mounted the antlers of a great elk, and regards the pair through narrowed eyes.  Nearby, on a plain wooden chair, sits Rorin, one eye swollen shut beneath a dark bruise.  Despite his obvious discomfort, though, his countenance fairly beams when he recognises Grimbeorn. 

As the pair approach the throne, a maiden, her dark hair bound in a tight braid and her gaze raised to meet the guests emerges from behind the throne.  The servant she leads, the Beornings initially take for a deformed cripple, but it becomes clear as it approaches, bearing three drinking horns on a crudely-carved tray, that it is a goblin very much akin to those that fought, and fell, in the skirmish not a week ago.  With a deep curtsey, the maiden passes the first, and largest, horn to Viglund before offering the other two to Grimbeorn and Hathcyn.  Within them sits a dark ale, thick as soup. 

 :ooc: i'm supporting cast here for Grimbeorn with few skills applicable for this situation. Hathcyn will however keep his eyes open.
Awareness roll to see if there are any clues in plain sight, sherlock holmes deduction style.

Hathcyn glances around, attempting to subtly pick out any details that may assist the upcoming negotiations.  Between the unfamiliar surroundings and the pervasive dimness, he can glean little.  Quickly, however, others of Viglund's folk begin to fill the hall, called to witness, or to assist, or perhaps simply by the novelty of unexpected guests. 


:ooc: Let's see what you can find out from them with an Insight roll...

The warmth and fellow-feeling with which Beorn's hall overflowed at the recent feast seems completely unknown here.  The grim-faced men who soon pack the hall are quiet and cold, and eye even each other warily.  One, however, gazes at the maiden offering the ale with barely-concealed lust, though she keeps her own eyes away from him.  Hathcyn sees another lean a scored shield bearing the device of a golden boar's tusk against the outer wall.  When Viglar seats himself on a bench by the throne, the owner tusk-shield looks at him and his face twists, for a heartbeat, into a snarl. 

"Come on," Viglar calls.  "Drink up!  Or do the bear-kin not learn the manners common to civilised folk?"


:ooc: Watcha think, Matt?  Is Grimbeorn thirsty?

:ooc: Hathcyn, by the way, will have two bonus dice in the upcoming 'discussions'.  I'll make the same roll for Grimbeorn:

Grimbeorn does not let his gaze leave that of Viglund.  To do so, he knows, would be to acknowledge weakness in front of the northern chieftain. 

Hathcyn raised his mug high to the rafters, "I salute this hall and its master. May the songs of your people be sung loud and proud beneath your roof."

With that he took a deep drink from the cup keeping his eyes on the lord before him.

 :ooc: matt how do you want to approach this? I dont want to throw anything out else out there unless we have a plan.

Do you want to try and ransom Rorin? Buy him? Negotiate. Start a war...

Grimbeorn doesn't give the drink another thought and downs it, wipes his mouth to his sleeve.  "I am here to secure the release of the dwarf.  What reason do you have for him being detained?  What offense did he give that warranted being treated in this manner and condition?"

 :ooc: Plan: talk our way out of it, otherwise secure the release by way of aggressive negotiations.

 :ooc: my skill set supports part B. All the talky types are talking away south.

 :ooc: I keep thinking about the first scene of Phantom Menace.... I wonder if the negotiations will be short.

 :ooc: I think it would be greatly helpful if you guys had Force powers!

Qui-gon never turned into a ragging bear!

Paul, is Rorin bound in anyway? How many men in the hall are armed and armoured? Is there another way out of the hall? Is this like a norse hall with a main door, hall with ceiling hole and apartments in the back?

As the two Beornings drink, many of the Viglundings perceptibly relax.  They half expected us to come here with a declaration of war, Hathcyn realises.  But the rituals of hospitality have now been observed, and bonds of honour now proscribe open hostility. 

"I am surprised, southerner," the lord of the hall quips.  "For I was certain that you sought your kinfolk.  Perhaps the closeness we feel towards our own is... less among your folk.  No matter!"  He indicates Rorin with a dismissive wave.  "He surrendered to my warriors after a brave fight, and it is given to me to demand a ransom.  If Beorn will pay it, he'll be saving me the trouble of getting a message to the Lonely Mountain.  I think a hundred cattle will suffice for one like him.  It'll go some way towards easing the offence those other Dwarves have given me." 

"Now, tell me who I have the pleasure to host in my home."


:ooc: Tom, Rorin isn't bound, but nor is he armed.  He's carrying himself in a manner that makes it pretty clear that he's been hurt badly, and not long ago.

Apart from Viglund, there are half a dozen men armed and ready to fight, and another thirty or so who, Hathcyn had no doubt, could fetch arms in short order if a fight broke out.

