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Grimbeorn is not at home to greet his friends, and the house that all Men still name as his father's stands strangely empty and silent.  The wondrous hounds and sheep that once waited upon the Old Bear's guests have taken their leave, it seems, returning to packs by other hearths and herds in other fields.  In their stead, a few women tend to the hearth, where the cooking fire burns low in the July heat, and the hives, among which the bees buzz as energetically as ever they did in the days of Beorn. 

Bees and womenfolk alike, it seems, are flustered by the arrival of the Fellowship, arrayed in arms in response to a call for aid from Grimbeorn their fast friend and steadfast ally, and at the head of a motley score of wanderers, warriors and well-meaning Men from the vicinity of the Fox's Tale.  Esgalwen of Gondor and Gwaithlim, ageless Elf from the lordly folk who dwell, it is said, west of the Misty Mountains, stand side by side, sharp and eager their belted swords and strong their bows.  Before them both stands Hathcyn Foresthelm, young and fearsome thegn and banner-bearer to his lord.  Bright shine the rings on the hands of those who have dared the darkest shadows of Wilderland! 

But Grimbeorn is not here to greet them, and the women who abide in his father's house say that he is days gone. 

"Aye, two days ago he left," a matron named Brigid warily explains, "at the head of such warriors as were to hand, making for the Old Ford." 

"His message to us spoke of a host of orcs sweeping down from the mountains," begins Esgalwen, who among them all knows best the women of Beorn's House.  "But scant was its detail.  Do you know more?" 

"Little more than that, Lady," Brigid answers.  "In a great panic, the speaker for the western houses arrived begging the chieftain to come and lead them in their defence.  He sent a runner to your holding the following dawn, and left himself not long thereafter." 

Hathcyn spits in frustration.  "Such a state we are reduced to, that the night-goers cannot scout the land and the beasts speed their messages among the folk!" 

"We should not tarry," Gwaithlim speaks for the first time since entering the hall, his voice somehow echoing among the timbers though none would say that it was raised.  "If such is his urgency, then he will not thank us for lingering here while he gives battle to the foe." 

"One thing more," Esgalwen asks of Brigid.  "Have you heard aught of the Woodman who names himself the Fire-watcher?  He was to meet us at the Fox's Tale but we have seen no sign of him." 

The older woman shakes her head.  "He's not been here, of that I'm sure.  I'll let him know where you are bound, though, should he make himself known." 


:ooc: And we're off!  I'm starting in media res to make up for lost time.  :P 

I'll throw the scene open for anything anyone wants to ask, or do (and I'm open to things having been done before you arrived here, or even before you left Hathcyn's home).  I'll move the action on to the Old Ford once everyone's ready. 

:ooc: Hey Paul, can you give us some specifics as to date and year? It is easier to maintain the Fellowship notes when we know when each adventure phase begins and ends. Thanks!

:ooc: Sorry, Doug.  It's now early July 2960.

:ooc: Righto - In the absence of anyone putting their hands up I'll be moving things on shortly. 

:ooc: I will get something here tonight. I just added my end of Fellowship stuff which kind of covered her up to this point. It might behoove the story continuity to explain her coming FROM the Old Ford to the House of Beorn, only to be sent back there.

Maybe, too, Esgalwen was the source of the info the Grimbeorn followed on? I will have it up tonight.

"Let us get horse and provision ready for the journey -- we know not what we ride into or how the Firewatcher might be supplied lest we meet upon the road."

While the three prepare to leave, the little bird that had taken to Gwaithlim was buzzing about the yard and stables.  His name was Gwathror and he lived up to the name chittering up a storm.  Most of what he said was of the many goings-on around the House of Beorn.  "The others departed because the rest of two-legs don't understand them like Man-Bear -- he gave respect and honor to them, to all of us.  Man-Cub does his best but he isn't the same, some say more sour."

The chirping was a constant stream until the elf put a hand up to quiet him.  "I appreciate your news, mellon, but we must away to hunt the foes of the mountains.  Do you know anything of those tidings?  Have your heard news on the wind of them?"

