All summer long, the honeybees have droned their soporific way hither and yon over the flower-fields of Beorn's lands.  Now, as September buries August, thoughts turn to the harvest and to reaping the fruits of long labours.  Those who took up axes to reclaim the Dwarf-road from the forest are returning, in twos and threes, to their kin and their hearths, their purses heavy with silver. 

The talk that awaits them is of Wilderland's mixed fortunes.  After a summer without the looming shadow of the Werewolf of Mirkwood, warg attacks have become rare, and the sheep and swine of the Northmen have flourished.  Meat and wool will be plentiful. 

Wine, though, will not.  Rumours have spread like wild-fire in Lake-Town of a poor grape harvest in Dorwinion caused, no doubt, by the hard and cold winter.  Another such, the merchants and sailors mutter, and the kings of the north will need men to venture into the south lands to fill their cups. 

Here in the house of Beorn, however, it seems there is mead to serve to all of Middle-Earth, for the bounty of Beorn's hives has been supplemented by the offerings of his thegns, many of whom compete to match the generosity of their host.  Proud Æthelwold Red-Eyes, Ingelram of the Leap, Walcaud Shield-Gnawer and others raise high their mead-horns and voices alike, and the feast spreads out beyond the hall and into the pastures and gardens beyond.  Nowhere within the hedges is without the sound of music and singing. 

Yet even here, the mood is not all of celebration.  Some whisper in shadowed corners that the halfling's hall to the north has been burned, and all within either taken or slain.  The Viglundings, all assume, are to blame. 

At the high table sits Beorn, plainly dressed as ever but indisputably the master of the proceedings.  Magnificent his tables and open his hand, a great chieftain is he!  At his right, now two-and-twenty, lo!  There is Grimbeorn his son, full his beard and fell his hand, his father's heir indeed! 

See upon a bench Esgalwen, shield-maiden of far Gondor, in animated conversation with a traveller from the Riddermark.  Nearby, merry Tate leads the crowd in a wood-cutting song of the Woodmen that he has brought from the work on the road. 

In the meadow beyond the hall, young folk drink and dance.  Many among them have heard of the exploits of the son of Beorn and seek to emulate (or even accompany!) such a hero. 

Of the companions of Grimbeorn, only Arbogast is not present.  The Fire-watcher left the road to bring his family back to their home by the Black Tarn, and despite his promises he has not reappeared. 

Amidst the revelry, the Skinchanger leans toward his son.  "I'm going away for a while.  I don't expect to be back before the first snow falls.  And before you say anything, no, you're not to come with me.  You'll be in charge here until I come back, assuming I do.  One of these days, I'll be gone for good and they need to know that you can lead them in war and speak the law in peace.  It's time to give them a good look at you and let them judge what you're made of."

The time away from his homeland has served the heir of Beorn well for it has given him perspective, won his people friendship from without the lands and new trade as well, but mostly experience that few beyond his father has accomplished.  News of the deeds of he and his companions has spread and notice has come from the Woodland Realm to the fiefs of the Wood-men in the mid-vales.  What started with his father's aid of the Dwarf companions and appearance at the great battle to reclaim Erebor has now brought fame, some fortune, but now envy and suspicion from the world without.  No longer are he and his father's line able to go as openly as they once did in these parts.

Grimbeorn had returned now actually more eager than before to stay for the encounter of Shadow-beast had taken more from him than any task.  He felt more than just homesick but an ache or yearning that welled from deep within.  His father saw and felt it in him before even his son was close enough to embrace.  Days the young man slept after his first appearance at his father's hall and when he awoke, some relief he felt but not complete.  That eve after a meal of honeycomb and fresh bread, his father beckoned him to follow and they slipped out into the moonless night.  The face of man was shed and their true nature was revealed.  That night the stars were danced to by the bears upon the Carrock and for rest of the moonless nights.  Grimbeorn now felt whole again.

---

"Actually, father, I wasn't going to ask.  With my companions, great and fell deeds have been done to right evils of the past and protect our peoples.  Now I need to be here and you know it.  But may I inquire to your errand?  This sounds secretive, even for you."

"As it should!  It's my secret, and I'll keep it for now.  The time may come when it's your turn to know about it, but not yet.  Not while you've more important things to do here."  Beorn rises from his seat, causing a brief hush as heads turn toward the high table in expectation of a speech.  But he waves them away and the conversation resumes where it was left.  Beneath the raucous noise, he says, simply "I'll fill my belly and empty my bladder, and then I'll be off.  Make sure the trials for the moon sickle are fair.  And don't bother the bees."  With that, he stomps out of the hall into the private quarters. 

