For a heartbeat, then another, then a third, not a single word is spoken among the crowd, even the other claimants keeping their thoughts to themselves.  Then the Fire-watcher breaks the silence.  "Murderers though they be, the Men of the red circle came in good faith and in peace, and so shall they leave us.  Those who can, take the elders to the mead-hall.  Healers, if there be life in either of those two, see that they go with them and are laid in a place of safety..."

He has done it, Hathcyn thinks to himself.  Oh, there will be a formal choosing by the crones and greybeards, but few would speak for any other now that he has shown himself for what he is, and those that do will be argued around in time.  With a delighted grin on his face, he looks around for the Ranger and the grey Elf to share his joy. 

But they are gone.

Arbogast's eyes widen in shock and dismay as he watches the twin murders as a man frozen, a mere beholder to the spilling of blood and the defiling of the doom-ring.  Then, as all around him falls into disorder, the voice of Hathcyn, his brother by the shedding of blood and the sworn man of Grimbeorn his friend of old, cuts through the noise: "Now, NOW is your time to lead and prove that you are the best leader of the Wood-men!" 

Like water thrown on a heavy sleeper, the words shock him into action, and at once he knows what must be done.  "My boon companion," he replies, "If you would have me lead, then fetch me the horn from the high mead-hall!" 

Breaking into a triumphant grin, Hathcyn turns and on feet fleet as a mountain stream races to the gates of Wuduseld, left open in honour of the occasion despite the imminent threat of rain.  He does not stop to explain himself to the door-warden, nor to the gangly-limbed youth set to guard the the Great War-Horn of the Hunter, but seizes the horn in both hands and is halfway to the door calling "No time to explain!" before any might lift a hand to stop him. 

Returning to the doom-ring, he sees that the scene is, if anything, worse than when he left.  Old women press forward against the men of Tyrant's Hill, their beseeching to try the Staunching Song lost in the chaos and the warriors' blood-slick knives half-raised to stop them.  Nearby Caewin, the light of madness shining in his eyes, gives commands to no-one who harkens to him and various of the assembled elders jab accusing fingers at each other, grey beards flecked with spittle and accusations of treachery.  Neither Esgalwen nor Gwaithlim are anywhere to be seen, but Luindîs stands at the base of a stone upon which the Fire-watcher has climbed and now balances awkwardly. 

As the Longspear passes to him the horn, Arbogast wastes no time bringing it to his lips and calling forth a note long and clear and loud enough to carry above every raised voice and cursing tongue.  "MEN OF THE WOOD, HARKEN!" he calls thereafter in a voice he has trained to carry above the clangor of battle, and bidden or not, each head turns in his direction. 

"Not for the first time, that which never should have come to pass is upon us, and we must be resolute in our response!  But instead we have fallen to bickering and recrimination!  You!" he points to the warriors who surround the two bloodied bodies, "let the healers through to do what they may!"  And to his great satisfaction, they do so, though it is plain that little chance remains to save either. 

"Warriors, hunters, wayfarers all, hear me!  I came here not to seek the title of War-leader!"  His gaze sweeps the crowd, alighting on Caewin, the Helm of Peace now snug on his head.  "I came here not greedy for vain glory!"  He looks to the knot of Mogdred's men, fear and grief now plain on their faces.  "I came here not to seize power, nor to give voice to long-held grudges!"  He looks briefly toward Munderic, then away.  "I came here not at the bidding of any other, but to be the servant of my kin and folk, as ever I have sought to be!" 

He raises the horn above his head to catch the light that breaks for a moment through a gap between the clouds.  "No right have I to hold this horn, and the title of War-leader is not mine to take.  On the morrow, you may raise your axes against me, or you may turn aside from me and hear only your own counsels, but know this: on this day, I and no other will be the shield against the hand of the Shadow that besets us!" 


Let's see how they take all that (with an Inspire roll):

That's the kind of roll I wanted!  Now for some appropriate music:

Quote from: Telcontar on Jan 03, 2025, 04:16 PM
Ok Paul, here is your chance to drop the LM screen for a moment, dig deep, and take back the mantle of player.

Let's see what I can do, then.  If this is the end of our tale, let's make it a good one.