Esgalwen watched bemused as the elf chirped and twittered in bird song, apparently aware of what he said and the replies he received. She turned her attention to Hathcyn who was busy checking the ties and straps of his horse's saddle and bags.

"It is strange to me, this call to Grimbeorn's house. As you know, I spent the last few months along the shores of the Anduin in service at the Old Ford." Hathcyn listened intently, "When the runner arrived to summon me here, surely he would have known that his lord would be coming to me there and I could have joined with Grimbeorn directly."

"Grimbeorn did not necessarily know you were at the Ford," answered the Foresthelm. "When word came to the Fox Tale, I directed the runner to you... not knowing that the errand was already where you were."

"That makes sense then," nodded the woman. "I fear the days we may have lost... especially if the enemy lays siege to the crossing."

Hathcyn merely nodded in kind, "Then let us tarry no longer! Come bird-talker, we away."

With that the Beorning climbed atop his mount, his spear already raised high in the morning sun. Esgalwen mounted, too, and then Gwaithlim and the trio rode forth from the House of Beorn.

Hathcyn scratched at his beard. The something about the situation troubled him, bit he was unsure exactly what it was. Grimbeorn had been drawn off, The Firewatcher had not come and the Beorning wondered if some force were pulling them apart from each other.

Hathcyn took a measure of authority unto himself in the absence of Grimbeorn. He directed that horse should be made ready in the event of the arrival of the Woodman or should messengers need to be dispatched quickly. He also set the women to prepare bandages and a store of honeycakes beyond normal consumption. And lastly he dree from the hall the banner if the bear. His right to do so was unquestionable if in the other matters he had presumed some authority he did not have.

So when he rode out rolled and packed with him was the great banner of the bear.

Gwaithlim rides south with the chittered words of Gwathror still echoing in his mind: "Down from the mountains they came in a great host, the tree-choppers from beneath the mountains, yes and yes!  And many of the night-howlers running alongside them!  But the dark-feathered ones, flesh-feasters, follow them not, but have gone north along the mountains.  Indeed!  They answer a summons, but of what they will not say!"

:ooc: Let's kick off the bit where we move people around.  Gwaithlim is the Fellowship's new Guide, more or less by default as everyone else has settled into their own areas of expertise.  Fortunately, his Travel score (3) is respectable.  Let's see how well he rolls his first marching test (vs TN 14):

:ooc: Close but not quite a success.  Matt, care to drop a Hope point?  It'll mean the difference between having an event on the road to the Old Ford, or something cropping up when you're nearly there. 

 :ooc:  ':}  :|  Sure, toss a Hope at that roll.

:ooc: IT SHALL BE DONE.*




* It shall be done at a time when I'm less overworked and sleep deprived. 

With time of the essence, and in safe and familiar lands, the Fellowship and their accompanying fyrdmen march hard for the Old Ford, calling no halt for the fall of night but pressing on across the wide fields and past the steadings of Grimbeorn's folk toward where the hall of old Gelvira Pot-Stirrer sits by the tumbled stones that mark the ford.  Even now, by the light of stars and torches, they pass through the low-lying land by the riverside, where the water sits close to the surface of the soil and ponds and streams are common. 

Those of their followers who know this path well keep there eyes firmly on their boots as they pass here, for the old tales of the herders and huntsmen tell of waters that on nights when the moonlight is dim may trick the eye of an unwary traveller with a gleam like that of some lost, precious thing.  Should the wanderer look closer, say the old tale-spinners, the curse of the treacherous waters will fall upon them, though few agree on the form which such evil will take. 

These tales has Esgalwen heard many times, and ever before when she has passed this way has she made sure to do as the nearby folk do, if only to show respect for those among whom she sometimes dwells.  Now, though, she has more need of haste than of caution.  High she holds here eyes, and now there gleams something amid one ill-omened stream. 


