"I will see to it, Hathcyn, though the bitterness of this offense is still harsh to the taste."

The Dúnadan makes her way to the wounded and looks to the wound, evaluating what is needed to staunch the flow of blood and curtail the danger of infection.

---

I am not sure which NPC's need help, nor am I aware of any condition that Esgalwen suffers - or if she has the needed supplies (as her gear is where?) - but I will roll for a triage check at least.

TN 14 healing 3d

1d12 : 10, total 10
Rolled 3d6 : 1, 4, 2, total 7

"Ætheldreám, you are the most skilled of us in rendering succor to the injured. Perhaps they will also learn better manners if such aid came from you whom they had detained and harmed. I'll see to my extended family and then to the sword-man who yet owes a debt to the lady of the river and to Mogdred. One he will pay still even in death."

Gwaithlim leaves the matters of Men to them and so departs the farmhouse.  He, too, is frustrated with the petty scheming of Men -- as if his ancestors were much different.  He watches the trees and listens for the approach of any further hostility, knowing they are vulnerable in the middle of nowhere with little aid.

 

Awareness - 1d12 : 8, total 8
Rolled 2d6 : 5, 1, total 6

Hathcyn ruefully shook his head.

"Wife-Brother, even after all these years you do not know your father. Perhaps, you have not heard his words about your sister? 'Keep her, I have the means to make another more faithful daughter.' Had he any inclination to ransom you he would have done so and you wouldn't have been left in safe keeping in a farmers croft. No Viglar, I'm afraid your life and well being is worth very little to your father."

"The Lady Aestid however, is more kind."

Speaking her name brought her back to his mind with more clarity. Still the dweamor and kiss of Duskshadow lingered in his mind. Her touch and her smell clouded his thoughts and he still felt her summoning him back to the water. His wrath at the boatmen for insulting her still stung. His hand went to his throat and he touched the braid of her hair twisted into the torc closed by a silver fox and a silver mouse, there tails joined.

"Viglar, you have two options. You can be my prisoner or you can be my hostage. If you promise to obey and heed my command you may go unbound and come with me back to the Greenstone. There we will determine what is to become of you. Or, you can be my prisoner and remain bound and come with me anyway. I do not trust you, but I dont desire to be stained with the blood of another brother either. Besides, you can take a small measure of vengeance against Mogdred when he sees you by my side at the council.

Speaking of which, I suggest we take the farmer with us. So he may speak to the council about what tasks Mogdred sets his subjects to."

He paused and looked at the man sitting but still bound.

"And remember this Viglar, do not confuse my kindness for weakness. Do not give me cause to pluck out your eyes and sheer your hair so that you never come to sit upon the chair of your father, never to lead man or beast. Let us see what can be done for the Farmers son, and be on our way."

Hathcyn had lost his usual mirth this day, stern and fey he had become and the iron of his will was lain bare.

As soon as they are released, the farming couple rush outside once more to tend to their elder son, whose soft groan speaks to his continued drawing of breath.  The younger boy goes with them without a single backward glance at the woman whose life he so recently held in his hands. 

The Ranger's wrists have been tightly bound, though not cruelly, and she rubs some of the pain away as Viglar, his face split in a pathetic grin, tries to stand.  "Take me with you," he says, unable to keep a note of pleading from his voice.  "Husband of my sister, you know my father is powerful, you know that he's a wealthy man.  He'll have gold and cattle aplenty for he who brings me safely back to him!" 

Hathcyn is incapable of hiding the shock on his face if hearing this news from the ranger.

Paying no further consequence to the farmers at the moment he moves into the house to free Ætheldreám. To the corner he directed his words.

"So wife-brother, we meet again at last."

With a wail, the child lets the knife fall from his fingers and runs to cling to his mother.  Esgalwen, her head pounding and her knees stiff, nonetheless has the mien of a hero from an elder tale as she rises to her feet.  "My thanks for your hospitality," she says to her former captors. 

An uncertain whimper then sounds from the other prisoner, who looks with plaintive eyes from the Ranger to Hathcyn and back again. 

"Oh hush!" Esgalwen snaps at the wretch.  "My lord Foresthelm," she says, "you know my fellow prisoner already.  My Elven friends," she adds, seeing Luindis' face appear around the edge of the door, "allow me to introduce you to Viglar, son of Viglund."

Gwaithlim releases them. "See what this hour and what this day for what they really are -- you moment to choose.  Choose wisely."

"You are not the goalers for any man, be he King or no. You are the son of a farmer, so look to farming. Leave the war making to others. You've seen already what comes of it. This woman is my retainer and my friend. Your King has no right claim to her, much less to beat and bind her."

The Man does not resist Gwaithlim's hand, and though she cries bitterly at being drawn from her son, the woman is powerless to resist the strength of the High Elf's arm.  Over the threshold he brings them, the Foresthelm close at his heels with hands still shaking with wrath and venom. 

The hearth fire burns in the centre of the dirt floor and by its light a new spectacle is revealed.  Esgalwen, the side of her head covered in dark, dry blood, kneels on the floor, steely eyes glaring at a boy of no more than eight winters who holds a knife at her throat with a trembling hand.  At his feet, the pooled liquid beginning to soak into the ground speaks just as eloquently of his terror.  Off to one side, another prisoner, old bruises fading on his face, lies bound. 

"Hraban," says the man softly as his wife chokes back another cry, "come away boy.  We are to let them go." 

"B-but father... the king..." his son stammers. 


Your thoughts, gentlemen?