Wrapping a rope around a tree and securing the other end around Arbogast's waist, the Woodman began to cross the dark river. He slid down muddy embankment and into the frigid water. There was an earthy smell to the water that hinted at putrescence - as if rotting flesh washed down from some unknown distance. It was fast, but still Arbogast maintained his footing over rock and root that lay hidden beneath.

Once on the other side, the Fire-watcher took the rope from his waist and wrapped it around a strong tree on his side of the river, while Anar was secured. The Dwarf slid awkwardly down the muddy slope and cursed at the situation he was in, the river water now roiling above his knees. He began to cross and held tightly to the rope, even as Arbogast drew him closer.

Anar stepped forward and the rock under his boot turned causing his foot to go out from under his weight, which in turn caused him to be swept with the current. He disappeared under the brown water and the rope yanked in Arbogast's hands, burning his flesh. On the opposite side of the river, Grimbeorn and Hathcyn held firm their length of the rope, and so Anar was not swept away. Water filled his mouth and he spluttered and coughed as he tried to keep himself above the surface. Arbogast regained the rope and he pulled with all his might, as his companions loosened their grip letting Anar cross.

On hands and knees, the Dwarf climbed from the water on the opposite side. He was a mess of mud, small roots, and river grass that grew on the embankment - and he was unhappy. Fortunately for the remaining companions, their crossings fared better and now they all stood on the river's eastern bank...or was it western? No one had a clue as to bearing in the gloom of Mirkwood.

Beyond, the wood cleared a bit, becoming sparse around the hill that rose there. The top of which was bare, like a bald pate crowned in green. Sitting silent was the dark longhouse.

Ooc: the rolls were from the adventurers companion appendix for common gear.

Well spotted, Tom!

The equipment takes aren't the sort of thing to rely on in a crisis, but they do add a bit of colour, especially as your standard of living determines how much gear you have, and what quality.

  What is it with Dwarves crossing rivers in Mirkwood?

So it is back to you guys...

Do you want to explore the dark longhouse?

Do you want to move on and try to find a way out of the dark weaving of Tyulqin?

I attach a map of where you are for player knowledge only. I will allow the PC's to discover their location only if they achieve a certain thing, which I will tell you if you do. 

Arbogast casts his eye over the longhouse.  It certainly seems to be of Mannish construction, though it displays little of the wood-craft that is the hallmark of his people's work.  The door is plain enough to see, but he looks for any other sign that might mark this unexpected find as real or some new falsehood. 


Doug, I'll make a hail-Mary Craft roll below, but I'm making a case for it not being necessary.  After all, Arbogast (and Hathcyn and Grimbeorn) have been living in longhouses like this one their entire lives.  If there's anything amiss, they can probably pick it out fairly easily. 

If not, hopefully Anar can! 

I will get you a response tonight or tomorrow, Paul.

Hathcyn will make and insight roll to see if he can figure anything out

  Hanging no better idea, Grimbeorn mulls the place over, too.

 

Insight -  1d12 : 11, total 11
Rolled 3d6 : 4, 6, 2, total 12

I should point out that Insight is really for reading people in social situations.  Buildings, particularly empty ones, are notoriously inscrutable. 

"Who would be here to maintain such a place?"

Despite the danger the curious nature of Hathcyn started to get the better of hom and he started to approach the building.

I have to agree with Paul on this one guys - Insight is more to discern deception, riddles, persuasive efforts, etc. Craft would be more of the correct roll here, as it would apply to your knowledge of buildings and who might have fashioned it.

That said, Matt rolled an and Tom would need to use at least 1 for a success - something I do not think he would want to sacrifice.

For ambiance, here is a video to run in the background as you read and write: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=__iDig5NKcA
 

---

Hathcyn started up the hill towards the old structure. He could tell it was old, even in the waning light of day.

For Grimbeorn, something crawled at his skin with each glance towards the longhouse. The Beorning knew it was not natural, though it looked very much the handiwork of his own kin. Arbogast's words echoed in his ears, once more...

"Yonder lies a house that ought not exist, for we tread the paths of Mirkwood's very heart, and no race of Men ever built such fine dwellings in this country.  But it is of old rumour among my people that a ghostly hall can be found beyond the Dusky River, sometimes for weal and sometimes for woe, and never in the same place twice."

He grunted at Hathcyn's interest, wondering to what this might lead.

Beside him, Arbogast, Anar, and Amaswinta all watched with their own concerns, but the Dwarf broke the silence, "L'est you Men... and woman... have a reason as to why not, at least it will provide cover for the night."

Hathcyn now stood before the dark house's door. Marked with runes used by the Woodmen and his Beorning kin, did it read, 'O CHILD OF OAK, STAND YET AGAINST THE STORM'. The door was weathered and looked askew within its jamb, as if the wood had swelled from rain and heat and no longer fit. The old metal hinges, though one was slightly wrenched from where it was nailed, still kept the door secure on one side - the other looked to have a simple slide bar latch.

Hathcyn saw old cobwebs in cracks and spaces between the logs that made up the house, but none were irregular - they all would have been made by normal spiders. Leaves rustled where they were piled in corners, and dirt was splattered along the lower sides from rain.

Atop the hill, the wind made a soft shooshing sound as it moved the tree tops above. The longhouse creaked with sounds of settling, and there was a smell of mildew and spoiled oats. No call of threat or challenge was received - only the sounds of an old building cooling off from a day's sun.

  Was thinking that before I saw your response...

"This..." Grimbeorn looks around.  "This isn't right.  It's more of a bad dream than a reality.  What are we to trust if our senses are all fooled?"

"Indeed," the Fire-watcher answers.  "But perhaps we are come to the point where two dreams intersect.  See here," he says, pointing out the runes carved on the lintel.  "We have known spiders to speak, but never to write, and certainly not in this mode.  Whatever manner of phantasm this hall may be, it is no creation of Tylquin's." 

And I am ready to clutch at anything that is not of her making, he admits, though not aloud.   Instead, he steps forward and gives three decisive knocks on the door. 

Only a hollow echo responded to each knock.