That was a long time to wait for a very short post. 

Late is the hour and dim the day when the Fellowship at last ties the boat once again to the jetty, for the sun sets early and deep amidst the depths of Mirkwood.  Nonetheless, a small crowd is gathered to see them arrive, word of the morning's doings having passed around the small town and an eagerness having built to know what end may come of them.  Despite her aches and heavy limbs, Esgalwen cannot suppress a wry smile as she accepts the hand of a Woodman-wife to climb out and on to steady ground.  Another boat both borrowed and returned.  Perhaps, though darkness may fall about is, our fates do not turn entirely for the worse!

The evening-songs of frogs and crickets are so loud in the air that at first she does not hear the words that the woman says to her, and it is not until she looks once again and marks that it is the hand of the lady Verwyne that grips her own that she hears and understands: "Boon friend of my kinsman, what hurts you have suffered!  Come!  Spend this night with my husband and I, and in the light of morning I would hear your tale." 

Hathcyn wanted to correct his Wife-brother. He wanted him to be clear of speech and direct in his thought. He stopped himself. This would make him less genuine and more coached. His ramblings had truth for those who would listen to them.

He felt that here, uncoached, were damning arguments and food for thought. Mogdred, whom he attributed ill intent, was far more dangerous. He thought him simply embracing a culture he felt that he had been unjustly sundered from. Here however, was proof he was in league with the dark spirits of the swamp. Now he had transgressed from a political rival to one of deep enmity. If he had any doubt of his previous slanders, any residual guilt at his machinations to defeat Mogdred's bid as war leader they were washed away. His wife-brother was perfect in his vanity, in his baseness, and in his dissimulating nature to prove beyond a doubt the guilt of Mogdred.

In the bilge of the boat was a dead swordman of the Hill. Cowering cold was a crofters family. Each in their own way proof of the guilt of this false king. This unwelcome aid to their cause would surely persuade the council of woodmen.

The wheel of seasons and events was turning. The Longspear felt as if many of their deeds and trials were coming to a conclusion. Mogdred could not be Warleader of the Woodmen. Ætheldreám would not be accepted. She was a good choice, but when he thought about it not the best choice. His own folk barely accepted Grimbeorn. Arbogast was the choice. He was the leader of the Woodmen that would be reluctant to lead but decisive when need arose. He should be War leader of the woodmen.

Viglar talked, the elves were silent. His pole idly thrust itself into the river, but the current carried them on its own, forward. Forward to the Doom-ring of the Woodmen, forward to their fates.

The Longspear stroked the hair torc around his neck closed with a silver fox and mouse and not for the last time wished Aestid were here or he with her.

Though he did not realize it his noble armor inlaid with the lines of a fox shone in the dim
Light of the evening. The glimmer contrasted and joined the reflection of the water and light as they boat sped into the docks of the Woodmen. Their absence was noted, ans a cry went up from the docks on their approach. Sardoc the hound of the Greenstone howled at their approach.

"Now, now all here must play their part in the fate of the Wood-men."

The words of the worm of a man caused distress to Gwaithlim.  The signs and sigils, those beings he encountered, spelled much danger to all.  He knows this information should be shared with those greater and of keener sight than he.  "Where is a Wizard when you need one?" he thinks.

Brilliant writing, Tom.  Thanks for dealing with the hanging plot thread.

Interlude::

The yammering continued as the party made their way up stream. Hathcyn was adamant and forceful that one member of the house come back with them to relate what they had told.

The husband and wife would not be parted and their youngest son still shaken by what he had seen that day. The Longspear paid a wergeld in gold for the son, though he yet lived. And he paid a ransom for the father to tell his tale at the circle. In the end the wife and youngest son stayed to care for the wounded boy and Hathcyn swore oaths that the man would not be slain by his hand.

In the end the parting was long. He agreed that he would tell the council what he saw and heard, but only if his family came with him. They all feared the reprisal of Mogdred. So the injured son and all the family were now loaded into the boat and headed up stream.

The gunwales sank low in the water, the small craft was overburdened. The elf and the Longspear did most of the work seeing the fatigue and hesitancy in the rest of the party. Together they poled the small, near swamped craft, into the center of the stream. The Elf argued that the center made their task harder, but the Longspear insisted.

The small river craft made it's way into the center and the progress of the party started to slack as the current pushed them in the opposite direction.

The Longspear took a dangerous stance and stood in the boat. He took the cloaked warriors war gear in his arms and tossed it over the side.

"Here is a gift to Dusk-Shadow, formed in the likeness of a daughter who the elf calls Ulmo. Tribute and geld I offer to her whom the trout ask their leave and the river will bend its course."

The mail and iron waffled as it sunk to the bossom of the river. The small craft continued to lose its progress. Then a thump was heard sounding at the bottom of the boat. The craft slacked its drift abd then as if fresh oarsmen plied the craft it surged forward against the current.

Hathcyn looked into the water and saw a smiling auburn haired face, hair colored like rippling water kissed by a setting autumn sun. Trout leaped into the boat and flapped in the bilge. And the eyes of the water nymph spoke to the man telling him he was marked now forever. Sealed by kiss and by tribute.