:ooc: It's a Lookout test this time (I'm not going to bother with Fatigue because you're just about to reach a safe resting place anyway).  But to stay safe, Esgalwen has to fail an Awareness roll at TN 14.  Let's see how she does:

The glimmer in the corner of her eye is enticing, and she takes a step away from the path before the realisation of what is happening hits her and she halts, heart hammering.  Gwaithlim, not two steps behind her, regards her quizzically.  "Is something amiss, my friend?" he asks. 

"No... nothing.  Merely a passing fancy.  March on!  There cannot be long now to go." 


:ooc: I'm going to say that, despite the fact that the roll was technically a success, the :g: produces a good result for her.  Coupled with the :%: I'll even toss in an AP (:csu: for this, and for Gwaithlim's roll earlier).  The dice do, after all, look out for the players sometimes. 

 :ooc: Beware the tricksey lights

Leaving the suspicious waters behind them, the small company marches on into the night, barely pausing until at last with weary feet and aching legs they reach the hall of Gelvira Pot-Stirrer, by the very banks of the Old Ford itself.  The hall and its folk have prospered greatly with the opening of the Road, and several outbuildings now cluster around it from whence loom the shadows of wains and the unmistakable scent of horses and oxen. 

In the pleasant cool of the summer night, the guests of the hall have moved their tables and benches outside.
 There Gelvira, wizened hostess and once counsellor to Beorn, keeps several youths busy serving ale and baked mushrooms but little heed do the guests pay them, for by the light of a bonfire dances the lithe figure of an Elf-maid, her steps finding sure accompaniment in the piping of her flute.  As the company draws closer, they hear the fluting stop, the dance apparently at an end. 

"The song again, of the maiden and the wind!" calls a voice from one of the tables, and the Elf-maid answers eagerly. 

"Of course, friends, but mind that you keep that cup full, for the singing is thirsty work!" 

Then, as Esgalwen at last recognises Luindîs (https://rpg.avioc.org/boards/index.php?msg=34347), who once troubled her for the tale of Duskwater's redeeming.  If the recognition is shared, however, the Elf shows no care of it before launching into her song, keeping time for the other guests to join in the chorus with the beating of a flat drum.

    Lo!  To the south was born a maid in an Ithilienic glade
   And though her home was hardly humble she ranged far,
   For she knew she wanted more when first she set foot out the door
   Upon the way no force in Middle-Earth could bar. 

   Yet as she started to unfurl why then her father told her 'girl
   A shieldmaiden of Gondor you shall be!
   And you shall serve until you're old and you shall do as you are told!'
   She wasn't sold and so a loner became she. 

   For this maiden had a mind of an exploratory kind
   And though duty bound her to her land and kin,
   She lived each and every day in a wanderlusting way
   Never once accepting walls to hem her in. 

   'Twas a wind blew in one day, from where it came she could not say
   She knelt and felt its breath take up her hair,
   And said 'I'll follow where you go!' and then the wind began to blow
   Toward the north and to the folk awaiting there. 

   Ahooo said the wind! 
   Ahooo said the sky! 
   She said 'I'll follow where you go!' and as the wind began to blow
   To the north-lands did she turn and did she fly. 

   Many miles and many days and many narrow northward ways
   Alone to Wilderland she found her footsore path
   For though accompanied by good and brave companions to the wood
   The perils of the forest hounded them to death! 
 
   Upon a pin the wind did turn and her guts began to churn
   As she fought her way from darkling forest free,
   And the wind upon her hair, it said 'the road for those who dare
   Will test and tear you but that's how it has to be.'

   Ahooo said the wind! 
   Ahooo said the sky! 
   Yes the wind upon her hair, it said 'the road for those who dare
   Will wound and weaken you but that's how it must be.'

   And so it went as year by year she vanquished fear by dreadful fear
   With no-one dear to cheer the battles she had won,
   Until it chanced that by and by she caught the King of Dale's eye
   His helm and mail gleaming 'neath the northern sun. 

