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With a thundering that fills the world from one end to the other, the snows unleash their pent-up fury upon the mountainside.  Beorn, aided by the might and desperation of Gwaithlim, staggers in under the overhang and spins right about to return the favour.  Less than a pace in front of the Old Bear, however, the world has vanished into a storm of freezing white.  For half a heartbeat, the bright gleam of Gwaithlim's elf-mail can be seen as he dances atop the tumbling snow, light feet flashing.  But not for naught were the Misty Mountains raised in an age long forgotten, and not even the grace of Elven princes can save him in the end. 

For long moments, the roaring of the snow-slide carries on, and when it subsides the mountainside is blanketed in smooth and featureless white.  Somewhere beneath, whatever might remain of Gwaithlim lies.  Wheezing with the effort, Beorn begins to leap down the slope, losing his own footing and tumbling through the loose-packed snow.  Needing no encouragement, the remaining companions rush after him, the need to find their fellow urgent and unspoken. 


:ooc: Someone now needs to make a Search roll to uncover Gwaithlim.  I'll say that each roll represents about a minute of frantic digging, in which case Gwaithlim (now on 10 Endurance, Wounded and Weary) has two rolls' of time before he loses consciousness, and five before he suffocates. 

Roll the first:
Arbogast


Beorn


Esgalwen


Hathcyn

Esgalwen, keen eyed and mountain-wise, feels the twisting of upraised fingers beneath her boot and short seconds later strong hands are pushing snow away from the Elf's face.  He heaves in a gasping, shuddering breath, and before he even opens his eyes his first words are "Does Beorn live?"

"Aye, he does," comes the reply, "and if ever you needed to prove yourself to the peoples of Wilderland, rest assured that you need do so never again." 

Working together, the Fellowship quickly frees its newest member and truly he is a pitiable sight, his hair lank and sodden, his body shaken by the tumbling and pummelled against now-buried rocks, his blood bright against the pure white of the snow.  Then, echoing about the peaks and cliffs, a new and booming voice sounds:

"Who wakes me, shaking my sides, climbing and clambering in my snowy hair?"

After a pause, perhaps for thought, it adds:

"Is that you, Beorn?"

Esgalwen, startled by the sudden voice, looks about in earnest to find who speaks but then slowly realized it was the rock itself.

"Wonders upon wonders," she whispered. "I have seen many things in my life that some of my kin call legend, but even more legends reveal themselves!"

"We both know that not all things of which legends are told bode weal for the Free Peoples," Arbogast whispers in response as he bends to examine Gwaithlim's wounds.  "And we stand upon this legend's side, very much at its mercy." 

As the Elf is lain upon the snow, the Fire-watcher tends to him as best he may.  No broken bones does he find, though even now the fruits of a sharp blow to the side of the head break forth, the blood slickening Gwaithlim's fair face.  Packing the wound with snow to slow the bleeding, he tries to bind it. 


:ooc: Standard Healing check for a Wounded comrade:

Before long, the Fire-watcher is satisfied that Gwaithlim will heal, and as he and Esgalwen help the Elf to his unsteady feet, Hathcyn turns to face Beorn.  The Longspear cannot but be struck by the great weariness and trepidation plain in every fibre of the larger man's being even as the sun begins to dip below the summit of the mountain.  "No sense in tarrying," is all the once-chieftain says before he starts to descend the slope in a great, loping stride.  Hathcyn, glancing back and seeing that the other three are making their own, much slower, way down, hurries after him. 

"I'm glad you're here," Beorn tells him as he catches up.  "It'd be a poor thing for none of the folk I've brought under my protection to accompany me.  A poor thing indeed." 

"Here, at the upper edge of the world and outside the hearing of all but the wind and rocks, may I at last ask what in the world you m-" the Longspear begins to ask but is struck dumb as he beholds the sight before him.  A great face, here of rock and here of snow, clings to the southern wall of a cleft in the mountain ridge, the afternoon sun granting it an almost unbearable brilliance.  Its eyes do not shift to follow the two Men of the Carrock-folk as they go to stand before it, but Hathcyn feels a great beholding settle upon him and knows beyond doubt that the mountain is aware of his presence at Beorn's side.  That same attention, at once crushing and intangible, settles upon each of the Fellowship as they stagger and sway through the snow, and as Beorn calls out "Ho, old one!  Let us pass, for I've business beyond!" 