Arbogast is going to roll Awe - not his best skill, but the one that's called for right now:

Esgalwen looked into the eyes of Gwaithlim and saw those of Orophin looking back - not the haunted eyes of Morirúsë that she remembered.

She gave a nod. A smile.

"I would like that, Sir Elf."

She took the heavy weight of Nimronyn into her hand once again and then slid it into its scabbard. It would certainly make for an heirloom of her house, if naught else.

Gwaithlim watched in horror as the events unfold before him.  Never before did he feel absolutely powerless to stop them as well.  Still watching from the sidelines, his head swims as the companionship he's known for sometime seem to dissolve and tear apart at the same time.  These tidings are dark indeed for the Men on this side of the Misty Mountains and he is not sure that he can be of much more service to them.

Then he sees something that confirms his fears, Esgalwen dropping her blade with a clang to the table and leave with bitter tears and sorrow.  He knew those tears well, having shed them himself in ages past.  He tries to get to her before she leaves but is unable to make his way through the throng.  He does grab her blade, for if she is to leave this place and tread the paths back to her people, there are still perils to face along the way.

Finally leaving the tent, he searches over the camp to find the Gondorian woman.  "Lady, I believe you dropped this."  She could barely look at the elf or the blade in his hand.  "Leave it.  I renounce all that I have here in these lands and in the north.  I cannot bear this sword any further for its memory holds too much grief and sorrow, where now I find that all that I have strived to build sundered or turned to ill."

The elf nods, figuring her mood as much.  "Where will you go now?"

"I will return to my people.  I will return to Gondor and do the what is expected of a good woman of noble lineage.  I must leave all of this behind, it has broken me."

"If you are to return to the south, there are many perils upon that road and without such a weapon, you may not go very far.  If you would allow, let me accompany you back at least as far as Lorien.  I know those folk and the Lady of the Wood protects a fair part of the rest of your journey, her folk could be of assistance to you even if but some rest for a little while."

Looking back at the tent and then north into the lands of Grimbeorn.  "Our friends' trials are only starting but in this new chapter, we are but a footnote."

  I believe Gwaithlim's part in this tale is also come to a close for these matters are beyond his ability to influence or make meaningful support.

The chaos in the hall swept over her like an ocean wave - something she had only seen once, as a young girl when her father had taken her to Linhir in the far south of Gondor. The cries of men and women, along with the sound of death and dying, filled her ears.

It was too much. Esgalwen, daughter of Eradan had seen enough. She had dealt enough. She had been wounded enough. Too many now gone - friends, children, family... all too much and all seeming for naught.

She had come to the Vale, what seemed a lifetime ago, on an errand to learn. To find answers for a Steward that was now lying in the halls of his fathers. She escaped death even as her ranger companions were taken by orc blades. To justify her survival, the noblewoman-turned-ranger then attempted to take on the mantle of diplomacy, speaking to and for her new Lord in Gondor. It was by her machinations that Mogdred, now bleeding out the last of his life, received the weapons of war that he bared against his own.

It was too much.

Esgalwen felt at the scars under her leather jerkin. In the cacophony of her thoughts, the ghost of Orophin came to her. The Elf gave her a pitied smile and he spoke, "It is impossible to stave off evil from outside, when it grows within. Do not fret this decision, Esgalwen, daughter of Eradan. They will have to find their own way through the Shadow. You have given all you could."

Tears filled her eyes, even as Hathcyn called Arbogast to the fore. She drew Nimronyn from its scabbard, laying the blade atop the long table before her, and quietly slipped from the hall.

A ranger and warrior no more - the woman of Gondor moved with those that fled the hilltop. She made quick her stop in the tent where her things were stored, and then while she could, saddled her horse and rode from Woodland Hall.

---

Gents, this is a Woodmen story anymore. I don't have anything left to contribute with my Gondorian. Steve brought her into the game nearly ten years ago and left her for me to assume as an NPC, and then my character. I see her too torn between duty to home and bloodline then trying to aid in unifying a people that are not hers. I can see her watching Arbogast and Lindwine grow a family and wondering if the wounds she has taken over the years has made her barren. I can see this failure with Mogdred breaking her resolve, as I wrote above.