   He said 'come maiden, take my hands and settle down upon my lands!
   My hearth and hall and mead you'll call your own.'
   She answered 'nevermore shall I, for I am sworn unto the sky,
   And naught but wide and boundless wild may I call home!'

   Ahooo said the wind! 
   Ahooo said the sky! 
   She answered 'nevermore shall I, for I am sworn unto the sky,
   And the paths of Wilderland I walk alone.'

   And to this day with sword in hand she treads the paths of Wilderland
   Never knowing where her wand'ring way shall wend,
   And with the wind still in her hair she'll take a blow and never care
   Knowing only that the road will twist and bend. 

   Ahooo said the wind! 
   Ahooo said the sky! 
   The wind ever her hair she'll battle darkness and despair
   Knowing that she'll walk her road unto its end. 

:ooc: That is fantastic!

Esgalwen watched the elf dance and sing and it took a few moments until she realized the words were about her... Luindis had put her tale to rhyme!

Esgalwen listened to the words sang and her smile broadened as the crowd joined in the gay chorus, and the Dúnadan found herself weeping. The music bolstered her and she knew she was not alone or forgotten in this land that was not of her birth. It was not that Esgalwen needed to be lauded upon - she did not come here to find fame and fortune - but for so long she had felt alone. Unsure of her decisions and whether she had left a life behind that would have served a far better purpose.

But no... the elf sang of exploits for which she had taken part and Esgalwen knew that her departure from Minas Tirith had been the right choice. There was a reason for her calling here... just as there might be reason for her meeting with Dernhuin, a few weeks past.

The song ended to a raucous cheer and the ranger wiped the tears from her cheeks. She smiled at Gwaithlim and then pressed herself into the throng to meet Luindis, once more. The elf-maiden gave a bright smile and spoke, "Hello Esgalwen of Gondor, it has been long since we last sat and spoke of tales."

"And yet I find you telling mine own," the Dúnadan woman nodded happily. "And I thank you for such a gift."

"You liked it?"

"Oh yes, it made my heart smile and has cast much gloom from my mind."

"Then I am pleased... and I do not feel I owe you any of this mead that has been poured in my cup!"

"No, you owe me naught, save to sit with me once more and tell me tales of where you have been, if you please."

And so the two women did that, finding a place to sit and talk even as the crowd called for more songs.

Hathcyn laughed at the music and slapped a bystander on the back and grabbed a mug. Half raised to his lips he stopped.

The thought came upon him like a physical blow and he placed the mug down. If this were the seat of war then why the merry making? Where was Grimbeorn and the wolves and orcs?

He looked around at the assembled people and growled at the elf, "this looks like a wedding not a war...where is Grimbeorn?"

He grabbed the arm of one of the men. "Have you heard any news of the Carrock? Where is Grimbeorn Wolfslayer!?"

The man, a stocky, broad-bellied fellow dressed in the manner of a trader out of Lake-Town and smelling noticeably of mead, stammers out his reply to Hathcyn's question.  "Why, across the river!  He...  He arrived yesterday, as I did, and barely stopped before taking his men across the ford.  His promise of payment, not to mention his talk of fame to be won, drew away all but one of my guards, too!  We've been awaiting news from the other shore, but nobody has crossed since.  Truly, I don't know when we'll be able to go over, or what in the world I might do to keep my goods safe after we do!" 


:ooc: Thanks, Doug.  The song is part of what's become an ongoing project to write some doggerel about every PC who sticks around for longer than a single adventure.

It only took a moment for Esgalwen's concerns to return to their task, as she heard Hathcyn question the crowd.

"There will be no need of guards should their purpose fail, for what is here alone will not stop that which would beat the Wolfslayer. Yet some still here might add their strength to his cause."

For the moment he let the matter lie for nighttime drinking and then a cold rest was no way to muster men.

In the morning he beat a different tune.

Hathcyn went to his mount and withdrew the banner of the Beornings and upon his ram horn blew forth several notes. Surely there were folk here who were sound enough to fight.

