The year 2951 came to an end and the new year started with a stubborn winter that would not let go its grasp on the realm.

After the marriage of Arbogast and Lindwine, the company had disbursed once more to their own homes and lands and saw to personal needs. Holdings were repaired and businesses put back to work. Though the winter was long, the work filled the time and the short days seemed to pass quickly. With the coming of spring, word came to each of the companions, from the Black Tarn that Arbogast was now a father. Not just to one, but two strong and healthy girls. This news pleased the companions and it helped to relieve any darkness that still lay on their hearts. Esgalwen, upon hearing the news, took to horse and traveled immediately to the Tarn. As a friend, she wanted to be there for Arbogast; as a woman, she wanted to be the first to see and hold the children. It pleased her to see Lindwine healthy and healing quickly, too, even after giving birth to the twins.

Still, Esgalwen was dismayed by the sight of the small settlement and the mood of her hosts. The dark lake was frozen over and the boats -those that had not been drawn from the water - were locked in its clutch. What had once seemed peaceful, now seemed ominous. When they had a chance to quietly talk, Arbogast and Amaleoda told the Dúnadan about how the Black Tarn had darkened with the end of Fall, and had become even more choked with weeds.

"Some of my people have disappeared," Amaleoda whispered, as they sat round a warm fire, "and boats have vanished on the lake. Fear rose to the point that many fisher-folk decided to stay ashore and fish there, but still stories of attacks were told. Malaric, one of our fishermen, came to me and told me how he had been dragged under water, whil'st he threw his net. It was as if the reeds and water plants wrapped around his leg and tripped him. He could not return to the surface! It took two others to aid him and pull him free."

Esgalwen did not know what to say, but a vision of Orophin came to her and how he had been held to the bottom of the moat that encircled Dol Guldur. She shivered and nodded for Amaleoda to continue, "The fish, too, have seemed to disappear. Our nets are empty and our hooks are clean when they are drawn up. Fortunately we had a good stock of salted meat and grain for the winter, but the lake offers up very little anymore."

Arbogast grunted, "Even the hunting has been thin. It is like the River-maidens have abandoned us and tell the animals to steer clear. Perhaps Radagast might know more?"

To his question, Esgalwen shook her head, "I have not seen the Brown Wizard in some time. When I did see him last, in November, he did not speak to me of any ills."

The fire crackled and popped as the trio continued their discussion.

Rorin and Bandy spent the winter working hard at the forge, as well as teaching the skills of archery and melee. The Hobbit had become renowned for his skill with bow and arrow and many hunter and woodmen came to learn.

With winter snow blanketing the ground, the small hobbit took men into the wood where he had positioned multiple targets and he would run them through this gamut and grade them on their performance. Some of the men would be angered at first, but when they watched Bandy perform the same exercise, they quickly swallowed any pride and listened closely. The payoff was quite good, as men and boys left the settlement of Rhosgobel to return to their homes, or duties as guards, with a much keener shot. For Bandy, it was a boon as well, as the Hobbit watched his coffer fill with coin - added to that earned by working along his Dwarven companion.

The forge's renown grew, too, and Rorin was pleased with the return business - though it concerned him to see the number of implements of war being requested. The year before had been an ongoing demand of tools and useful items, but now men girded themselves with steel. But what war? It was like an anxiousness, or nervousness, was settled over the forest along with the snow. The Dwarf, ever-concerned with his wares and how they were received, listened to his customers when they came to his shop. Bandy would chat with them while his hammer rang, or Rorin himself would take a pause to make conversation. Ever since the Helm of Peace had been crafted and the darkness it seemed to acquire, the Dwarf was worried about others that might fall under such an influence.

Snow fell outside when a traveler entered the forge. "Good day to ye," said the man - behind him stood two others.

Rorin set down his hammer and dropped the orange-glowing rod of metal into a bucket with a hiss. "Be with you in a second," answered the Dwarf. It was one of Bandy's training days and so Rorin tended the shop alone. "What can I do for you?"

