The twilight sky was painted in hues of orange and purple as Hathcyn Foresthelm made his way through the familiar paths of the Green Stone Land. His long journey was at an end. He had wandered beyond the hills of home, traversing forests, crossing rivers, and facing dangers that had tested his very soul. He had braved the ancient ruins of the deep hills, where shadows of old evils still lingered, and sought the lost relics of a forgotten age that might one day help guard the land against new threats. Yet, none of these dangers had been so great as the weight that hung over him now—the longing to return to his beloved Aestid.

With every step he took, the smells of home filled his senses: the damp wood of the forest, the fresh soil, and the sweet aroma brewing ale carried on the wind. The familiar scent brought a rush of memories—his first home coming here with Aestid, their shared laughter in the hall, and the soft light of dawn as they walked together, hand in hand, dreaming of their future. Those days felt so distant now, so fleeting. The months and weeks he had spent away from her had taken their toll, but the thought of her, waiting for him, was a constant comfort.

As he approached the outskirts of the holding, a low sound caught his ear. The distant hum of life, the chatter of families, the crackling of hearth fires—all the things that felt so vital, so alive, but now felt almost alien. He had spent so many days on the edge of danger, surrounded only by the untamed wild, constant threats, that it was strange to hear the comfort of human voices occupied with the mundane tasks of living.

Hathcyn's heart quickened with anticipation as he crested a rise and saw the forest gate in the distance. The winding path that led to his home, lined with young elms that whispered in the evening wind, beckoned him forward. He walked briskly, his steps quickening as he drew closer to the stone walls of the Fox's Tale.

There, standing by the door as if waiting for him, was Aestid. Her raven dark hair was tied loosely behind her head, and her eyes—those eyes—remained as bright and full of life as the first day he had seen her. Sorrow had touched her, yes, but only deepened her beauty. Her hands rested on the stone of the doorway, and her gaze fixed on him as if she could sense his approach long before he arrived.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Hathcyn, his weathered face marked by the trials of his adventures, looked upon her with a mixture of awe and sorrow. The longing in his chest—an ache that had accompanied him through every step of his journey—was finally sated. He had returned.

"Aestid," he said quietly, his voice hoarse, worn from the trials of the road.

"Hathcyn," she whispered, stepping forward as if afraid he might vanish if she didn't reach him in time. She threw her arms around him, holding him tightly, as though she were holding onto more than just the man she loved—perhaps a piece of the man he had once been, a part of him that had been lost to the adventures he had faced.

For a long while, neither of them spoke. Hathcyn rested his cheek against her hair, breathing in the scent of her and the peace of home, something he hadn't realized he had been missing so desperately.

"I've returned," he finally said, his voice thick with emotion. "I promised you I would."

"I never doubted you would," Aestid replied, pulling back just enough to look up at him with a soft, knowing smile. "But I see... the journey has been long and there are fewer friends with you."

Hathcyn nodded slowly. He had seen things, things that weighed heavily on his heart, things that he would carry with him for the rest of his life. There were creatures of shadow and light, ancient beings who existed beyond the veil of time, and dangers that threatened even the most sacred of places. But through it all, there had been one constant—his desire to return to her.

"I've seen fell deeds in the sanctuary of friends," he began, his gaze distant as the memories flooded back. "But as much as I wanted to help set things right it was not my place. Not my calling. This land. This forest. You. All my actions have been for you and a hall that befits you."

Aestid's gaze softened, her hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair from his face, her touch gentle and familiar. "Come inside, my love. Let me prepare you a meal. You look like a man who has traveled far and long. You must be weary."

As they stepped inside the hall, Hathcyn allowed himself to finally relax, feeling the weight of the past months begin to lift. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting a warm glow across the room. His great chair, a gift from here beckoned him and sitting in it he felt as if it had been made only for him.

The scent of cooking herbs filled the air as Aestid moved gracefully around the kitchen, preparing a meal she knew would bring him comfort. It was simple—a stew with fresh herbs, root vegetables, and meat—but it was home.