Insofar as they can tell, the mountain is unimpressed. 

"And who have you brought with you on this business of yours?"

"Does it truly matter?" 

"A ragged collection of mortals and a lone stray Elf?  Do you seek to insult me?"

Beorn heaves a ragged sigh.  "I knew he wouldn't change, and yet hoped that he might," he says, quietly.  To the face upon the mountain, he answers "Don't be daft!  No mere ragged wanderers are these!  Here, let them tell you themselves!"

Turning to the Fellowship as its last members arrive, he says "Well, go on.  Introduce yourselves!"  Then, as an afterthought, he adds "And be polite about it."

Still in awe, Esglawen hesitantly steps to be square within the view of the mountainous face. She musters the courage that is resident in the blood that courses her body, "Greetings," she says as she offers a small bow, "I am Esgalwen, daughter of Eradan, of the children of Eärendil - he who sails the sky and keeps watch on the doors of Night. I have come here upon this errand of our patron, Beorn, to bear witness to his need. I ask your blessing to pass."

---

:ooc: Going to tap into Esgalwen's Fair trait as well as her Noble Lineage trait - not sure which might help better. Although it is not my strongest skill, I think a Custom skill is better than Personality.
TN ?? courtesy 2d (will add :vv: at need)

:ooc: If a TN14 will get me to my target, and if the roll is needed, I will spend the :vv: . If it doesn't, chock this up to our first damned failure... as usual for her.  :roll:

 :ooc:
Gwaithlim to use Lore skill aided Elven-lore or Folk-lore to recognize this presence or its ilk for he has been on many journeys over the various passes of mountains in his life between the west of Middle-earth and Wilderland.
 :00:

 :ooc: Well that ... that is so sad

Of all his lore of wandering, never has he encountered such a being whose presence is venerable with a voice deep as the roots of the mountains from which it springs.  Gwaithlim hums a song he is reminded of the mountains in Valinor and the hill of Tuna, a sweet sad song of longing sung in the dark of night under the stars of Elbereth.  When all have finished their introductions, he continues the song with what little he knows of his people's high language.

"Please pardon me for the verse for it has been awhile since I've been in the presence of one that reminds me of my youth in ages past, no less one that brings my thought back to the Undying Lands. I am Gwaithlim of Imladris and Wandering Companies, and stray I do but only with purpose," he says with as much a bow that he can manage in his condition.

 :ooc:
If Song doesn't work for this, I'll use Courtesy.
 :00:

:ooc: Both extremes, Matt! Nice! ;D

The Beorning unslung his helm from where it was attached at his belt. He placed it upon his brow and the sprig of greenery he clipped from the eaves of Mirkwood was still bright and green.

"I am Hathcyn Foresthelm, the Longspear of the people of the fox, thegn of the forest gate and bannerman of Grimbeorn. I am the raiser of menhirs and the marker of stone, Dwarf friend and road maker."

Song

Arbogast steps forward, and with a slight bow adds "And I am named for the Fire-watcher, bearer of the gifted shield, speaker in tongues of feather and sky, warden of the wood wide-waxing." 


:ooc: Arbogast is using Riddle, if that weren't obvious.  Let's see if we get a full set of successes!

Well-spoken are the words of the Fellowship of the Helm, and even Beorn stands taller at their recitations of lineage and deeds.  But the mountain is unmoved. 

"It is little to show for your long labours, Beorn.  I am not minded to grant these scallywags the passage you seek."

Through subtle shiftings of snow, the mountain's face settles into a cruel smirk, and the Old Bear's hackles visibly rise as he cries out "Now listen, you-"

But the mountain's great voice overwhelms him as it adds, in a tone now seeming more sincere:

"Oh, but your voice is sweet, Gwaithlim of Imladris.  Finish your song I pray you, for it is one that none have brought to my ears in many a long century."


:ooc: It's not necessarily an all-or-nothing roll, Matt, but Gwaithlim's Skill of the Eldar has softened the heart of the mountain somewhat, so that a succesful Song roll will buy passage.  Beaten as he is, can he pull it off?

 :ooc: would casting down the menhir of the shadow buy us any street cred?