"We'd be needing to have our horses re-shod. Two have thrown one or more shoes, whil'st we rode them north. This damned ice and snow makes for rough roads."

"Riding north? Where from?"

"The Toft...prior to that was a long journey round the southern horn of Mirkwood."

"What would make you wish to travel so far this time of year," asked the Dwarf, with a smile on his face.

"We're swords-to-hire looking for work. Usually we work the eastern eaves of Mirkwood hiring ourselves to any merchants that might need protection, but the winter has slowed traffic there...along with the mood of the master."

"Mood of the master? What might that mean?"

"Ye haven't heard? Well, I guess that makes sense, as distance and wood be in the way...and like you said, only a fool would travel such a length!" The stranger chuckled at his own comment. "Anyway, the master I speak of is Ceawin of Sunstead. As for his mood...well it be dark these days."

Rorin's interest suddenly perked up, though the Dwarf kept his face neutral, "Whatcha mean by dark?"

"Well, we are not from them parts regularly, but we have spent a season or two enjoying the hospitality of Sunstead's taverns. Anyways, the folk there say that their master is behaving odd - ever since the end of this past summer. He becomes erratic in his words and actions, they say, and sometimes he slips into black rages. He speaks as though he is one of the Northmen who died in the Bight a thousand years ago." The traveler chuckled again, "Right loon, if you ask me! We left in early January because the town has become increasingly mistrustful of travelers and there is blame of the Woodmen of the Western Eaves." The man ended with a shrug, "So...can you shoe my beasts?"

Rorin was distant for a moment, as he thought of Ceawin and the horrid spell that was being chanted over him by the trio of barrow-wights, while he himself lay only a few feet away. He thought of his helm being held aloft, like a focus for the curse. Was it cursed? The man's question brought him back to the present. Rorin swallowed hard - his mouth dried out - and then nodded. He grabbed his small hammer, nails, and a few shoes and followed the two out into the snow-filled day.

To the north, Grimbeorn spent the winter days with his father. He had been gone long with only intermittent returns and it was good for the young heir to be among his folk. Those that had been his childhood friends, rounded the young Beorning once more, and bonds were strengthened anew. Grimbeorn knew he would have boon henchmen to stand at his side when the time came that he would take his father's place.

The challenges of the region presented themselves, too, while Grimbeorn made the Carrock his residence. Viglund the Cruel, the leader of the Eastmark folk, tried to seize the Forest Gate. The Beornings objected to his undertaking, and the two sides clashed under the forest eaves, while the snows melted over the northern land. Initially, Viglund's men had the upper hand and several Beornings were slain or taken prisoner, but then they glimpsed two bears moving through the woods and fled, fearing the wrath of Beorn and his son.

With winter's grip finally loosening over the vale, a trade fair begins in Woodmen-town. Rorin - and Arbogast - felt the impact on their businesses as merchant-men, traders, and buyers alike all flocked to the fair and the many wares that were now available.

With most folk traveling north, a visitor came to Rhosgobel and to Rorin's forge specifically. Bandy sat at the counter while reading a book and pulling at his pipe. His attention was drawn away to a Dwarf that now stood there.

"Hullo," said Bandy, not expecting to see Rorin's kin-folk.

"Good day to you, Master Hobbit! I am Bofri, son of Bofur, and I am at your service. Maybe you remember me? We met at the moot those many years ago." The Dwarf took a deep bow and his hood fell forward over his head. He stood back up, pushing the hood back and smiled, "I was wondering if Master Rorin was present. I would like to talk to him about a broken road."

The companions, in their widespread locations all wondered at what they should now do. The Black Tarn was becoming a dangerous place; Sunstead was in the hands of an apparent mad-man; and the north had erupted in blood.

---

Any hero owning a holding in or near Woodmen-town sees its rating reduced temporarily by 2 points (the reduction applies for one year).

This chapter will recommence our story on March 12, 2952 T.A.