Hathcyn settled into his chair by the hearth, the flickering flames casting shadows on the stone walls. As he sat, he found himself thinking of the great adventure he had just returned from. It had been long and arduous, full of perilous encounters and endless wandering, the loss of friends and the rising of one. Yet, it had not been the treasures he had uncovered, nor the enemies he had faced, that had driven him onward. It had been the thought of Aestid, of their life together, that had pushed him through the darkest moments of his journey.

When Aestid brought the steaming bowl of stew to him, she paused before sitting beside him. "Tell me, Hathcyn," she asked softly, "what did you learn on your journey? What is to become of the Wood-men?"

Hathcyn took a deep breath, his mind drifting to the sights and sounds he would never forget. "They have troubles, but the tyrant is dead. I dont know what more I can do there, but my focus must be here." He paused, his gaze meeting hers. "No place is as beautiful as this land. No place is as sacred. And no person—no treasure—could ever compare to what I have waiting for me here."

Aestid smiled, her eyes gleaming. "You've found your way home then?"

"Yes," he replied, his voice steady with conviction. "I have found my way home."

And so, beneath the soft glow of the fire and the watchful eyes of the stars outside, Hathcyn Foresthelm returned from his adventure—not as a weary wanderer, but as a man whose journey had brought him back to the one place that truly mattered: home.

As the fire crackled in the hearth, casting long, dancing shadows upon the stone walls of their home, Hathcyn and Aestid shared a quiet moment together. The warmth of the meal, the comfort of home, and the peace of their reunion surrounded them, but it was fleeting. The faint creak of the door echoed through the room, breaking the stillness, and both of them turned toward the sound.

At first, Hathcyn thought it was some trick of the wind, but then the door swung open with an unsettling force. A figure appeared in the doorway, tall and broad, silhouetted by the faint glow of the evening sky. Hathcyn's heart sank as he recognized the figure, his muscles tensing as the familiar, unwelcome presence filled the space.

Viglar.

Aestid's brother.

The last person Hathcyn had ever expected to bring here.

Viglar's appearance was jarring. His once-handsome face was now drawn and weathered, marred by the excesses of a life lived without restraint. His dark hair hung in unruly tangles, his clothes—finer than they ought to be for someone who had squandered his family's wealth—were stained and disheveled. The scent of ale and smoke clung to him like a second skin, and his eyes, bloodshot and dull, betrayed a soul lost to indulgence.

"Viglar," Aestid said, her voice tight with a mixture of disbelief and weariness. "What are you doing here?"

Viglar's lips curled into a half-smirk, a sneer that was as much a part of him as the unkempt hair or the unshaven face. He stepped into the room without waiting for permission, his presence filling the small space like a shadow that could not be ignored. "Ah, dear sister, always so welcoming," he said, his tone mocking. "I see your reunited with your little fox returned from his grand adventures. How sweet."

Hathcyn said coldly, his eyes narrowing. "I found your brother and for your sake spared him and brought him here."

Viglar laughed, a bitter sound that echoed in the room. He made his way to the small table by the fire, knocking over a mug that had been left there as though it were nothing more than an afterthought.

"Ah, yes. The noble, virtuous Aestid," Viglar mocked, his eyes gleaming with the bitterness of years wasted. "Always so perfect. Always so righteous." He turned his gaze to Hathcyn. "And now you, the great Foresthelm. The hero who came back to rescue her. How very touching."

Hathcyn's hands tightened into fists, though he made no move to raise them. "Your presence is not welcome here, Viglar. This land has enough trouble without your reckless behavior. You swore an oath of obedience."

Viglar gave a drunken chuckle, leaning back against the table as if the words didn't bother him in the slightest. "What do you know of oaths, Foresthelm? You've been off on your little quests, playing the hero, while I've been here, stuck with the real world. Aestid and I—well, we're used to the messes that life throws at us. You've been hiding away in your noble pursuit of what—honor? Glory? You think the world is any better for it?"

Aestid stepped forward, her voice firm. "Enough, Viglar." She crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes sharp as flint.

Viglar's expression shifted, the smirk fading just enough to show the weariness beneath. "I don't want your charity," he muttered, his voice suddenly softer, almost pleading. "I just need a place to stay. A bed. A meal. I've... I've lost everything, Aestid. I've nothing left. Father has in his hand only ill will towards us both."