The layout of the hall is more or less as you have described it, though there's a passage to the right of the throne that you would guess leads to the base of a watchtower that's very near to the hall.

:ooc: I didn't get to this last night, but Grimbeorn knows well that Beorn's personal herd is tiny - a dozen or so heifers that he keeps for milk and some calves.  If you want to pay Rorin's ransom, you'll need to call upon the thegns to make up most of it.

Under the law common to most Northmen, Beorn has the right to do this to pay ransoms for his followers - the first time they get captured, at least.  You might need to sell them on the idea of paying up to free a Dwarf, though.

"If you hadn't guessed yet, look now for I am Grimbeorn, son of Beorn.  Aye, yes, I care for the well-being of all folk whom are under my protection.  As for recompense, I would here of this offense so given that would warrant 100 head of cattle.  Mark you, though, my father is not likely to bandy animals in his care for others for he sees them as his wards and children.  I know naught of Rorin's dealings that would have brought into your lands or done you or your kind ill."

:ooc: Let's treat that as an Awe attempt, given that we're Encountering again:

Grimbeorn's declaration is met with more than a few gasps and shocked muttering from the assembled crowd.  Beorn's own son is come here?  One or two of them, knowing him by reputation, begin to look uneasy. 

Viglund, however, responds with a wolfish grin.  "Welcome then, Grimbeorn, son of Beorn!  It pleases me to meet you at long last.  You ask his offence?  Why, he has given me none, save by entering the land under my protection without my permission, just as his other kin did before him.  They have stolen valuable possessions of mine, for it has been decreed that all deadfall in the Elfwood is my property.  As punishment for this crime, I hold them in thrall until the value of that which they have taken from me is compensated." 

"Fortunately," he says, his grin widening, "they are masons beyond any among my own folk." 

Beneath his bruises, Rorin's face darkens like fields beneath thunder clouds. 

Hathcyn guaged the response of those in the Hall and that of its master. He wanted to speak, but also knew he mist tread carefully. He learned well the lesson at the cairn.

 :ooc: Insight roll to get an idea of what he trully wants or any type of leverage. I would like to get a clue as to if I put Rorin forward as the road warden and the importance in trade for the region if future profit will be a lever to offset current needs.

:ooc: That's a failure as is, but it'll probably be a great success if you care to use one of your bonus dice.

 :ooc: sure. My interpersonal skills arent great but anything I can do to help the wolf slayer and that 6 is already in the que.

 :ooc: nice! What did I win?

As the chieftain and Grimbeorn match words and wills, Hathcyn casts his eyes over the assembled Viglundings.  Several of the older men, he notes, keep darting their eyes between Viglund and his son, appraising looks in their eyes.  So does the warrior with the golden-tusked shield, whose careful control over his expression does not seem to extend as far as keeping his nostrils from flaring, nor the corners of his mouth from twitching downwards.  Viglar, for his part, seems to want to look over at Rorin, and his hands fidget continuously. 

Piece by piece, Hathcyn begins to piece together what Viglund will not speak of.  Viglund may have commanded the seizing of the Dwarves, but he did not sanction the taking of our warriors, nor of the Roadmaker.  Yet he cannot punish his own son for his rash actions.  He must therefore take Viglar's actions as his own, and ensure that his followers profit from them.  Under him, they are cowed and will raise no hand, but he seeks to ensure that they will support his son when the time comes.


:ooc: The lesson here is never to play poker against Hathcyn.

" It is true Lord, they are masons beyond skill for I have spent some time among them. You may not know who it is that you have as a guest for this is Rorin the Road-maker, second only to the Road Warden himself. Their enterprise at present is not complete and there is little profit in it so small would be the ransom for him from his own folk and the unwilling hand toils the slowest. You may be able to get a slight ransom from his folk now while they work, but what profit would come to your folk were you to release him?

 They surely will charge a toll in their new road and it will bring commerce to your folk as the road comes this way. What will the toll and profit be for your folk? Will the toll of the northern folk be 101 cattle for 101 years? A tax that your sons son will pay?  The dwarves will go on with the memory of this ransom long after those cattle are dust, for the memory of dwarves is long. Would it not instead be better to come to softer terms now and excuse the incident as one of those things that happens in a border land when armed men are abroad? You have shown your strength and asserted your rights over trespass of your law will you let that be enough for today?

The wise say the one who slays the pregnant cow for its hide has no concern for the future."

:ooc: Okay, I know it's not your strong suit, but I'm going to turn this into a Persuade roll, with the TN lowered to 12 for Hathcyn's mention of dynastic succession.  It's still a long shot, but you might get over the top with your remaining bonus die.  Let's see:

:ooc: Promising... want to go for it with your remaining die?

 :ooc: fortune and glory

This seems like one of those types of rolls that spending a point of Hope makes narrative and mechanical sense.