"Many things that are broken the master of this forge can fix. Though I must admit that a road is a new one. I am Bandy Bracegirdle, at your service and your family," said the Hobbit in good Dwarven fashion. "Rorin is out at the moment, the Woodward forbade the cutting of some wood and the charcoal supply is insufficient for the jobs at hand. It shall soon be mended I am sure, at the worst we can trade dead fall for good timber to make charcoal. Plenty abounds in the woods not far off and favors are owed to the master of the forge."

Bandy put his book down and lit another candle so the visitor would have more light to see by in the late winter darkness. "So Master Bofri, what of this road that needs fixing?"

"It is true that dangers have waxed about the Tarn," Arbogast says, moodily.  "But the Enemy has declared himself once more, and his gaze will turn once more to Dol Guldur, if it has not already.  Where in Wilderland might be safe?  Where in Middle-Earth?  Our homes are as safe as we make them." 

To Amaleoda, he says "with your leave, I will go to Rhosgobel and seek the counsel of Radaghast.  It may be that he knows what ails the Maiden of the Tarn, and what may be done." 

Then, turning to Esgalwen, he asks "and what news of Tyrant's Hill?  We have been spared their raids for some time now - can it be that Mogdred has changed his ways? 

Grimbeorn sniffed the air that blew atop the Carrock.  A stench rose out of the south, something that reminded him of the fell stronghold Dol Guldur.  A dank, rotting smell came from the North and the West that was well familiar to him.  Other fragrances encircled him and his father that told more of the strife in the lands near and far.  But there was one note he detected... it was faint and fresh, something moving around cleansing the air.  He didn't know what to make of that.  "Father," he growled.  "What is that? Something strange is awakening away to the south and west."

The grizzled older bear took in a deep breath.  "Change and a renewing of old ways.  Time passes, my son, but history comes to meet us.  Mind you we have darker days ahead and ..." Beorn pauses to look at the stars.  "That change will come sooner than we think.  Gone are the days of great alliances, men and elves and dwarves."  A cough out of nowhere wracks the old bear.  "The stars show the evil stretching out like tendrils of the great water beast of Moria, but we will endure.  We are Men of the Bear!  We can always return to the woods and the mountains, to our caves and to our precipices, and eventually to the rock of the earth whence we came."

"But what of those who cannot?  What of our people that aren't like us?" inquired Grimbeorn.

The old black bear growled, turned from the younger, and coughed again.  "That is not my concern," he replied.

Grimbeorn didn't know how he felt about that but knew that he couldn't turn his back on those he's come to know and helped along the way.  "It will be mine then, Old Bear" he almost protested and padded off, leaving his elder atop the Carrock.  After a while, if bears could smile then this one did.  "He will do well."

The doors of Sweartmereseld remain shut against the chill of the outside air, and inside, the light is dim.  Many of the folk of the Black Tarn are gathered here, weaving, sewing and finishing repairs to the tools that they will put to use as the weather warms.  Lafwyne and Cyffa sleep, still wrapped in their rabbit skin, in a cradle close to the fire.  Lindwine looks as if she will soon join them in slumber, but despite her weariness she helps Arbogast into a corselet of stiff leather scales, tying fast the sleeves where it is difficult for him to reach. 

Uncharacteristically, it is he who breaks the silence.  "You will be well cared for." 

"Yes, husband, I know." 

"While I am away, I mean." 

"While you are away, I will be well cared for.  I, and our children." 

"And there are plenty here to defend you." 

She pauses, hands on hips, leaving his arm awkwardly suspended by a taught cord.  "I will thank you to recall that I can lift a spear in my own defence.  Yes, I am weary, and weakened somewhat by motherhood.  No, I am not so great a warrior as you fancy yourself to be.  But know this, Fire-watcher," she says, fixing her gaze upon his.  "During your counsel with our chieftain, I spent an age of the world settling both our daughters to sleep.  Should orcs or evil men raid us and make enough noise to wake them, I shall beat their teeth out!" 

Her spirit brings a smile to his lips.  "Then you are not afraid?" 

Her mock-fury subsides.  "When first you arrived home, I feared for the day when you would leave us again."  Her hands reach beneath his armour and shirt, to feel the scar that now stretches across his belly.  "I feared that some dark fate would take us while you tarried far from here, or that you would vanish upon some foolish errand, with none to bring word of your falling back to me." 

