Sorry for the absence.  Both business and personal travel got in the way of being able to post, not to mention crappy net access to explain the absence.

Grimbeorn knew the man's words to be true and they stung for they echoed what was in his heart. He thought about replying but stayed his tongue.  The man lost his son and he grieved with bitterness in his  heart and was right to do so.  "There will be ample time for revenge and plenty of orc necks to cleave in feeding that fire, but let us finish this work, find our survivors, and honor our dead.  We will then take counsel as to our next course of action."

Hathcyn demurred.
Travel Roll



"I will speak, for in this matter I am not hasty, for it was I who followed the trail."

The Longspear waved his spear in the direction of his travels.

"Those who left the battle traveled that way and I found three tracks. Two that made for the ford, and one that made straight for the river. Being on foot I made for the river to see if any trace could be found of survivors, but there I lost the trail. As for the ford and who went that way they would have passed over it, and i had not the speed on foot nor the time to follow. Across the ford went the greater number. I found no signs of pursuit."

"I seem to recall, M'Lady," Tate says, "tales of fortresses built around the edge of this wood by Men of bygone days, now long abandoned.  Could it be that our quarry has been taken to one of them? 


Man, Esgalwen's luck with the dice isn't changing! 

At last, the trail leads into higher lands, where a wild forest, its leaves as brilliantly golden as the treasure-holds of Erebor, holds sway over the hills.  This, Esgalwen recalls from tales told around the hearth of Mountain Hall, is the Wolfswood, long a haunt of outlaws and desperate folk.  Though it is early evening by the time the three companions approach the outskirts of the wood, there is no call of birds, nor skitter and rustle of unseen animals among the branches and roots.  There is no sound at all but a low breeze raising a susurrus in the leaves.  It is as if every living thing capable of movement has withdrawn from this place, forsaking it in favour of the deeper woods. 

And yet, it is plain that Men have taken up residence.  The trail that they have followed for the past three days plunges into the trees, where it meets the footprints of others, all leading deeper in among the ferns and boughs. 


Quick Lore rolls:

Esgalwen

1d12 : 11, total 11
Rolled 1d6 : 1, total 1

Tate

Tate will use his journey die to turn that into a success:

The Lake-Man points, "south, it would seem."  Indeed, the trail of half a dozen men or more is easy to follow from here.  For the remainder of the day it wends its way among stony hills and across marshy dells.  Land and waters alike here slouch south-east, and it occurs to Esgalwen that they cannot be far from the Gladden Fields.  A chill takes her at the thought of that place of misfortune and ill-omen for the folk of Gondor, but her step does not falter, nor does her countenance betray any trace of fear.  Nonetheless, she cannot shake the sense that there is a wary watchfulness about the land, as if they trod across a giant of an elder age, now uneasily a-slumber. 

The going is harder than the fair lands across the river, and it is plain that Williferd, unaccustomed to long journeys far from home, is struggling to keep up with his more experienced travelling companions.  He shivers in the breezes atop the hills, and his legs are soon covered in mud from ill-chosen steps in the fens between them.  His breath is scarce, and he does not waste it on speaking. 


Let's do some Travel rolls, shall we? 

Esgalwen

1d12 : 6, total 6
Rolled 3d6 : 5, 1, 3, total 9

Tate

Finally, the silence is broken by Walcaud.  The thegn spits on the ground, as if to clear his mouth of a foul taste.  "Your words are well-chosen.  My quarrel is with neither of you."  He looks bitterly at Hathcyn.  "You held your spear, that night, better than my own sons and that is to your credit.  As for you," he locks eyes with Grimbeorn once again, "I offer this counsel: every man who has ever shed blood in anger understands that losing battles goes hand-in-hand with fighting battles.  But there are precious few who will continue to follow a man who loses more often than he wins." 

He looks up at the mound, still growing as the ceorls and cottars continue to heap earth upon the cairn where rests his son.  "I did not come here to praise the raising of a mound, nor to pick open old wounds.  I came to see to my sons.  One lies here, and you have brought goods to speed him to his rest.  But how can it be that the other is still lost?" 


I'll throw open the opportunities for skill-use here - feel free to use Hunting to describe the lack of a followable trail, or Travel or Lore to guess at where the escapees might be heading.  Don't forget also that you can use Insight once an encounter has started, to provide counsel to Grimbeorn. 

"Hold your tongue, kin-slayer," Walcaud snaps.  "Your man has a voice of his own, to say what he will and not let lesser folk speak for him."  Behind him, his followers exchange glances, unprepared for such harsh words. 

"Enough," Grimbeorn retorts.  "You are right - my tongue is my own to speak as I please, and it pleases me to say this: I know not what may have passed between this man and his kin, but he has proven his worth to me.  No fewer than five of the enemy we faced met their ends spitted upon his spear, and this after he was sore wounded in my service!" 

They face each other, unspeaking, for a few seconds - faces stern, eyes unblinking. 


Grimbeorn (NPC-ed for the time being) will try to use Awe to put Walcaud back in his box. 

Yeah, I think that Hathcyn jumped in a little quickly, and maybe was a little transparent in his excuse-making.