Honestly the elf is taken aback.  This certainly wasn't area of expertise, there are far lovelier voices in the fairer parts of the world.  "That is a kindness, indeed great flattery if I may from one such as yourself.  I will do my best given my current state."  Gwaithlim hearkens back once again to the Hall of Fire and the melodies sung by those precious few still in Middle-earth whom have seen the perilous peaks of the Pelori under the light of the Two Trees and the great aspect of Taniquetil as seen from Tol Erresea.

 :ooc: Sing, monkey, sing!  (-D
 :00:
+ Hope if needed

:ooc: That's nine total (discounting the three, 'cause he's Weary), but still within the reach of a Hope spend...

 :ooc: Yes, use hope

His song Gwaithlim finishes, his voice croaking and weary, losing the tune more than once.  Thereafter, he waits a moment for the mountain's reaction but naught but silence is forthcoming from that face of stone and snow.  Upon a sudden instinct, he raises his voice once more in a song long familiar, for many times has he joined in its chorus among his kinsmen in the Hall of Fire.  It is a lay of the Second Age, not of the loss and longing of the Eldar but of night and wind and beauty, and he hazards that it will find greater favour in the heart of this lofty peak.

  Hríveressë
 
  Et marinyallo mallenna
  Vantan hríveressë helca,
  Nu fanyarë fuinehiswa,
  Lumboinen Naira nurtaina. 

  Hláranyë ringa Formessúrë,
  Asúy' aldassen úlassië,
  Alussa olbalissë[1] nornë,
  Alamya ve Nuru-nainië.

  Formessúrë-yalmë quéla,
  Ar Númello holtan hwesta
  Nísima asúya ninna,
  Ar nainië ahya lírinna.

  Cénan tuilindo awilë
  Hyarmello úrima súrë,
  Nu rámaryat circa-cantë,
  Alir' aldannar úlassië.

  Autar i lumbor, ar Naira
  Cénan anúta Númenna,
  Et Rómello Tilion orta,
  Ar undómess' elen síla.

  Ar lómelindë-lírinen,
  Entúlan yanna ettullen,
  Nu menel elentintaina,
  Hrívëo lómessë sina.


:ooc: A translation is here (https://en.wikibooks.org/wiki/Quenya/Texts_in_Quenya/Hr%C3%ADveress%C3%AB).  Thank the Valar there are people out there willing to write poetry in a constructed language! 

More story tomorrow.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh."

The long, rumbling sigh of the mountain at the ending of the elven-song gives way to a rushing of snow as the grip that held the snowy face together loosens.  Within moments, all that remains is a rocky crag strewn with white, no sign lingering of its eldern spirit.  The same snow-slide has revealed a path formerly frost-hidden: a series of ice-slick ridges leading down the far slope of the mountain like the stairs of some primordial giant, and it is to these that Beorn leads the company.  "Well sung, Elf" is all he says. 

Not swiftly nor easily does the Fellowship make its descent, for a great toll has the upward climb taken of their bodies, and though night begins to fall still Beorn refuses to make camp upon the mountainside.  "Ah!  Keep moving, for there's yet strength in your limbs!" he exhorts.  "We've come so far, and we're now so close!" 

Still it is by moonlight, with muscles howling with over-use, that the companions at last set foot on level ground.  They have reached, it seems, a hidden dale thick with pine trees, the scent of their needles heavy in the misty air.  Here and there, through the mist can be espied an upraised stone which the four trudging behind Beorn at first regard with unease, thinking them to be of the same mode as that which they toppled on the lower slopes.  It is not so, however, for these are slighter things than that massive menhir and graven with a script, long-faded by uncounted years, that Gwaithlim fancies to be perhaps some forebear of the Tengwar, known now not even to the eldest of the Elves of Middle-Earth. 

At long last, Beorn deigns to call a halt to their long march.  What hour of the night it might be, none of the Fellowship can say, but the moon is high in the sky.  Here, the air is still and calm, the embrace of the Misty Mountains all about shielding this place from the chill winds.  No cry of night-bird nor soft tread of woodland beast breaks the silence, but the voice of Beorn, almost hesitant in its uncommon softness, is clear. 