Arbogast opens his mouth to speak, but she holds up a hand to silence him and continues.  "But since you have returned, Aelgarth has lost a thumb to his own axe.  Odo was taken by wolves of the wood.  Avina by childbed fever, and her new son soon after." 

He nods, remembering how Idunn laid the tiny bundle in his dead mother's arms before they pushed the funeral-boat out on to the Tarn. 

"This world is full of perils, both great and small.  Each of us plays their part in keeping the small ones at bay.  Some hunt, or fish, or farm.  Some cook, or heal, or calm the fears of the young."  Hands back under his shirt, she concludes "You, and your companions besides, seek out the great perils of the world where they reside, that they may never rise to reach our door.  It is your role among us, and I see that now.  And each time you return with a new scar, I shall think 'here, some foul thing tried to claim the life of my husband and failed.'" 

Smiling slightly, she returns to assisting him. 

"And should I fall?"

"Should you fall, then I will mourn you with all my heart.  But I shall be cared for, as you say."  Her smile becomes a grin.  "Besides, Middle-Earth has yet other men in it that might make me a fine replacement for you.  Perhaps your friend Grimbeorn will seek my hand!  He is tall and strong, and his heart is at least as brave as yours!" 

"He is a prince among his people, wife!  He is not to be subjected to your uncouth appetites!" 

"A prince among his people," she shakes her head.  "How can it be that he has yet no wife of his own..."

  trying to marry off the poor boy

Get used to it, my friend.  You're playing one of Wilderland's more eligible bachelors. 

Bandy sat at the table hurriedly scratching out the last comments of his letter to Ingomer. The snow was heavy on the forest of Mirkwood, but one of the company of Borderers was preparing to make another circuit. This year, by informal agreement, a company of Borderers was established to keep the towns connected and to make occasional patrols. The men in a small squad, equipped with bows, spears, and snow shoes had established a system of patrols between, Rhosgobel, Woodland Hall, and Woodland Town. Each of the villages had one patrol that would pass between their neighbor at intervals so it was possible to keep the surrounding area patrolled, but also to pass news and information to each other. The men of Rhosgobel had included the Black Tarn in their circuit so that if anything were to occur the folk of the wood would know of it before the Spring.
A patrol was about to depart and the Hobbit worked to get a message to the leader of Woodman-hall.

Ingomer,
 I hope this letter finds you well and in good spirits. The darkness of the woods grows deep in the winter, but due to the efforts of the Snowshoe Men we are not all isolated from each other. My companions and I have this past year crossed widely over the Wilderland. From Mountain Hall to Sunstead and everywhere in between. To every place that we have gone there have been troubles and unease and each struggles in their own way to meet them. With this is in mind perhaps it is time for another Folk Moot? One has not occurred in sometime and perhaps with the shadows lying on each individually the collected effort of all may push them back or make lighter the burden.

I have seen Radagast but little this winter and still he is seldom seen, however I have spoken to Saruman the White. The master of Isengard  away to the west. He has impressed upon me the need to be vigilant, and to beat back the forces of the enemy lest they unite later in a stronger force. I have heard of a horse people away to the west as well, the Leofrings. Though not numbered among the wood-men perhaps they too should be invited to the folk moot to discuss the common defense. Grimbeorn the son of Beorn I am sure would come as well if asked. While the subject is no doubt sore to you, perhaps the folk of Tyrant's Hill will prove more amiable and friendly. They are I am sure waging ceaseless war in the south and perhaps a recognition of that will temper their ill bearing.

No need to respond personally to my letter, the word of an assembling Folk Moot will be answer enough.

Bandy trudged through the slushy quagmire that was Rhosgobel, for not within the confines of the hedge was there to be found a pure patch of white. The comings and goings of the woodmen and their animals meant that all but the abode of the Wizard was trampled underfoot. The cold spring was an exception, this year the spring had frozen over think with ice and the folk were required to cut blocks out of it to access the water underneath. None of the Woodmen, nay even the oldest among them ever heard of a winter were that had occurred. Many in the village believed the spring to be a reflection of the Brown Wizards' mood, and this omen they felt was that he was deep in thought, or else far away from his home. As he had appeared little, no one rightly knew the answer to that either.