Hathcyn studied Viglar carefully, sensing there was more to this than his usual reckless bravado. There was fear behind his words, a vulnerability that, for a moment, reminded Hathcyn of the pleading eyes he had seen when Vilgar, bound and beaten, lay on the floor of the hut. But it didn't change the fact that Viglar squandered his chances, and now, when he was at his lowest, he expected to find refuge here.

Aestid's expression softened just a little, though her eyes remained wary. "If you truly need help, Viglar, you can stay. But no more lies. No more games."

Viglar nodded, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of the years had finally caught up with him. "Fair enough," he said, his voice quieter now, no longer the cocky sneer it had been when he first entered. "Just... don't turn me away, Hathcyn."

Hathcyn watched the exchange with quiet tension, his eyes lingering on the man who was family, wife-brother, but had long since fallen into ruin. He wasn't sure what the future held for Viglar, but one thing was certain—this was a wound that had not healed, and it would take more than a meal and a roof to mend the rift between him and his sister.

As the night wore on, the warmth of the hearth filled the room, but it did little to erase the cold unease that had settled in Hathcyn's chest. He had returned from his adventures seeking peace, but now he found himself caught between the past and the present, between Aestid's hope for her brother and the reality of the man before them.

The fire crackled, and the shadows stretched long across the room, as if the land itself held its breath, watching and waiting to see how the story of the estranged brother, the noble hero, and the loving sister would unfold.

Hah!  You're not wrong, but I couldn't find a picture of a pensive-looking elf that could pass for Gwaithlim and I had to go with an AI one.  Apparently the 'number of fingers' issue is more or less solved.  Next stop: 'number of feet'. 

Dude! That pic of Esgalwen back home is stunning! Gwaithlim, on the other hand, appears to have a problem with his legs and feet!

Tom and I have both decided that leaving Hathcyn and Arbogast in the doom-ring is unsatisfying, so this is a space to add some denoument.  If anyone is interested in mechanics, the adventure just finished was worth 10 XP and the AP marked on your sheet. 

I look back on this tale and my favorite of all was the Beast of Mirkwood. It was an epic battle and I really enjoyed the Hope pool spend to light the Lamp of Balthi.

I liked the scene with Galadriel presenting herself in the company's desperate moment. All epic and Tolkien-like moments!

Here is to more gaming.

You did a pretty bang-up job yourself, mate!  I still remember the tension of the trip to Dol Guldur, or the battle beneath the barrow.  I can remember how exciting it was to read about Bandobras nailing Urska the Bloodymuzzle with a single arrow (and I didn't need to look up the name of the boar, it was that good)!

I agree that this did become a bit more back-of-the-mead-hall-drama than I'd really intended, but I didn't see another way to satisfyingly do this part of the story.  If we (had) continue(d), the next story I had planned was a pure high-fantasy travelogue in large part to get the taste of all this intrigue and speechifying out of our mouths. 

Dude, it has been a real blast. I am sorry that my posts dwindled, as they did. The game was shifting strongly to a narrative of the woodmen politics and I was having a hard time fitting a foreigner into the counsels.

Still - this game has been an amazing run. Almost ten years, if we had made it until April!

We certainly can come back to this game. I loved taking hiatuses from our games early on to allow for a mental rest from the stories. We can start up anything new for a while, if we can get a consensus - or we can just take some time away. Whatever everyone would like to do.

But you have Loremastered a helluva a good game!

With the sudden departure of Esgalwen and Gwaithlim from the story, this looks like a good place to bring things to a close.  I would like to thank each of you from the bottom of my heart for letting me write an ending to this adventure, even if it involved skipping past a few things I'd planned (there was going to be a whole section about gathering evidence that Caewin is madder than a bag of snakes).  In the end, I didn't have the oomph left to bring it home the way I envisioned, but you carried me over the line.  Even if we never play this again, I'll remember that. 

I hope, though, that with the turning of a few seasons there will be an appetite to pick up the threads again and weave some more of this tale - it certainly isn't finished while the Woodmen are still many and well-armed.