I will continue to read our story, as it comes to whatever conclusion is in store, but Esgalwen removes herself from this tale. If she gets home, I see her returning to the obscurity of minor nobility within the courts of Minas Tirith, where she will do her duty and be betrothed to another of the blood of Númenor.

Hopefully, you all find this an appropriate end to her tale.

 
Ok Paul, here is your chance to drop the LM screen for a moment, dig deep, and take back the mantle of player.

Hathcyn, called Foresthelm, stood at the center of the Doomring. His helmet gleamed with the sheen of battle and the fire of resolve. His eyes, sharp as the keenest blade, flickered over the gathered crowd of warriors and elders, all silenced by the grim deed that had just transpired.

Before him, Athala stood with bloodstained hands, her eyes wide but unwavering, her chest rising and falling in quickened breaths. The tyrant lay dead at her feet, a man whose name had been cursed in every village, town, and hut. A man whose reign had poisoned the land, whose cruelty had scarred its people. His throat had been cut by Athala, and his lifeblood spilled upon the ancient stones, the red of it mingling with the black earth like a final prayer.

Athala was no longer a slave—no longer a mere shadow of a woman bound by chains. She had risen, a vengeful flame burning in her heart. She had struck the tyrant down with the strength of one who had nothing left to lose, but everything to reclaim.

The air hummed with tension, the blood of the fallen tyrant still fresh on the ground. Hathcyn, stoic as the forest itself, stepped forward. Her eyes met his, wild and yet tempered by the fire of her deeds then the light dying in her eyes as the blades of the men of Tyrannt's Hill blades bared descended.

"Traitor!" one of the guards spat, his voice like the crack of a whip. "Murderer!"

The crowd stirred, but none moved to intervene. The doom of the Doomring had claimed them all.

Athala crumpled to the earth, her life spilling away with the blood of the tyrant. Her eyes, once bright with defiance, dimmed as the forest seemed to mourn with her. The earth drank deeply as the blood mingled and doom found them both.

The air in the Doomring grew thick with tension, and the silence that followed the tyrant's fall was soon shattered by the cries of those who had witnessed the death of their ruler. The stone circle, ancient and weathered, seemed to groan under the weight of history as the council of elders, long out of touch with the pulse of the land, convened in haste. Their voices, trembling with fear and disbelief, echoed beneath the twisted branches that loomed like dark hands above them.

It was not a gathering of unity, but a convocation of broken hopes and whispered doubts.

The elders, gray-haired and frail, muttered amongst themselves, their voices a tangled mess of fear and uncertainty. Few of them had seen a true battle in years, let alone fought one. They were the keepers of old knowledge, guardians of lore and tradition, yet they had failed to recognize the shifting tides of the world beyond their wooden halls.

The arguing grew louder, voices overlapping, as the once-proud council descended into madness. Hathcyn could not bear it. His hands tightened on the shaft of his spear as his gaze flicked to Athala's crumpled form, still lying amidst the stone circle, her breath gone. The guards moved in like a pack of wolves, still keeping their distance from the elders, knowing the old men and women held no sway over the weapons in their hands.

"There is no time for this," Hathcyn growled, his voice rising above the clamor, his eyes flashing with the urgency of the moment. "The fate of this land lies not in our petty quarrels, but in what is to come after this."

As the chaos roiled within the Doomring, the council of elders, once a pillar of stability, had crumbled into disarray. Athala, the murderer and savior, lay broken on the earth, and the guards, having done their grisly work, now lingered like vultures over the remains of both the tyrant and the woman.

Hathcyn's mind raced, his thoughts burning with urgency. He could feel the weight of the moment crushing him, but within the weight, he saw one final chance. Still a breath of hope.

"Arbogast," Hathcyn called out, his voice reverberating with purpose. He gripped the arm of his friend and looked deep into him. "You are the one who has the strength and wisdom to carry them through this dark hour. Now, NOW is your time to lead and prove that you are the best leader of the Wood-men. You alone have the courage to bear it, show these folk here and now that it is true. This is your chance, bought in blood. You must bring them through this darkness for no one else will."

From the ashes, a fire shall be woken
New light from the darkness shall spring...

I'm about to go on a week's holiday, but I am refreshed and raring to finish our tale in the new year.  Thank you for all your supportive messages - they've helped get me through a very bad time.