The stout Hobbit walked to the Great Hall, the cold crisp air meant that the pipe smoke curled and made a sharp contrast against the dry winter air. Bandy noted that the feeders were fool. The Woodfolk of Rhosgobel placed feeders near the copse of trees that housed the Wizard, they also had a refuse pit nearby, not as an insult, but as food for all the critters that came to call the wizards home their home as well. By agreement as long as the feeders were full the woodmen, unlike any other folk where many people came together to dwell, did not have to worry about rodents eating their winter stores or nesting in their thatch. Bandy found that alone to be one of the richest blessings of Rhosgobel compared to the homes of other Woodmen in Wilderland.

The village not being large it took the Hobbit only a moment to make it to the Great Hall. It was the largest building in Rhosgobel, but it was not the largest of its kind among the Woodmen. The door was stout and think, and the windows narrow. The people of Rhosgobel believed it to be sturdy and a place of last defense should they be attacked. Though a formality they kept it stocked with food, water, and a store of arrows. Never in the history of the Woodmen had the town been overrun despite the proximity to the Shadow, this too was perhaps a silent blessing by the Brown Wizard and a benefit of the folk dwelling near his home. 

The Hobbit passed the doors to the Hall unchallenged as he often came here when he was not about the business of Rorin's forge. The keeper of the Hall was Almosnian, the oldest of the Woodmen in Rhosgobel and who had for many years been the Warden of the Great Hall. Though there were no books of lore here, or aged scrolls, the oral history of the Woodmen was still most keen in the mostly blind old man. Within both the stories he knew as a child and from the things and times he had lived through the Hobbit found him to be the forgotten, but wisest sage here outside of the unforthcoming Wizard.

"Hullo Bandy, I smelled your dragon smoke before I heard you. How fare ye this day."

"Master Almosnian, I find that your senses are more than improved despite the loss of your eyesight."

"Well true enough, that is one thing that I have misplaced, an age ago my spear would have rattled the shield of a goblin, or bit a wolf many rods beyond the stoutest man. We had wolfriders in the Field of Heores upon a time you know. They weren't invited mind you, but they came none the less. They were quite put out, don't think they have been back since." Cackled the old man, almost toothless. What brings you here today Bandy?"

"Tell me of the folkmoots Almosnian, why are there no Kings of the Woodmen?"

The conversation that followed was long, with may side trips and anecdotes, and several mugs of spiced cider to help in their telling. While Hobbit did not gather much in the vein of the direct question he had asked Almosnian he did learn several new things. The first that away to the south was a long forgotten sight that of old men cam from far and wide to salute the last High King of Men who came from across the sea, the son of Elendil the Tall who even the Hobbit knew of. Why they came there Almosnian was not sure, some said that he had camped there and had a great tent where the people of the wood did homage to him, others that he held a great tournament to celebrate the ending of the war, and others told that it was there that he died. The other story he heard was that near there stood the Kingstone. This was not a King from beyond the sea, but instead a special place for the great great sires of the Woodmen, and folk of the plain. Kings were crowned there too, and men paid their respects. Accrodign to the old man the site was not in fact a stone, but instead a low hill with a pillar or small alter, atop of which was the skull of a great beast. From ancient times until even the time of Almosnian's youth great warriors would go there to touch it, to swear oaths, and to be blessed in good fortune by the line of their fathers.
The short winter day soon passed and with new stories and greater appreciation for the long history of the Woodmen the Hobbit heeded the growls of his stomach and turned for home.

"What is that?" asked Fergund, a woodman on the council of Woodland Hall.

"Eh?" Ingomer's concentration was broken by his friend's question. "T'is a letter out of Rhosgobel, written by Bandobras Bracegirdle. Do you know of him?"