"By my own vow of a bygone time, I may not speak of this place, nor of what happens here, outside of its bounds, and you are the first fellow-travellers that I have brought here.  Not even my own son knows the secret of this place."  He heaves a great breath, shuddering at the pain and weariness in his side.  "I know you have questions.  You've voiced several on the way here!  I can't promise to answer each and every one, for some things I don't even know myself.  But your pains deserve answers, and we have time while we wait.  What would you know?"

Hatchyn, for this single time in his many adventures, was silent. No quip or comment or jest passed his lips and took in the air of the valley and looked around.

After a moment he sighed and looked at Beorn, "the great bear of the Anduin said follow so I follow. I dont know why I am here, but I feel soon now I shall learn for myself."

Esgalwen stared about at the moonlit glow of fog and the trees and stone, silent in reverence for she knew not now what to ask or say. When their road had been hard and dangerous, the demand for purpose was strong within her heart and mind, but now it seemed meaningless. She was humbled by both the will of the mountain and the beauty that she now observed. It reminded her of the hidden pool that was the basin for the waterfall that hid the Henneth Annûn.

"I am a stranger to this land, Master Beorn, and to its custom. Though I wish to know why we have journeyed so far, I, too, will wait for the answer to be presented."

The scent and air about this place reckons of Imladris to Gwaithlim -- the calm serenity, the woody-ness and tang of the pines, and how the moon hangs in reverence even perceptibly larger than in the outside world.  His exertions this day have taxed him more than any in a great span of years so keeps quiet in search of a padded area of needles under a large tree.  With a suitable place to sit and tend his bandages and wounds, he is content with listening to the answers of the primary question on all their minds.

"Beorn, giver of laws, orc-terror, father of my friend and ally," Arbogast says, after some silence following the words of Hathcyn and Esgalwen, "we have followed you without question to this place, thinking our destination to be some evil-haunted spot where the shadow has pooled like water in a hole, as indeed the ends of most of our journeys seem to be.  Plainly though that is not the case, for I feel as peaceful here as I do in the woods about Woodmen-Town where I played as a boy.  One question has hung over our heads with every step of the way, though, and if none other will ask, then I shall: no fear do you show of battle with the cruel things of Middle-Earth, nor of fire nor hurt of beast such as might trouble any man.  But the thought of this place has seemed to set your heart a-tremble.  I pray you tell us, ought we fear for you?  Have we been brought to drive away a threat to this place with our spears, and guard your body with our shields?" 

"No, no, nothing like that,"  comes the reply.  "This is merely a place that might be the end of a long and troublesome path, and one that mayhap my son needn't walk, if I have worked my work well.  In fact, if I were you I'd leave your weapons here.  You'll not need them, and it might to ill for all of us if you were to draw them.  Just... when the time comes, and you'll know when it does, show no fear.  Be resolute, as I know you to be." 

"That, I think we can manage," the Fire-watcher answers with a slight smile. 

For the first time, then, since the start of their upward hike from the gentle slopes of the foothills, the Fellowship is able to sit in peace, their feet warmed by a fire of pine branches.  For his heroic rescue of Beorn from the falling snow, and his winning of their passage through song, Gwaithlim woozily accepts the most comfortable resting-place and the champion's portion, such as it is, of their remaining food and drink.  As the rich-scented pine smoke drives away the cool mists, the songs of Imladris and Gondor, the Vales and the Wood are sung, interspersed with tales of deeds done in days long ago and yestermoon. 

It is Esgalwen, her responsibility as the companions' lookout not set aside, who first hears the sound of hoofbeats, and at first does not believe her ears for what horse could scale these peaks as they have?  But the sound grows from a whisper in the mist and moonlight to an unmistakeable rhythmic drumming.  "I hear a rider!" she cries in her surprise. 

"Good.  Then he's near," Beorn rumbles. 

"Forgive me, but who is here?" 

"Eh, he has many names, or so my father told me many years ago.  Béma, some in the North call
him, for his voice can be heard for miles.  I'm told that the Elves call him something different but with the same meaning." 

The companions hurry to their feet as the sound of hoofbeats grows clearer until it can be heard plainly, and the crashing of great beasts through the wood on all sides. 

"Remember what I said," Beorn calls to them.  "If you're afraid, then know that I am too!  But don't show it!" 