"The Great Wolfslayer asked in his way for those to come with him. Well, here is the Banner of the Folk! Who by will or by oath will join us and make for the ford? CARROCK! CARROCK AND THE BEAR!"

Inspire:
(https://rpg.avioc.org/boards/Themes/default/images/dice_warn.gif) This dice roll has been tampered with!
Rolled 1d12 : 5, total 5
(https://rpg.avioc.org/boards/Themes/default/images/dice_warn.gif) This dice roll has been tampered with!
Rolled 3d6 : 2, 4, 3, total 9

Fixed a typo and if the pacing or story allows this scene.

Gwaithlim sat in comfort of the evening, letting the others deal with their folk as necessary.  It truly was a surprise to meet one of the fair-folk in this place for his kind hadn't made it a practice to mingle with other folk without great need and singular purpose.  The song that was sung was skillfully crafted and pleasant to listen.  If he did get some time to converse with this Luindis, it certainly would be an interesting talk.

:ooc: Right - I'm going to do a quick roll for Gwaithlim now, 'cause I completely forgot to do it the other day. 

Watching the elf-maid and the Dúnadan together, Gwaithlim cannot help but smile, like an indulgent parent beholding their child making a new friend.  For are the carriers of the fire of Númenor and the Tawarwaith alike not as children to the Sindar, and deserving of their wise guidance and brave protection?  As Hathcyn accosts one of the wain-drivers, Gwaithlim allows himself the luxury of relaxing in peace, a mug of mannish mead in hand and a warm fire before him, treasuring this moment in an age of war and sorrow. 

But not long does fate allow him to abide in ease, for a suspicion comes upon him as he glances at Luindîs that only grows as he sees the shine of firelight not only through her hair but, to a degree perhaps only his elf-eyes could mark, through her skin and flesh.  For far from the protection of the great Elf-lords, the tides of time take their toll on the long-lived Elves, not in the way old age takes over and eventually ends the lives of mortals, but by slowly consuming their physical bodies.  And as certain as the setting of the sun, each and every Elf who refuses to sail over the Sea and instead chooses to linger upon the shores of Middle-earth is doomed to fade.  That the fading has taken this one so far already is a sure sign that she has, in her heart, forsaken Valinor. 

This paints the minstrel-maid's efforts to woo the heart of Esgalwen in a new and underhanded light, for can such a one be trusted?


:ooc: Tom, we'll pick up with Hathcyn's rallying call once the evening's drama is done (which may be straight away, depending on what, if anything, Matt wants to do). 

:ooc: Looks like Gwaithlim is keeping things under his hat for the time being.  Further storyness to follow. 

:ooc: Sorry, trying to decide what to do

The day wanes and night so waxes.  The Men retreat to slumber, leaving the Elves around the fire.  Gwaithlim was slow to speak while the other seemed more personable and engaging, not typical traits of Quendi and more like the younger, and conversation drifting from Mannish into Sindarin as it closer.  Gwaithlim probes deeper in Luindis, striking nearer his concerns.

 :ooc:
 :00:
I'll add 1 Hope if necessary.

 :ooc: Nope, Gwaithlim is oblivious.

Quote from: Telcontar on Feb 07, 2023, 09:49 AM"The Great Wolfslayer asked in his way for those to come with him. Well, here is the Banner of the Folk! Who by will or by oath will join us and make for the ford? CARROCK! CARROCK AND THE BEAR!"

:ooc: This was a handsome effort, but Grimbeorn's already taken just about all those who were willing to fight for him across the Anduin with him.  A good speech shouldn't go unrewarded, though, so let's see how many stragglers there might be to add to the ~20 (in fact, bugger it - let's just say it's 20) hardy souls already following you:



I'd add the AP for his Inspire roll, but my computer currently has a bad attitude about opening PDFs.  Would you mind doing the honours, Tom?

:ooc: i'll try when I get home from work.