:ooc: Done and done. 

As Hathcyn finishes his speech, there is silence in the hall.  Viglund lets the silence linger a little longer than is entirely comfortable, as the fire pops and hisses and the wind blows overhead.  The goblin that bore the cups into the hall breaks wind with a thin, reedy note which sets Viglar to giggling that grows in volume until Viglund shoots him a furious look.  "I am no trader of trinkets," he says, "to haggle over tolls and taxes.  The road that you speak of is miles from our lands, and would seem to benefit a family who have been no friends of mine." 

He looks Grimbeorn in the eyes, and the son of Beorn can almost behold the calculations going on behind them.  "Still, if the wealth of the Mountain is as great as I am told, and their memory is as long, then perhaps they may pay in gold, to the worth of five cows each year until the sum is met.  You yourself may act as their guarantor, for it is your lands that the Dwarf-king's treasure-bearers will pass through when first they leave the forest." 

He sits back, apparently pleased with his decision.  "Your kinsmen I will keep here as hostages.  Should the Dwarves make their first payment by mid-spring, and swear to continue bearing gold to me until the full ransom is paid, I will release them, and your long-bearded friend.  Until then, they will continue to partake of the hospitality of Fystenheorth." 

"What say you, bear cub?"

:ooc: Other options include paying the ransom for the captured Beornings (Beorn's household can absorb the cost of doing so - young warriors of low rank don't cost much).

 :ooc: matt, i leveraged what advatages I could gleen the rest is on you.

Grimbeorn returns the gaze of Viglund, feeling all other eyes on him as well.  "Do you take whatever has transpired as a slight against your honor, Viglund?  If so, taking hostages and seeking ransom is a poor way to show it. If you wish respect of me and mine, then come to me with your grievance to be settled in a way more befitting men of rank and position than as a thief in the night."

"I will not speak for the Dwarves of The Mountain just as they wouldn't speak for me in matters like this.  What I will do though is take my friend here and my people off your hands for they will cost you dearly in food and lodging come the winter as their care would certainly need to be much more hospitable than I see at the moment.  We can then barter over the recompense of your lost lumber in manner that could benefit all our peoples - yours, mine, and the Dwarves.  Or we can meet in a match of champions, with terms to be discussed, to decide Fate here today."

"What say you Viglund?  Be reasonable."

:ooc: Or there's always trial by combat!  Nice move. 

"Respect?"  Viglund's outrage is palpable.  "Do you think I desire your good opinion, boy, or that of your father?  I am a son of the wolf and the owl!  That which I take, I keep!" 

He grips the arm-rest of his throne and leans forward.  "I tire of this bickering.  My warriors affright the very shades and wraiths of the wood!  If you would test yourself against them to settle your account this very day, then I accept your offer."  Amid a deep-throated murmur of approval from the crowd, Viglar stands, cracking his knuckles and grinning lopsidedly.  Then his father stands, and calls out above the noise "Thunar will be my champion."  Several heads quickly turn to look at the warrior of the golden tusk, and Viglar has time to exclaim "wha-?" before Viglund thunders "OUT!  SET THE FIELD!  BUILD THE FIRE!" 

As the court of Viglund hastens to obey, Hathcyn sees the goblin cup-bearer lean in to whisper in the ear of Viglar, who stands flabbergasted before his father's empty seat.  At the same time, the maiden who served the ale catches his eye as she moves with the crowd toward the door. 


:ooc: So, while Grimbeorn gets himself limbered up, Hathcyn has a choice – he can follow the maiden or try to eavesdrop on the conversation between Viglar and the goblin. 

 :ooc: oh man...... follow the hot girl or listen to Goblins scheme for a friend....cruel fates of Arda!

Hathcyn was physically revolted by the presence of the goblin in converse with the scion of Viglund. The mere thought that they would engage in converse was abhorrent. Luckily for Grimbeorn, and himself, no one in the hall expected a trail by combat so they were reasonably certain that they hadn't yet been poisoned. Hathcyn assumed the two were plotting some revenge against them, or perhaps even some internal subterfuge against the Master of the Hall. Who knew what twisted thoughts would spring from two such corrupted minds? Hathcyn half stepped in their direction.

The gaze of the tall warrior was then turned, by fate or by something else more base who could say. His eye was caught perhaps by the only fair thing in this hall of oppression and insecurity and with it his attention was captured. Hathcyn turned his gaze to the woman of the hall who had served them ale. She was passing with the throng from the hall to see the combat that was soon to unfold between the champions. The schemes of twisted minds was brushed aside and the curiosity of the man was piqued. Who was this woman, what is her roll in this, thought the Longspear. The cunning nature of the fox also awoke in him, those two would not willingly reveal anything of worth, and overhearing them in the tumult would be hard for surely he was watched. 'The willing hand toils best' thought Hathcyn...