As he does so, the light of the torches by the door reflects from a steel helm inlaid with gold, and the familiar face of Rorin enters the hall, passing a furred cloak to an attendant with brightly-bejewelled hands.  Esgalwen, sitting nearby, hears the end of his conversation with someone outside, "... of course, and sterling work too!  The road is now clear of trees from end to end.  But we have grander things in mind than some Elf-track, and there are none in any land that could match Durin's folk in the laying of stones!  Now, where is the master of this house?  Erebor would pay his respects!" 

Closer to the high table, Grimbeorn's ears catch the whispers of several thegns gathered beneath one of the great pillars.  He recognises Claudas Bare-legs by the kilt he wears, but flickering fire-light obscures the rest.  Between the end of one song and the start of the next, he hears Claudas speak.  "It's not right.  They were fools, but those small folk were under his protection, whether or not they knew it.  The old bear is getting lazy, I think..."


Alright, the floor is open.  Let's hear what everyone's doing, and with whom.  Tom, Hathcyn can be anywhere you like. 

I will get my post up tomorrow, Paul.

The wandering minstrel from Esgaroth laughed together with Beorn's people as they finished up another chorus. Lifting high his flagon, he called out, "I'd say you lot keep sounding all the more better the deeper we get into this barrel, aye?!" Laughter erupted. "To song and mead and our host's honeybees!" Cheers went up for Beorn before the group all took long pulls from their cups.

"Now who's got a song they can teach me?"

Even as the group of Beorning argued briefly about what song to sing, Tate noted the exchange between Beorn and his son, along with the arrival of one of Durin's folk.

Esgalwen listened intently to Framgar, son of Framdul, as he spoke of the Wold. She was only vaguely familiar with the territory, but its proximity to Gondor and Minas Tirith had her complete attention.

"Thrice now our herds have shown good season, but higher each year is the King's demand. We can only assume our new king's need is due to the increase in outlaws along the Limlight, which then requires an increase in the strength of the Éored that protects our lands. T'is an ever going struggle."

"It is a hard tithing to be sure, but certainly it is the better for all of Rohan?"

"Yes, it is better...but long do I for the easier days."

Esgalwen made light with a joke, "Have there ever been easier days?"

"Ha ha ha...perhaps, not dear Lady! Perhaps not." The Rohirrim's guffaw was almost singly as loud as the Beornings around Tate.

Esgalwen suddenly noticed Rorin enter the hall and she quietly pardoned herself from Framgar's company. The Dwarf's smile went broad across his face at the sight of the woman, "Esgalwen! Lor, but it's been a long while!"

"Gracious, my dear Rorin," replied the Ranger with a happy smile of her own. "I believe your beard has grown longer and looks as if you need wrap your waist with it, so as not to trip!"

Rorin cut loose a loud laugh and then gave Esgalwen a kind, if not aggressive hug.

"When the other lads of our Company of the Helm showed up to aid us with the road, I thought for certain I would see your fair face among their ugly mugs. I was sad to see you were not with them...and truly I feared for a moment that something had come of you. Arbogast quickly dismissed such ill possibilities, but he himself knew little of your doings. Where have you been, Lady of Gondor?"

Esgalwen quickly began to tell the master-smith of her work in Dale and representing Ecthelion of Gondor to the North. She spoke of how in the King's service, she went to Erebor, Thranduil's realm once more, and even east to Dorwinion.

"It was a very busy year for me. But certainly no more busy...if not even a bit easier, than the undertaking by you and my fellows."

"Erebor! Garn if I hadn't heard that! If I had, I would have seen to it that you were given good reception and your stay a memorable one."

"Do not worry, Rorin. King Dain was very receptive to my presence and he was quite the host. So tell me, what goes on with your road?"

"There is much to tell, my Lady, but first I must see to addressing the Master of this House. We shall talk shortly, yes?"

"Of course, Rorin! It is a wonderful to see you, once more!"

"Aye, and you, too, Esgalwen."

Rorin strode away towards the small dais where sat the Beorning father and son. The ranger went once more to fill her mead cup and then looked around to see if any of her friends were available. She only saw Framgar and decided she would not leave the Rohirrim to himself, with no good friends to speak to, on this festive night.