Then the newcomer is among them, a vast and fearsome figure of a rider at the hunt, his face hidden behind a bushy beard, his body swathed in leather and furs, a huge boar spear in one hand and a horn in the other.  Directly at them he rides, and in his wake follow bears, their roaring like the baying of hounds as they rush forward. 


:ooc: A moment of truth is come, and everyone has to make a Valour roll, with a TN of 14 plus their current Shadow rating. 

Arbogast (TN 20)


Esgalwen (TN 18)


Gwaithlim (TN 15)


Hathcyn (TN 19)

:ooc: That's a success for everyone except Gwaithlim, but he can pull it off with a Hope spend (which I'm allowing even though he's Weary, since Beorn's been mentally preparing the companions for this).  Matt, let me know if that's how you'd like to do it. 

Everyone else, feel free to narrate your characters' reactions to this turn of events. 

Esgalwen's head pivoted from rider to bears and then back, only to find her sight falling on Beorn - the man standing tall and firm. No other move did she make save to go to Beorn's side to stand with him and be his shield-maiden, should he need it. Her hands gripped the belt upon which hung Nimronyn, but no gesture did she make towards the weapon and never did she bow her eyes.

Resolute... that is what he said. That is what they needed to be.

Great was the valour shown by the woman - as representative of Men that had faced horrors greater than ever she'd known. Whatever was to come, Esgalwen would not be discounted.

:ooc: Spend the Hope

Gwaithlim rises in pain and weariness, stiff from the journey and his injuries.  He has no thought of his weapons for he is no shape to fight, regardless of the words of Beorn.  Turning, he joins the others to stand and greet the newcomer.

Hathcyn was impressed by the spectical and in some deep place he was also afraid by what he saw. The fox in him told him to flee and hide from this great hunt. The spirit told him that the fox was swift and wary and should not suffer to be in the open before such a host. But, Hathcyn was not just a spirit, he was a man. He came from one of the great lines of the folk who had walked in years uncounted under the light of the sun and moon and, not as noble as an elf, but still just as free from the shadow. Their struggle was not that of one life, but of generations. The small spark of resistance in his heart summoned the fox back from where it had bolted. The silver tipped tail was not bobbing in flight, it was not prepared to fight either, but it was ready to face this challenge.
His hand fell to his side as the blast faded into the hills and he watched the gathering of the Hunt around them.

The cacophony of the hoof beats and the roars echoed lessened as the great rider came forth, but Hathcyn would not allow the challenge of the noise to go by unanswered, at least in some small measure it must be answered.

He his hand fell to his side and rose the ram horn of the mountains. Its silver lip shone in the moonlight, the runes of power engraved by the dwarves upon Long Lake readable in the moonlight. To his lips he raised the horn and let go with a single great blast.. The sound split the night air and sounded in stark contrast to the hoofbeats and growls. Surrounded by the mountains from which the horn sprung seemed to give it greater power as it sounded, doubled, and trebled upon the walls of the valley and rose into the lofts of the mountain.

The Longspear let the horn speak the without fear when he knew his own voice may not have been able to muster such feeling.

Despite Beorn's warnings and entreaties to boldness, Arbogast is seized by a desire to flee the clearing, or cast himself to cower upon the ground, for the onrush of the rider and his bears awakens within him nothing more than a sense of wretchedness, writing and coiling like a serpent in his belly.  For his doubts, his fears, his wallowing in the miseries of the world he is sure that this newcomer will strike him down.  But then comes the blast of Hathcyn's horn, clear and fearless, and at the sound his heart is uplifted.  Square stands he, raising neither axe nor shield as the rider pulls on his reins, his steed rearing up...

...and up...

...and up, not rising but growing until horse and rider seem to fill half the sky.  Unslinging a horn of his own from his vast saddle, he blows a note of his own and the sound bursts forth as perhaps the sun once did upon the starlit world, driving the darkness and skulking things before it.  The hearts of the Fellowship thrill to hear it, for it is a call not of challenge but of recognition from one foe of the Shadow to others like in kind. 

"LORD!" cries Gwaithlim, his body's hurts momentarily forgotten, wide his eyes with wonder, for now he recognises Araw the Forester, friend to his line since days ancient beyond reckoning. 