"He was the Holbytla that came to visit last Spring, yes? One of the small-folk out of the west? I hear rumour that there are some north of here. What does it say?" Fergund was a knowledged man, for those things that he knew, but the written word was not one that he had acquired.

"Yes," Ingomer replied thoughtfully, as he pulled smoke from his pipe. Outside the rain fell, making the hall damp and chill. He stood and walked over to stoke the fire into a blaze. "It seems the young Master Bracegirdle believes it is time for us to call another Folk-moot."

"A Folk-moot? That is Woodmen affairs. Why would he concerns himself with such things. He is of no clan. He is an outsider here, though I remember him as a pleasant fellow."

"He is an outsider, to be sure, and he does not speak for any Woodman, but..." the older man stared at the letter. "His reputation has begun to grow among the clans. I have heard word from Mountain Hall and even from Sunstead that the Hobbit has proven a worthy ally. I don't know...I must think on this. Certainly it would take another year to send the word of a gathering and to have the chiefs of the many clans come again from so far. With the forest darkening, would we again see the Elves? The Bardings? No word has come from Rhosgobel in these many days - mayhaps the halfling speaks for the Magi?" He puffed again, " I must think on this a while."

"No matter, Ingomer - I do not believe that any of the Woodmen clans will spare able bodies and leadership. It is too dangerous. I have heard news of blood-shed to our north. Beorn and Viglund and their people have engaged. Without the support of the Beornings, how could such a moot happen."

Ingomer sighed, "Aye, news from abroad is thin, but what we do get is dark. If not now, will there be another chance to gather the clans and re-secure our bonds?"

Suddenly a call came from outside the hall pulling the attention of both men from the conversation. Ingomer set the letter down on the furs in which he had sat and joined Fergund, as they walked out of the hall to see the commotion.

The direct March sunshine warmed him, though the air was still cold.

Arbogast sat atop his horse, which he had just navigated around the western shore of the Tarn. Behind him, just a few feet back, was the Dúnadan Ranger. Ice still lay across the surface of the lake making it look very uninviting. The heavy lake vegetation was creeping out of the water, along the shore, where the ice was beginning to melt. What's more, thick brambles were now growing along the lake's edge, as if to barricade it in thorns. Spring would awaken the land soon, but the Fire-watcher wondered as to how his home would look.

He had said goodbye to his children and wife, as well as to Amaleoda, and now with a last glance to the Black Tarn, he turned his horse west. Rhosgobel was only a day's ride away and he wanted to make the better part of the passage with the light of day. Esgalwen spurred her own horse to keep pace next to him and the two entered the wood.

Now off the lake, the cool wind that had blown was lessened by the trees, though only buds were seen upon the branches. The land around them was a patchwork of colors - earthen-brown of mud and old leaves, dirty white of the snow that remained, and a rich blue of sky that gleamed overhead. Soon, Arbogast knew, the forest would return to its shadows under green.



The monotony of their progress made the Fire-watcher's mind lull, even though they occasionally made quiet conversation. The sun rode across the sky and the miles to Rhosgobel quickly lessened. Suddenly, movement caught Arbogast's eye. Forms were walking ahead, through the trees, though they were not making towards the two companions. Placing a hand on the haft of his axe, Arbogast spurred forward. The clopping of his horse's hooves caught the attention of the other travelers, who immediately went on the defensive. Mirkwood, even in the surrounds of the Woodmen villages, was not a safe place - especially for small parties.

There were two of them and they were girded in quality leather and steel hung from their hips. Upon his approach, Arbogast saw the device upon their target shields - that of Mogdred and the Tyrant's Hill. A voice came from them, "Riders! Know that we are armed. State your intentions!"

Rorin clapped the pony on its rump as it entered the fenced in area of his forge. The small wagon that it drew behind it was laden with wood. He unhitched the animal and then manually pushed the wain to where he could conveniently empty and stack the logs. The task took him another thirty minutes, but at last it was complete. Feeling like a good cup of warm, spiced-wine would remove the chill, the Dwarf walked around the front of his building and entered the warmth of the room.

