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Huffing and wheezing in their hurry to keep up with the Brown Wizard – all but Esgalwen, for the blood of Numenor runs hot in her veins and will not suffer her to show weakness before the Shadow! – the Fellowship of the Helm presses on.  Over stony ridges and through dank gullies they follow the half-seen, half-imagined thread.  No further sign do they see of spies and messengers of the Enemy, or of the spiders whose demesne encompasses these lands.  Here and there, the trees begin to thin, allowing fragmentary pathways to become clear, though before long they either vanish or twist away from the route of the company, and the leafy branches that cover the land still press so close together as to admit no possibility of sunlight. 

For what must surely be several days, Radagast leads the Fellowship with such desperation that times of rest become even more scarce and food is snatched in mouthfuls at a time, mostly in the form of large, flat-headed mushrooms that Arbogast pronounces safe enough to eat, though they are bland and barely palatable.  Their forced march carries them in a fever dream of aching limbs and sodden feet further and further from the solid carpet of roots and mulchy ground that is the black heart of Mirkwood and into a kind of border march where the trees are broadly spaced, but struggle for sunlight beneath a spreading blanket of vines that grow in great abundance, hanging strange tendrils laden with bitter-smelling seed pods down into the murk and muck below. 

"Come, just a little further," Radagast entreats them.  "I know this country.  I've spent long days exploring it and looking for the source of Duskwater's woes.  Oh, but we are so very close to the shores of the Black Tarn!" 


:ooc: Your journey is, at this point, all over bar the shouting, which is good.  On the other hand, everyone gains an automatic three Fatigue points, which is less so.  But everyone gets a TN 16 Travel roll to try to shed a point or two, which is good again. 
Arbogast


Esgalwen


Grimbeorn


Hathcyn



Finally, as the despair of travelling through Mirkwood builds and builds, everyone has to make a TN 16 Corruption roll:
Arbogast


Esgalwen


Grimbeorn


Hathcyn

:ooc: Everyone but Esgalwen gains the full three points of Fatigue, and Grimbeorn picks up a point of temporary Shadow.  :csu:

The oppression and gloom of Mirkwood seems endless, but it is the nature of the world that all things within it, save perhaps only the Elves, must come to an end.  Thus it is that, after nigh two months beneath the sea of leaves, the Fellowship stumbles once more into the light.  A meek and pale light it is, to be sure, for the reflection of sunlight over clouds to what must be the east makes it barely dawn, but to eyes now long-accustomed to blackness and shadow it is a painful thing, and the companions find themselves approaching it haltingly, as a man half-frozen might lower himself into a hot spring.  Radagast, though, can barely contain himself.  "Make haste," he implores them.  "Our long labour is nearly done!" and it is as much to appease him as for any residual longing for light and warmth that they finally emerge from the shadows cast by the trunks of fir and aspen. 

Oh, but they are revealed as pitiful things when they do, their clothing caked with filth where it is not torn to rags, their bodies wasted and gaunt from too long at labour and too little at rest, from living on scraps of food foraged in places where no Man or Elf has trod in a thousand years or more.  All too easily might they be taken for wretches released from the deepest dungeons of Dol Guldur but for the light of dawn shining on steel helms and weapons, kept sharp and bright throughout their long travails though their bodies were never so neglected.   

Here, however, is at long last the final object of their questing: Duskwater stands before them, ankle-deep in the still waters of the Black Tarn, her corselet of spider-silk mail draped coyly about her form.  She favours the Fellowship with an imperious glare as Radagast, his hands shaking so that he nearly drops her ball, approaches her step by hesitant step, fearful perhaps that she might at this last moment take flight. 

"Who are you to presume..." she begins, but a single tug of the Brown one's finger causes the lone thread to flash in the light of dawn, and at once the eldest of the River-maidens collapses senseless in the soft earth of the lakeshore.  Radagast approaches her, his whole attention fixed. 

But he does not do so alone, for the wiles of the Shadow are subtle, and its reach extends into every heart, each sorrow borne or grudge nursed a chink in the armour, a weakness in the walls.  Long has Arbogast borne himself in misery, and now the black hand of the Enemy takes hold and twists, taking burned out grief and long buried hatred and kindling them anew, fanning them into an all-consuming madness.  Without troubling to unsling his shield, he steps close behind the Wizard, taking forth his axe and slamming it, snake-fast, haft first into the back of Radagast's head. 