Esgalwen, however, sees Beorn rend his thick leather shirt asunder to expose a breast darkly bruised beneath the thick, grey hair, moreso even than it was when she treated his ribs beneath the troll-bluff.  A wild and desperate look is in his eye as he pleads "Judge me, then, for I've done as you bade me!  I've eaten no flesh of living beast!  I've fought the thralls of darkness!  I've gathered wanderers and lone steaders together, and forged a folk of them!  I've taken a wife, and raised a son!"  Spittle flecking his iron-grey beard, he bellows "JUDGE ME AS YOU MUST, AND LET MY SON BE FREE!" 

The slightest of nods is the only response from the hunter, but it seems to be enough.  Beorn drops to his knees like a man smitten, a sudden joy plain in every fibre of his being.  "I've passed the test," he says.  "The old spirit is redeemed and the long struggle to give up this mantle is over.  " 

As the hunter turns his steed and rides toward the west, four bears now following behind him, Beorn overbalances and, with a soft crash of pine needles, falls prone.  Arbogast and Esgalwen, healers both after the fashion of their folk, rush to his side, but it is at once plain to both that he is dying, an inward bleeding from his old wound never having been staunched.  Shallow is his breathing as Hathcyn, setting aside spear and helm, kneels and takes up the massive hand of he who was his chieftain.  "Is there nothing we can do to aid you?" asks he thinking, fox-witted, that there may yet be some trick to escape fate like an ill-made snare. 

"There's nothing I'd have you do," comes the Old Bear's reply.  "My song is sung, and it's been a good one if I say so myself!"  Clasping the Longspear's hand in his own, he adds "but my son, your lord and friend, has a road ahead of him yet.  Look after him as best you can, will you?  Tell him," he says, his breath now slowing markedly, "that he's the glory of his people.  Tel him that he's the pride of his father." 

Thus speaks for the last time Beorn the Skinchanger, who with his words and deeds made the folk.  Above, numberless shine the stars of the cold and boundless sky.

Silence hung for a long moment and Hathcyn whispered, "Before I had only silence, and now the questions I would have asked return."

"Friends, I believe we will he safe here in this valley. Let us labor to build a cairn for the great bear. I will not suffer him to lay unknown in this valley though few should ever come here."

 :o

Gwaithlim, Noldo elf, descendant of those faithful to call of the Valar, and unfaithful in returning to Middle-earth in wroth and vengeance, and one who continues the penance of his people striving to be worthy of the fair shores, is dumbfounded.  Nary once did he ever dare believe, nay hope, to see one of the greatest until he returned either by the dark road of Mandos or ship to the Undying Lands.  His presence alone was enough to stir his heart in a way unlooked for.  For a moment he saw his fate and it pleased him but his heart is ever more uneased until he may set foot upon the shores of Tol Erresea, to climb the mountains of the Pelori, to walk the forests of Orome.

Brought back from reverie at the cry of his companions, he attends to and mourns the death of a Man he barely knew yet regarded among the most high of his kind and not solely by the favor of the Valar.

"I will aid you in this task, Hathcyn, so as when I face his son once more, I can let him know that his father passed, blessed by the Powers, and that his noble place is marked until the world's unmaking. I can look at him and let him know that in the end, his father faced his judgement standing and that he had with him boon companions... of his son."

Esgalwen stood, tears in her eyes and she muttered, "What have I witnessed?" Her mind still trying to grasp the breadth of what she had seen. For not since the breaking of Thangorodrim had a mortal man - or woman - witnessed any of the Valar, unless one were to include Sauron the Fallen. Only by messenger, whether that be eagle or elf, or through prophecies uttered by holy men, had the Powers made their presence known.

Even as she worked through the vision in her mind, Esgalwen set herself to the task of looking for and collecting large stones. The cairn they built would be tall and broad, like the man it covered, and it would be a warning to his foes and a place of contemplation for those that loved him.

Once home to Rhosgobel, Esgalwen promised herself that she would send word north to Erebor, to Rorin, and beseech upon him to have made a marker and once done, she and any who would, shall return here to set it upon Beorn's cairn.

She worked quietly, sobbing in silence for the man lost and the son who could only guess at this journey's purpose. Though bone-weary, Esgalwen did not stop until the task was done.