Bright is the day, and bold are Hathcyn's words, but few are those who step forward.  One is a youth of perhaps seventeen winters, broad his grin beneath his flaxen hair.  The other is Luindîs, who shows no sign that the drinking of the previous night affects her still. 

"You?" Gwaithlim asks under his breath as he passes her. 

"And why not I?" she whispers in reply.  "Should I forsake the chance to witness an adventure of Esgalwen of Gondor, and of Hathcyn Foresthelm who is famed alike in song?"  She grins.  "High and noble as you are, you forget perhaps that we who dwell among the roots and glades must defend ourselves also, for the warriors of the Elvenking cannot be everywhere.  And perchance you shall see," she adds, tossing her head toward the bow and quiver slung upon her back, "that I pluck the strings as well as I blow upon the flute or beat upon the drum." 

Grim-faced and sparing no needless word, the company makes its crossing of the Anduin.  Low and sluggish run its waters beneath the already-warm July sun, and the weed-covered stones of the Dwarf-bridge that once bestrode it from one bank to the other now make for waystations in the crossing, and with the aid of these no member of the company, whether they fare on four legs or two, has to strain themselves to arrive sodden on the western side. 

From there, the path ahead is less certain but Hathcyn knows well the mind of his chieftain, and Esgalwen the mind of her friend, and each taking council from the other they recreate as best they can the path of Grimbeorn and of his army.  For a stoutly-defended homestead lies less than a day from the riverbank, and there the Wolfslayer would find allies and a rallying place for the western clans.  Before they can arrive, though, a gloom-filled cloud sweeps down from the mountains ahead to blanket the sky, and a dreadful sight meets their eyes. 

Upon the trail, surrounding what was perhaps once a cowherd's hut, lie the fallen bodies of several dozen Men, torn by orc-sword and pierced by goblin-shaft and now given over to the appetites of a lone wolf who even now tears at the flesh-feast before it.  As the company grows close, it raises its gory snout from its meal and lets out a high-pitched howl.  Before long, others answer. 

"This bodes ill, but I saw no sign that any crossed the ford. Esgalwen, did you see anything to the contrary? I'm afraid we've ridden over anything that was not obvious on our first crossing."

Then to the others, "be wary, stay together and do nit stray."

With Hathcyn's question, Esgalwen dismounts and begins to give the ground a keen eye - looking for tracks or clues.

---

:ooc: is our group mounted? I assumed so, but let me know if different. Esgalwen does have her horse.

I am going to give an Explore test and a Hunting test. Paul you take the skill result that seems most appropriate, but she is trying to discern when or if Grimbeorn passed this location.

TN 14 explore 3d


TN 14 hunting 2d

:ooc: She is willing to throw a :vv: to either roll, if it would help. The Explore test would result in a 20 and the Hunting a 15.

 :ooc: Ah yes, the famed dice-rolling of Esgalwen strikes again...

Gwaithlim, upon seeing the beast gnawing upon the carrion and its called, he looks around from his vantage to see where the answering call comes and attempts to discern how their proximity.

 :ooc:
 :00:


 :ooc: The other curious question is Men dead at the hands of orcs... are their bodies of the Enemy about?  Does the wolf stay or run off at the sight of the company?

Hathcyn jerked at the reigns of his horse and moved into the field of carnage. He was experienced with orcs and their ways so his eyes looked for clues that a less experienced warrior might miss. 

 :ooc: Paul, I am tapping my Orc Lore here to see what I can deduce from the scene. Intent, size, patterns, etc.

Esgalwen and the wolf each keep a wary eye on each other as the former dismounts to read what might be read from the tracks left in the earth.  On closer examination, she can see that the bodies of Grimbeorn's slain warriors are mingled with those of great wargs, their sides pierced with spears and their heads split by the blades of axe and sword.  Here and there, an orc also lies among them, more than one still pinned beneath the beast that was clearly its battle-steed.  The tracks of wargs leave the field in all directions but many follow, and now hide, footprints of Men, hurrying west and south. 