Like Duskwater, the Wizard collapses, his form looking suddenly frail and vulnerable as the Fire-watcher raises high the Warden's Axe, poised for a heartbeat like an executioner. 


:ooc: Quick – your characters have a second, maybe less, to react!  They can't close the distance to him in time to stop him killing someone, but they can say four to five words (and make an Awe roll) that might distract him enough to pause...

Hathcyn quick of mind attempts to distract his friend in order to buy time and determine what madness has beset them.

"Lindwine!"

He calls out the name of the Firewatcher's wife in an attempt to distract him.

Awe



 :ooc: May I use my trait swift to barrel into him if he slows?

Grimbeorn calls out the names of his children, starting with the one he lost.

 :00:

At the sound of two rough voices calling out the names of his wife and his lost daughter Wilone, the Fire-watcher's head whips around fast enough that his matted and filthy braid strikes out like a flail behind him.  Beneath the spectacles of his helm, his eyes are wide and feral and his lips drawn back in the grimace of one who has set aside all reason. 

"Who are you to utter their names?" he hisses. 


:ooc: Two excellent responses, so you now have Arbogast's attention.  Treat it carefully - we're now in an Encounter and, to keep up the tension, I'm not going to let you know what the Tolerance is (though an Insight roll will give you some indication). 

Tom, I'm going to say that Hathycn's Swift trait will give you the opportunity to close and make a Dagger roll.  On an extraordinary success, he'll have tackled Arbogast and knocked him down.  A great success means that you've grappled his axe-arm and he can't attack with it until he frees himself by beating the result with a Dagger roll of his own.  A plain success means Hathcyn's just put himself in the way and Arbogast is free to attack as normal.  Nothing triggers violence like violence, though, so this is a risky tactic!  Fail the roll and someone is likely to die. 

:ooc: hmmm that is not playing to my strengths at all. Paul, what about something more creative here? Inspire says it doesnt work to move someone in an opposite direction. How about Hunting? The skill desc says it may be used to train hunting dogs. abrogast seems pretty feral at the moment to me. I'm thinking the techniques of working with an animal may be better suited in this case than with the reasoning of a man.

:ooc: I'm open to it - just give me a good justification.  Lots of games assume that 'active' skills also assume a penumbra of knowledge about the activity, and an ability to discuss it, so almost anything might be arguable.

EDIT: Crap - I've just realised that I didn't put this in my earlier post, despite meaning to: 2e fixes the Dagger skill by simply fixing it at one die less than your best weapon skill, which is a simple and elegant solution to a problem that's bugged me since I first read the rules.  I say we adopt it here and now.  Anyone who's spent points on the skill can re-allocate them during the Fellowship phase. 

 :ooc: better option now, but still dicey. (Ha!) i'm going to tap my nature wary and use Hunting because that seems more fun.


Hathcyn let his spear fall to the ground and put his out palms down before the crazed man. He cocked his head to the side and made a sound like a teamster does to settle a startled or frightened animal.

"Whoa Firewatcher. Let us not be hasty. Shhh let's take a moment."

 ;D

For a while, and later none could say for certain how long, the Fire-watcher says nothing.  He stays poised, his axe-hand raised, until his arm begins to tremble with weariness.  Then he slowly lets it lower, though he does not permit it to fall beyond the point of readiness. 

"What am I to do..." he mumbles, and it is not clear whether he addresses the Longspear, or if he himself even knows that he speaks. 


:ooc: Tom, nicely done.  You're three successes up (and an AP - :csu:) in a single roll.  Doug, feel free to deal yourself in at any time - it's not like Esgalwen needs to introduce herself! 

:ooc: Yea, sorry for the delay at my end. There has been a lot of struggles going on here, but now they are over.

Esgalwen will make an inspiration roll to help her friend overcome his doubts and shadow. I will use Noble Lineage to help with the roll (roll Feat x2 and keep best):
TN -- inspire 2d

:ooc: That is a shit result.

I will add some narrative in a little bit.

Now that the Woodman seemed less inclined to violence and Esgalwen had tried to inspire him Hathcyn thought to call forth the mind of his friend through memory.

Though not a singer by trade or practice he sought to lull his friend through the comfortable and familiar. The Foresthelm hummed and attempted to recall the songs from the Field of Heroes and those he heard in WoodHall. He edged slightly closer to the Wizard.

