The sprig of green bough danced on the crest of the bright helm as the note rang through the town and the companions rode into the enclosure.

"The Longspear of the Greenstone has come!"

Hathcyn smiled, "I thought that would be over doing it Ætheldreám, but since you have asked..."

The Beorning waited for Caewin to make his entrance into the woodmen ring and then let sound a long clear note on the ram horn as the companions rode to the gates.

Inspire

Esgalwen gave a nod of agreement to Hathcyn, "Perhaps a clarion call of your horn, friend? Not a call to battle, but a call to announce that the Beornings have come and seek part in this moot."

The Dúnadan did not wish to have her friend outdone by the likes of Ceawin, with his entourage and his wain full of gifts. It might be simple, but the men of the wood would know that the ram horn that sounds in the north is present.

Hathcyn frowned at the men outside the gate and weighed his options.

"Lord Caewin the most Generous, I have shared the road with you and I thank you for the company. Now that we have arrived I must make my own camp for I have come as an emissary of my own folk and the House of Beorn. I do not wish to prejudice the thanes of the woodmen, or have them think I am part of your delegation. Though I will hapily share food and drink once my camp is established and invite you to share what I have."

The Longspear nodded to the Lord and broke off with his own companions.

"Friends I do not think it wise to be perceived to be tied too tightly to Caewin in the matter. If this meeting is the same as such matters in the north than there will be much posturing and we need to appear open to any approach. I am wary to be tied to tightly to Caewin, but out shared road may be able to bend his ear. I propose we ride in tigether and formally present ourselves as emissaries and claim the customary rights and privileges."

He turned to the few companions that had come with them from the Greenstone on the journey.
 
"Jarad Flinthand, take a couple axes and fell some staves and brush. We have not brought tents, but here outside the walls let us build a bower to shelter ourselves while we remain here."

He lowered his voice, "and in such a way as we may keep an eye on our southern friends and be close to our arms."

Wheeling once more he placed his on helm upon his head, "shall we announce ourselves?"
 

Two more days' marching alongside the wain brings the band of Sunsteadlings and companions to the western edge of the forest.  At this shore of the sea of leaves, the wood seems tamed, with the trees well-spaced and wholesome-seeming, and here and there a trunk shortened and branches coppiced for firewood.  It does not take long, however, for the trunks to close in thickly about the travellers, forcing them from the straight path.  Arbogast, his spirits lifting in the country ever his home, finds long stretches where the woods long have been cleared, as if a road was once to be built in unconnected spans.  Even so, more than once the entire company must halt while trees are felled to make a way broad enough to fit the wain for Caewin, riding ever tall in his saddle with his head helmed in this less familiar land, seems sore loath to leave it, or even to unpack the goods it carries to lighten its load for a while. 

Much as his followers might shake their heads at his foolishness, though, the miles pass beneath the trundling wheels and trudging feet until at last the Fire-watcher, reading some sign plain to him alone, announces that the Dusky River is nearby.  "Scarce more than a mile from here," he promises, but this last mile is perhaps the worst of the journey, for a pothole lurking beneath a cover of leaf-mulch half-devours the front wheel of the wain, the axle cracking with the sudden shock.  From here, the strongest members of the party take turns bearing the load of the front corner, an ordeal that leaves each bearer with aching hands and back. 

Even this ordeal cannot bar the way of the company from their destination, and at last the high mound of Wuduseld can be spied between the tops of the trees.  When at last the wain rolls to a final stop outside the hedge and wall of the Woodmen settlement, to the clear relief of all but Caewin himself, it is plain that they are the last to arrive, for the sounds of a small town of Men all a-bustle come from within the gates.  Without, though, a grim body of Men, hard-eyed and heavily-armed, has made their camp beneath a richly-woven banner bearing a red circle made of intricate knotwork.  Mogdred, it would seem, has come to make his claim. 

That'll bring you the rest of the way, though not in great style or comfort.

That looks like a good place to wrap the scene up.  Let's see how the rest of the journey goes:

Hathcyn shuddered at hearing the Elf mention wraiths and their world.

His hand went to the braided black hair torc at his neck and he drew comfort from the thought of his wife.

"Wraiths. I do not soon wish to be touched by their world again. Perhaps Rahdagast will know more, and have a cure. We must be on guard until then."

Though he wracks his mind and trawls the depths of his centuries-long memory, still Gwaithlim cannot bring to mind any hint of how the hold of the helm might be broken.  It was not, as he understands it, forged with the intention of making it into a tool of domination and ill-intent.  Rather, it has come under the influence of dark things of the wraith-world, and absent their fell clutches he hazards that it will become a simple thing of steel and brass. 

"If I am right in my suspicions", he says, "then this helm is a wraith-touched thing, and it is in the wraith-world that its undoing will be found.  The loremasters of Imladris, who have striven against the evil spirits of bog and barrow since before the rising of Angmar, may know more, or the wizards who have long given their aid and counsel, but I do not."

Story coming soon, I promise.  This week has utterly defeated me.