"Warg riders," Hathcyn growls, his heart quickening at the thought, for though the slain foes before him are plainly of the tribes of the Misty Mountains, it seems that they have adopted the ways of their southern kin and have learned to ride the great and ferocious beasts of the mountain slopes into battle.  Ill this bodes indeed for their company, for besides the Fellowship itself only two of their number are mounted, and none are well-practiced in the art of fighting from the saddle. 

Gwaithlim, wary while his companion reads the tale of this woeful field, marks how the lone wolf keeps a careful distance from the well-armed Men but does not flee before them.  Around them, the howls sound again, clearly louder and closer.  Others of its kind, or perhaps worse still, are coming, and will be here uncomfortably soon.

"It is not like Grimbeorn, or any folk of the Vale to leave their dead to lie as carrion," said Esgalwen. "Whatever has occurred here did not end here. I can only assume Grimbeorn led his troops off in haste - either in pursuit," she paused for a moment and looked to Hathcyn, "or in retreat."

The encircling howls had her reach to her back and draw her bow, which she quickly bent and strung. Esgalwen's horse whickered nervously. It was a stout beast, but it was no warhorse, and neither was the Dúnadan a trained mounted-warrior. The Rangers of Ithilien moved about with stealth and secrecy, but primarily afoot. Horses were only used to convey a person long distances in haste.

Esgalwen undid the leather thong that secured the flap over her quiver and then drew an arrow and nocked it to string. "Hathcyn, we either need move forward now in pursuit of Grimbeorn, or I fear we shall be dealing with our own pack of wolves."

"The wolves it seems are inevitable. Perhaps we should give them a taste of our steel now to keep them off of our tracks later. Have we surmised where Grimbeorn has gone?"

Not knowing the man long, Gwaithlim figures Grimbeorn a strong and capable warrior and battle leader, so, not being a competent tracker, the elf looks about for the more tactical position to head towards.

 :ooc:
 :00:

Few are the prospects that Gwaithlim finds for a strong defence here, for the land this close to the river is low, its hills gentle rolls in the land rather than steep fells.  Neither do any works of Men offer help, for whatever simple fences the folk who built this dwelling may have raised have been cast down, broken and trampled beyond repair by the hands of orcs and the feet of fighting warriors. 

As the howling draws ever nearer, the men who accompany the Fellowship start to draw closer together as those without shields seek the protection of those who carry them.  Then from among them comes the voice of Herwig, a proud and stalwart man whose kin dwell in the mountain foothills.  "Not far from here lies the steading of Ferthald and her kin.  Its walls are stout and its gates strong, and I'd sooner face wolves and orcs from behind them than out here!" 

Mutterings of agreement accompany his words, and it is plain that many of the Fellowship's followers are ready to make for such safety as the steading may offer, with or without their leaders' direction.  Gwaithlim, though, finds his heart sinking.  There might we find what we sought, he thinks, or the wolves and their horrible riders may fall upon us when we are strung out like beads upon a thread, disordered and weary.  Oh, where to face them and how?

Hathcyn missed the Wolfslayer and in this moment felt that command of this company fell to him. Now he was responsible for others and not just his own actions.

 "Let us make for the steading. A low wall will be better than no wall. Stay together and remain steady. If we are over taken we will have to stand and fight."

He signaled out two riders on good horses.

"Make to the steading with great speed and make sure it is not held against us. Everyone else, with me!"

:ooc: Here's where I'd say 'roll Battle or Inspire, whichever is worse, to see how well you get them moving', but both of Hathcyn's scores are exactly the same and 'roll three dice plus the Feat die' just doesn't have the same ring to it. 

Battle/Inspire (TN 14)

Off speed the riders with Hathcyn's words still ringing in their ears, and the warriors on foot make for the steading with all possible haste, for the heavy clouds even now begin to loose their waters upon the land, and cold water soon finds its way through the seams of cloaks and down the backs of necks.  The Beornings and their allies do not tire, though, for the wolves can soon be glimpsed through the rain, hackles high and jaws agape.  Here and there, one bears an orcish rider, their swords held loosely by their sides. 