 :ooc: Not my best skill, but I'm going to try song along my path of indirect intervention. If nothing else it will be mechanical chance to use some seldom used skills on Hathcyns part.

Song

"Arbogast, my friend, have pity," Esgalwen pleads, approaching slowly with her empty palms outstretched.  "She does not deserve..."

"SPEAK NOT OF WHAT SHE DESERVES!" comes the instant reply, the Fire-watcher wheeling about to level the head of his axe at the Ranger, his voice shrill and shrieking.  "Why should she have my pity?  Will she fetch the bones of my daughter and make them live again?  Will she send her waters to wash away a mother's nightmare, and a father's?  Will she bring...  She..." 

He trails off, tears welling in his eyes as Hathcyn wordlessly hums the familiar songs of the Wood-folk, the long-hafted axe hanging now heavy in his hand. 


:ooc: Apologies, Doug, if I've stomped all over your plans - I didn't see that you were going to add some narration until I went back and re-read the thread.  Meanwhile, Tom continues his outrageous streak of good rolls, placing you at five successes for a single failure. 

Weariness and discomfort made anger rise in Esgalwen, "Dare not threaten me, Fire-watcher, as you will find an opponent in kind! Was this your purpose? Was this why we struggled so many days in the dreary depths of Mirkwood? Your vengeance? You strike friends and threaten one whom we saved, who most likely was sundered by darkness herself! Was it Duskwater's will to take your daughter, or was there some greater Shadow that has always set us against one another? That strives to keep us separated and weak. Men distrust Men! Men distrust Elves, as Elves do in kind. Dwarves close themselves deep within their stone houses and care not of the folk that dwell above, interested only in their gold and jewels..."

It was then that Hathcyn began to sing. It started as a low hum under his breath, and grew into one of the many ballads of Men. Meant to inspire and bring folks together, Esgalwen could not do anything but look from Arbogast to her other companion and the wrath within her bled away.

---

:ooc: You were fine, Paul. I liked it.

The above narrative is actually based on her failure - instead of being warm and helpful, the woman's hand has gone to hilt and her words bite.

 :ooc: matt or Doug, either of you want to make another attempt? I dont want to hog the scene here.

Grimbeorn intercedes slowly between the others and Arbogast, approaching his friend with no weapon in hand.  He produces a trinket that his friend's children had given him sometime ago during the festival for they treated him more of a big brother than an adult.  He held it out to show.

"Brother, look at this... take it if you need, and remember!" he commands.  "Of all the tragedies that have befallen us, your loss is of the most tragic.  Though we are not kin in blood, we are in heart, and feel the pain keenly even if less than you.  But this undertaking was your plan and we followed your lead such that you could heal not just yourself but your lands and your people as well.  Let us complete your quest and in it may you find a bit of peace and justice helping to cleanse the Shadow from the creature's spirit."

 :ooc:  :00:

Arbogast looks at the trinket, tiny in his friend's broad palm.  Peculiar it is, formed of feathers, wax and grass, the detritus of a summer field and the boundless enthusiasm of a small child.  Confronted with all that which he has sought to defend, and all those whom he came so close to betraying, he axe falls from his hand as the tears overcome him completely.  In the mud of the lakeshore he kneels, lost to wracking sobs, a man undone. 

Hathcyn, ever watchful for peril, discreetly takes the Warden's Axe as Grimbeorn, with a gentleness that would surprise those who do not know him well, takes the Fire-watcher's hand and presses the trinket into it.  Esgalwen, meanwhile, once again attends to Radagast, her fingers finding blood on the back of his head but, beside an already-swelling bump, little lasting damage beneath the Wizard's thick hair.  The Brown Wizard stirs with a groan, sitting up slowly at first but starting in panic when he discovers his hands to be empty.  Reminded of Duskwater and her ball, he and the Ranger look about them only to find that both are gone.  Heedless of the cold water soaking into his robe, Radagast throws himself full-length upon the lakeshore, his hand splashing in the shallows.  All watch, breath caught in their teeth, as he shuts his eyes. 

Then, as his eyes open once more, he breaks into a broad and exhausted smile.  "My friends," he begins, but anything further he might have said is drowned out by a great whooping cheer from Hathcyn and a bellow of triumph from Grimbeorn, for his meaning is plain.  The Fellowship of the Helm has dared the realm of darkness that is the fastness of the great spiders and has survived, and through these impossible efforts has Duskwater been made whole once more.