He doffed his heavy mittens and hood, hanging the one on a coat tree and laying the others upon a table that sat nearby. It was then that he became aware of another the room. Rorin turned to see another Dwarf, who quickly rose with a smile and a bow.

"Rorin! At last you return. Bandy had said it would not be long, but I wonder at the minds of Hobbits and whether time passes more quickly within their seemingly idle thoughts. Bofri, son of Bofur, at your service!"

Again the visitor bowed low to which Rorin extended the same courtesy and greeting. He knew the Dwarf in front of him - for both were from Erebor - but he had not spent a great deal of time with him.

"I wish to speak with you... er, actually... I wish to recruit you."

Arbogast brings his mount to a halt.  As the Men of Tyrant's Hill make their challenge, he makes no move to dismount, but nor does he ready his axe or shield.  "I travel these woods as one who has robbed no-one and despoiled no country. The same may not be said for all who dwell with you!"   

"I am the Fire-watcher.  With me is one whom I believe you may know," he says, motioning towards Esgalwen.  "Whom do we address?"


Riddle roll for an introduction, if necessary. 

"You mean to tell me you've traveled all the way from our Mountain in the cold just to recruit a smith? There must be a hundred youngsters looking for work where you came from, what brings you to my doorstep?"

Rorin shook his head as he filled two mugs from the pot he had set to warm by the fire earlier that morning.

"It's not that I don't enjoy the visit! You are always welcome in my home of course, and I've not had near enough Dwarven company of late. Tell me of this job you wish to recruit me for."

"Like a northern Woodman," grumbled one of the Tyrant's Hillmen. "Proclaims their righteousness as they lay out judgement of the apparent crimes of others. Yes, we know the lady by you...well met, Lady Esgalwen, I am Degath, son of Benjin, and this is my sister, Daylith."

"Well met," replied Esgalwen. "How come you so far north? Is all well with Mogdred and your folk?"

"Aye, Lady. We were pursuing orcs - perhaps you have seen them? They were a rather large group and they made their way north past Tyrant's Hill. They carry the sign of the Blooded Moon. My master, Mogdred, ordered us to scout them out and see where they were heading. He is sure that these orcs are not those of the dark keep to the south, which grow now in numbers. Mogdred fears these orcs are out of the mountains. What is worse, he believes they have taken up an alliance with men of the vale, for we have killed brigands carrying this same badge."

"Men and orcs? Allying here in the vale? Such things we have seen in Gondor, but I did not believe that any northman would side with such foul creatures." Esgalwen looked to Arbogast, her face filled with questions.

"We lost them at the river. We do not believe they crossed, but they must have doubled their march while we took rest. I do not believe that they knew we followed, but we cannot be certain. Anyway, once we were certain that they were out of our reach, we made our way to Rhosgobel to purchase any supplies that might help our road home." Deylith sneered, "We met the same reception from them as we did this man! The wizard was not in residence and so we were offered no shelter. Now we walk home...unless it is your intention to waylay us?" The woman looked at Arbogast.

"Oh no, dear Rorin! I have been within this region since the moot. I was certain that you might remember my presence here. Perhaps you had not yet arrived then?" Bofri took up the offered cup with a genuine smile. "I have spent the last four years scouting the Old Dwarf Road - both the western and eastern entrances. It has been quite a task, especially since I have been solo in my endeavours."

Bofri sipped the warm drink and let it warm his bones. "I know you know of the road, another one of our peoples' great achievements. It is my desire to re-open the route. It will take plenty of work but I believe it possible. Once done, imagine the business that could flow from west to east and back again! Imagine the amount of Dwarven wares that could come from the mountain into this vale, or further across the Misty Mountains! It would grow Erebor's wealth even greater...along with those that saw the road anew." Bofri gave Rorin a wink and a nod.

"I need help opening this road. I need help recruiting able-bodied folk to assist in this. To do that I will first need the Roadwarden's staff!"

Rorin looked up at the mention of the ancient relic of the Dwarves. The staff was said to exist, but no Dwarf living had ever seen it.

Suddenly, the door opened and in strode the small form of Bandy, huffing and puffing as he shook off the cold.