Hathcyn Longspear too had spent his time on the Dwarf road. A season working there for the dwarves was becoming a rite of passage and a shared experience for many men in the Anduin vales. As a result of the shared labor the networks of friendship and connection had grown beyond the bounds of accustomed valleys and hills of youth. In some ways this was a strength, as the boundary lines between strangers and outsiders was widened. In others it meant that the authority of the thegns and their access to a wider world was less unique and therefore their position was threatened. The evidence was even here in the Hall of Beorn. Common men like Hathcyn tipped glasses and sang songs with richer men. While these distinctions of class were less strict among the confederacy of folks that had come to recognize Beorn as lord the threat to their traditional power by these new men was real. Not all looked kindly on the presence of such men so near the levers of power and not all smiles were genuine.

"Come master bard! You have collected enough of our songs!" Called the tall man to the bard Tate.

"These are well known to us and oft times repeated. Sing something about dark haired Dorwinion women who smell like the spices of Rhosgobel!"

Hathcyn pounded the table with his hand and took a moment to fill his mouth with salted fish and more mead. His hands calloused from a spring and summer of hewing rock and tree for the road. He quickly saw the dwarf enter the hall.

"What's this!? The road wardens second! The font of coin and work, the despoiler of tree, root, and spider.  All hail Rorin the Roadmaker!"

The man raised his horn and took a drink, rivulets of it over flowing the rim and mouth alike to trickle down his beard. Then raised it high again.

"All hail Durin's Folk! All Hail the road Warden and his overseer! Great is their skill and welcome more is honest coin for honest work!"

There was but a moments pause and he launched into one of the axe songs of the road. Those who knew the labor also knew the song and many scattered voices within and without the hall took up the chorus. Other men, richer men, or greater men who knew not the toil of the road, its camaraderie, or its songs frowned in their cups while the men sang. Even in joy there were the seeds of discord.

Quote from: Telcontar on Jan 29, 2018, 03:22 PMAll hail Rorin the Roadmaker!"

...

Even in joy there were the seeds of discord.

Brilliant stuff.  Keep it coming.

The Workman's Axe Song

That's cool!  I can't wait for him to record Live at the Dungeons of Dol Guldur!

Before Hathcyn's song can end, from his bench rises Wulfdan Broken-jaw, mead-addled and wrathful, young son of an old thegn.  Before Hathcyn he casts his horn, Beorn's mead spilling on the rushes.  "ENOUGH," he cries, voice rising above the din.  "I'll not share bread and drink with kin-slaying filth!  You are not wanted here!" 

All is suddenly silent, and the eyes of every guest turn first to the confrontation, and then to the high table.  Almost immediately, murmuring begins as Beorn's absence is finally noticed. 


A quick awareness roll...

DC 14 Awareness 3

Before the hush descends completely, Grimbeorn is sure he hears someone in the knot of thegns say "... something needs to be done." 

Hathcyn stops as struck by a blow, but he is not silenced fo long.

"If your face matched your name there would be no cause for complaint then. Shall I remedy that for you?"

The silent eyes looked on to the board of Beorn and found naught whom they expected.  The mead-addled eyes of the young ruffian too big for his britches and not good enough for the drink of his father's bees saw challenge reflected from those of Grimbeorn.  The heir of Beorn stood, horn in hand.  "Wulfdan, I suggest you take a lesson in what I do next."  In no time had the full horn been emptied down his throat, not a drop missed.  Wiping his mouth to sleeve, he continued.  "You'd do well to remember that that is the proper and true use of the mead of Beorn in his home and anywhere else it is served."  A raucous laughter came from all around as Grimbeorn strode in short time to thegn's son and Hathcyn.  "Shall we leave the insults to field of battle for you well know that ill words spoken against man's guest is made against that man."

But before the inebriated mind could respond, Grimbeorn turned from the two and embraced the newly arrived Rorin.  "My father and I greet you, friend, for it has been far too long.  A horn for this honored guest, the road or maybe just the distance from pony to doorstep find you looking thirsty."  Before joining is companions of the road and travail in revelry, he announces, "The Contest of Speech shall begin when those who wish to participate have finished this cask of mead."  Leaning down conspiratorially to his Dwarf friend, "I hate this part as much as father."

There was much clamor to the fore by those wish to win his father's sickle.  The cask itself was nigh as big as the heir, there will be plenty of time to talk with his companions before the slurred, messy oratories begin.

Hathcyn Longspear lifted his mug and toasted the son of Beorn then filled it again. A smile was in his face but the eyes that fell upon Wulfdan contained no mirth.

"Harhold, where were we friend of the road?"

"Root hog or die!"