This in itself Esgalwen finds troubling, for though the rain hides their numbers enough different beasts and riders can she mark to guess that they outnumber the small band of Men at least somewhat.  And yet, they do not press their attack.  Spurring her mount close to Hathcyn's, she voices this thought.  "Longspear, you know the ways of orcs better than any other here.  How do you read this riddle?" 

"I have no art to know their minds," he replies.  "But it's in their nature to destroy, and only when it serves some greater, blacker purpose will they restrain themselves.  I don't know what that purpose is, but I know there must be one and I mislike the knowing without being able to do anything but keep to our course." 

Still, the Fellowship's men keep in good order as they trudge along the increasingly muddy path through the deepening darkness, and it is not until the waning twilight shows the nearby palisade of what can only be the steading of Ferthald that matters change for here, at last, the thought of their prey finding save haven proves too much for the pursuing pack.  With a howling to chill the blood, the wargs spring, closing for battle. 

Quote from: Eclecticon on Mar 01, 2023, 07:25 PM:ooc: Here's where I'd say 'roll Battle or Inspire, whichever is worse, to see how well you get them moving', but both of Hathcyn's scores are exactly the same and 'roll three dice plus the Feat die' just doesn't have the same ring to it. 

Battle/Inspire (TN 14)
(https://rpg.avioc.org/boards/Themes/default/images/dice_warn.gif) This dice roll has been tampered with!
:00: 1d12 : 9, total 9
Rolled 3d6 : 6, 2, 3, total 11

Lol, maneuvering the LM to roll for you is a tried and true method regardless of which version or server the board is on!

"Steady and in Order! The stray sheep is first taken by the wolves!"

 :ooc: Did the advance riders return? How many of us are mounted vs on foot?

Quote from: Eclecticon on Mar 01, 2023, 08:41 PM"Longspear, you know the ways of orcs better than any other here.  How do you read this riddle?"

:ooc: I am not needing any narrative adjusted or getting into a character pissing match, but Esgalwen has the trait Enemy-lore (Orcs), as well, and she has her own thoughts on this.

---

The Orcs and wolves pursued but did not press their attack - even when it was apparent their numbers were greater than that of the Fellowship. Esgalwen spoke to Hathcyn once more, "Hear me Longspear - the enemy does not move to attack us, only pursue. Why? You and I know these creatures well, do we not? Having faced them so many times. I believe it is their purpose to drive us away and we are allowing them to do just that. But what do they drive us from and to what do they drive us to?"

:ooc: Apologies, Doug.  It's been a while since I checked the character sheets, it seems!

:ooc: No, it's all good, Paul! I am not picking any nits.  ;D  Just as an Ithilien Ranger, orcs are her hated foes. That said, she is far from home and Hathcyn (and the folk of the vale) would have a better understanding of their mountain orcs.

Still, I am just wondering why they are seeming to be fine with us running away. There has to be an ulterior motive.

 :ooc: Yeah I was hoping the two recon riders would have sniffed that. i dont like this steading idea but there is nothing holding this band together. If pressed I'm planning on charging them with the riders while the dismounts move on to the wall.

As the group hustles towards the homestead, Gwaithlim peers ahead into the gloom to see if any trouble may befall their strand of hope.

 :ooc:

Snatching a glance ahead of them, Gwaithlim sees only twilight and rain between the small company and the shelter of the wooden walls.  Not even any smoke can he spy to show that allies await them there.  As ever over the edge of the Wild, it seems, much must be left to chance and fate. 


:ooc: Apologies for the intermittent service.  I'm hoping things will calm down soon, though I realise I've said that more than once before.  In any case, let's do some preliminary Battle rolls:

Esgalwen


Gwaithlim


Hathcyn


Luindîs

 :ooc: so nothing from the two riders we sent ahead?

:ooc: No.  Or at least, not yet.