"From fish kisser to fish whisperer I see." Lundis murmured.

"Eh," Viglar sounded broken from his own rambling and oblivious to what just happened.

The High Elf shook his head, he seemed beset by wild spirits of the wood and water and plagued by the ignorance of men.

"The Longspear is a fish speaker. Add that to his titles when next you introduce him."

Between his efforts to endear himself to his rescuers, his idle boasting and his near-constant complaints, Viglar only rarely falls silent between the leaving of the farmhouse and the companions' return to the pier at Woodland Hall, by which time night has near-fallen and Luindîs lies slumped over the gunwale of the boat as if slain by sheer exasperation.  Between the litany of hollow words, however, a tale emerges of darkness and betrayal. 

"Oh aye, it's a tale you'll wish greatly indeed to hear, for I know the true import of what Little King Mogdred has done, and whose designs he has wrecked!  It was the winter afore last, if I rightly recall, when both father and I decided that it would be wise to venture south and seek the aid of the Necromancer who rules the southern forest.  Father clearly couldn't go with a war agin' Beorn's folk on our doorstep so I went myself to speak with his voice.  It wasn't an easy journey, let me tell you, for we ran afoul of such things as you can't even imagine along those dark paths..."

"... so, after we broke free of the spell, gave the slain to the waters of the bog (there being no dry wood to burn them) and slew the last horse so that it couldn't spread any lingering foulness to us, we came to that pile that I'm told is called Fenbridge.  Lo and behold, it seems that we weren't the only travellers to come there, for five rough-looking types (from the forest road, by the look of them) and a wench had come as well, and were ready to set off deeper into the mire!  Oh, she had a weird air about her sure enough, but I'd not seen a comely maid in a while and I thought I'd try..."

"... well, despite all that we made good time along the orc-made road and I found myself being welcomed into the black stronghold itself as an honoured guest at what proved, to our great fortune (or so I thought!) to be a great gathering of folk from all over Wilderland.  I recognised the ruffians from earlier and their kinswoman, though she had nought but scorn in her eyes now, as well as River-folk and Leofrings and grey-faced Dwarves... and Mogdred stood there among them all tall and proud before the black-robed king of that place, with everyone around him all bowing and scraping like it was his castle and he was king of everyone there.  Let me tell you, you'd not catch me on my knees before that snake..." 

"... so then I asked outright: 'What do my father and I have to do to get all these orcs on our side?' and do you know what he said?  I'll tell you what he said!  He said, in that creepy loud-whispery voice that he has, that all we had to do was seize the Old Ford and he'd aid us with orc-armies.  Of course, I knew that was just his first offer, so I stood strong and argued until he agreed that he'd pay us in gold and silver into the bargain!  Nobody in all Middle-Earth haggles better than a son of Viglund!  Now, clearly I wasn't watching ol' Mogdred at the time, but I know he was watching, and listening, and nodding that pretty head of his, wearing that fancy circlet he wears now..." 

"... of course, by that point Mogdred's horsemen had closed in on the bank and his archers were keeping up their volleys, so he said 'Flee, my lord!  The day is lost!'  And of course I was never going to do that, because I'm as great a warrior as can be found in Wilderland, even knee-deep in rushing water and with an arrow in my arm, so I just smashed my mace against my shield and yelled 'Slay me if you can, weaklings, and we'll see how large a pile of you I can make before I go!'.  But then something hit me in the back and I fell over, and I suppose I must have knocked my head on a stone because that's the last thing I recall for a while..."

"Very well. I'll keep you to your word or pass judgment if you do not. Now, there is work still to be done."

Hathcyn went out to the field with Viglar and stripped the wargear from the dead soldier and wrapped him in his cloak. He placed both piles into the boat they would take up river. Hathcyn intended to take the farmer with them as well. He wanted to deliver the body of the slain man to Mogdred, have the farmer give his testimony to the Elders, and cast the wargear of the slain into the center of the river as a gift to Dusk Shadow for having been insulted by these men and avenged by the Longspear.

I'm back.  Whoof, that was a long (and largely unintentional) break.  I want to finish off this story, because I do believe it's a good one, but then I think it's obvious that I need to step back from running the game for a while.  If that means we switch to a different game for a bit, that's okay with me.  If it means we let the TOR part of the forum lie fallow for a while, that's how it's going to need to be.  I'm happy to hear any other options that anyone can bring up. 

At the Foresthelm's feet does Viglar cast himself: beaten, shamed and (it is now plain to see) all a-tremble for want of wine.  Though his words are halting and his voice at the edge of hearing, his surrender this afternoon is as plain as it must have been on the field at the Old Ford.  "Wife-brother, if you'll grant me the mercy of my sister I swear on my life I'll follow you willingly wherever you go!" 

As Esgalwen, with a disgusted roll of her eyes, helps the wretched man to his feet he meets her gaze, a look of new cunning plain in his eyes.  "And if it's the harm of that viper Mogdred you're seeking, I keep a dark and terrible secret of his that you would do well to hear."  Her empty stomach nearly turns at the sight of his face, sallow with old bruises, breaking into a crooked, half-toothed grin.