With long strides weaving his way among the others Hathcyn made his way towards the woman and positioned himself to enter into converse by her side.

"Any chance of the hospitality of this hall to be extended to another glass of ale? This should prove to be as interesting as it was unexpected."

The bearded face of the warrior was split with a wide friendly grin. "I am Hathcyn Longspear, unfortunately there were no introductions earlier. And if I were to stretch the bounds of hospitality twice may I also inquire as to the name of the most fair thing I have beheld in this hall, what is put to shame for having to share a name with you Lady?"

The maiden casts her eyes downward, her hair momentarily hiding her face.  When she raises it again, her jaw is set.  "I am Aestid, and time is short.  I know not whether my father will honour his word if your lord wins this coming duel, but it may not matter.  The thralls will have been shut in fo the night, save for one to warm my father's bed, and that... creature that serves my brother." 

As the pair move into the courtyard with the last few members of the crowd, she hisses "As the duel ends, I will set them free.  Take your friends and fly!  Few of my father's men are armed, and those that are will be sore pressed trying to recapture the rest of my father's captives." 

Outside the hall, the sun has set but a bonfire is being prepared to beat back the gathering night.  Into the packed earth before it have been driven a sword, a spear, an axe and a long knife.  Within the square that they mark, the warrior Thunar waits, sword sheathed and shield in hand.  The goblin that was whispering in Viglar's ear and another struggling thrall bear Viglund's throne out and set it down on one side of the square. 

As his father takes his seat, Viglar leaps up on an nearby rock.  Above the hubub, he calls "ALRIGHT!  LISTEN UP!  There are foreigners in our midst, so I'll remind you all of the rules!  The fight ends when a man has two shields broken or is twice disarmed, or if a man sets foot outside the bounds!  If a man is disarmed, he may take one of the boundary markers, but may not take one from an onlooker!  If a man's shield is broken, his friends may give him another, but no man is bound to do so!" 

As Grimbeorn is pressed forward into the square, Aestid whispers "be ready!"  Then she is gone into the crowd.  One of Viglar's lackeys hands him a wineskin, from which he takes a long draght.  He belches, raises the skin as if it were a mighty weapon and bellows "NOW DRAW YOUR ARMS AND FIGHT!" 


:ooc: Got all that, Matt?  You'll basically be looking for called shots to win this one, or trying to force Thunar backwards out of the square. 

I'll get a combat thread going when I can - expect it fairly soon.  For now, have a Battle roll:

:ooc: :csu: for that - Grimbeorn will have two bonus dice to use. 

 :ooc: where is Rorin? he is the piece de resistance.

Mechanics question. Will taking the prisoners and running be a shadow deed.

:ooc: Rorin is near Viglund and a pair of warriors, but isn't chained up or anything.  From where Hathcyn is at the moment, he could push his way over there in two rounds without attracting too much attention. 

I wouldn't consider freeing slaves from their bondage to be a Misdeed, even if it's not strictly honourable to do it while everyone else is distracted by a trial by combat over the issue.  It's an edge case, but of such things are great philosophical debates made.  Of course, if you think it's a bad idea on practical grounds you can try to stop Aestid.  I leave that up to you. 

Hathcyn made his way to Grimbeorn's side and began to check his gear for him. He dropped his voice to a low whispere, knowing he had but a moment.

"The daughter of Viglund is preparing to release the slaves during this combat. She believes we may escape with our folk during the tumult as they will be more concerned with the slaves than their captives.  Shall we make a go of it?"

Grimbeorn gave a look and a nod of understanding and agreement. "I will stall as long as I can."

 :ooc: How do called shots work again ?  Don't have access to book right now.

:ooc: You declare a called shot on your attack and then you need to roll a :%: as well at the TN for success with that attack. If no :%: is revealed by the dice, even if you score the TN or higher, it is a failed attack.

The results of the called shot are based on weapon type - or Loremaster, which is in my opinion the arbiter of all things in the game.

Hathcyn surveyed the crowd. He knew that they would not let him too near the dwarf out of fear for scheming with his would be liberators. Which in fact was exactly what he wanted to do.

The young Beorning put his fingers to his mouth and gave a distinct whistle while he appeared to cheer on the fight. The dwarf immediately perked up and looked about with his eyes resting on Hathcyn when he sounded again. The whistle was well known to the dwarf and the man. Among the road workers it was a signal to be alert for danger. In the event of spiders or other foul creatures the work parties would raise the alarm in such a fashion to alert each other when they were dispersed and at work. There was another pattern that they used to signal gathering together, but Hathcyn hoped that the alert would be enough for now for the dwarf to know something was afoot.

He fadded from the front of the crowd and tried to get a read on where the buildings were and from which direction the captives would run.