The Cold Wells

[tomcat]

The courtyard was now quiet in the lamplight, after Arbogast had passed his judgement.

Then came the sound of sobbing. The thing on the moss-carpeted ground that had once been a man now wept in deep, pathetic sobs. It was pitiable, but also nonredeemable. Too long had the crone lived in the shadows of Mirkwood doing things that were best hidden by the deep wood.

"Where will I go now?" he asked, his face pressed in the moss and fern. "This old keep is home...has been since long before." He lifted his head and Morirúsë saw his eyes and recognized the look. It was one of a man reaching back into the depths of memory, to a time that might have not have been so dark. A cracked tooth smile spread over the wrinkled face, "Maybe to where green carpets the ground and blue spreads across the sky...and...sunlight?"

The companions realized that this had once been a man. A normal man that lived his youth outside the wood. Perhaps he had been a Woodman.

Fyndylsnitch rose to his knees, his hands reaching out around him to find his staff that aided his old body. He turned an inquisitive eye to Arbogast, "May I take my pets with me? Can I retrieve them from the cold wells?"

It was Esgalwen that spoke first, "What pets, old man? And what are the cold wells?"

"My pets...I tend them. I take care of them...and they take care of me."

The Dúnadan felt ice run in her veins, as she thought of the undead things that had just recently faded from the courtyard. Her hand tightened on her sword, "Surely you do not mean the dead things that you find company with?"

"Dead? Dead things?" They could see the old crone making the connection to the wraiths, "Oh no...they are not my friends. They just come when Fyndylsnitch calls. No, my friends are in the cold wells."

[GandalfOfBorg]

Grimbeorn still didn't like any of this.  They should've dispensed a much more final judgement than the one that was given.  Only a growl of disapproval came from as indication of his true feelings.

[Eclecticon]

Arbogast does not move his foot from the staff, keeping it pinned firmly to the floor.  "Speak to us of your pets, wizened one," he says, fatigue lending a heartless edge to his words.  "Nothing will you bear from here - living, dead or otherwise - but that we are satisfied that you shall wreak no further evil with it." 


An Awe roll might be the go here.  Matt, Tom, this is your time to shine.

[GandalfOfBorg]

  why not? Grrrrrrrrr I'm scary

 

Awe -  1d12 : 7, total 7
Rolled 3d6 : 1, 2, 4, total 7

[tomcat]

The old man jumped at Grimbeorn's snarl.

"They come to me in ones and twos. Sometimes lost and hungry. Sometimes on foolish journeys. Who knows what would bring them so deep into the wood, but my friends steer them to the keep." A new, eerie smile crossed the old man's face in the soft light of the lamp. It seemed the thin flesh of his lips might split, as they drew tight across his foul teeth. "Some try to get away, but there is no where to go, really. Just here. With me."

"Who are they?" demanded Esgalwen. "Or what are they? And once more, where are these cold wells?"

Fyndylsnitch's bony hand raised to point in a direction back towards the old ruin. "There...the entrance is there."

The companions looked to where he pointed and saw another arched passage that was part of the castle, but yet separate in a ruined ancillary building. The archway was utter blackness.

"They are travelers, my Sweet One," he hissed at her in a gleeful way. Spittle gopped out of his mouth and onto his chin. "You will understand when you see. I speak to them. I sing with them...they make such beautiful songs! The tones range from high-pitched to low, deep moans. They are my pets and I take care of them!"

The last words were petulant - like a child. The old man looked down into the ferns and again changed his mad manner of speaking - now he whispered. "They are my pets. I take care of them. They please me...and if they don't..."

The companions strained to hear his words, but all could see him end by smacking his lips, as his thin tongue slid across.

[Eclecticon]

Yeah, it did occur to me to wonder what he was eating all the way out here.

[Telcontar]

Morirúsë stood tall and kept the light of the lamp held aloft. The brilliance of it shown in the shadowed courtyard and seemed to rebel against the filthy feeling of the place.

"Grimbeorn. You are destined to lead your people and it is to you that the hard decisions should start to fall. What judgement will you pass against this loathsome creature that lives in the shadow and bends the bodies of the dead to its purpose? Your time and the time of your people will be full of hard decisions, and this one is but a sampling of the weight of lordship. What is your will in this matter? For I will see it done."

The naked blade was still in the hands of the Noldo elf, his face calm and serene. None there held any doubt that the Elf would slay the creature if Grimbeorn willed it and not give it a second thought. Esgalwen thought it cold, but also wondered what the endless war against orcs and the shadow would do to her. Would any of them still possess mercy if they had fought for only a fraction of the time of the elf.

[Eclecticon]

Arbogast briefly favours Morirúsë with a dark look.  What is this, then?  Are the Elves ever to be the overlords of Men, to grant it to one line to pass judgement and not to the next?  This the pride of Men will not gladly suffer, nor long... 

A second later, though, his characteristic patience reasserts itself, and the Shadow within him recedes.  Be not hasty, he tells himself.  Long has our road been, and I am exhausted in body and spirit.  I do not rule this fellowship, nor does Morirúsë mean to undermine me.  And there is still one important matter left un-settled.

"Wait a while before you make your judgement, friend," he says, a heartbeat later.  "For you have not yet all the knowledge on which to base it."  He takes up Fyndylsnitch's staff (for the old stories always mention the staves of wizards and sorcerors) and, once his war gear is once more stowed away, a torch from where it lies guttering in the strange green light.  Holding the torch aloft, he moves toward the dark entrance to the Cold Wells. 

"Esgalwen," he says as he passes the warrior-woman, "will you join me?"

[tomcat]

With Nimronyn held before her, Esgalwen nodded at Arbogast's request.

The two walked to where the portal opened into the stone structure. The keystone came to a point like an arrowhead, but was Dwarven in its design. The craftsmen who built the keep built it for strength, but still maintained the aesthetics of their folk. For a brief moment Esgalwen wished that Rorin was with them, for surely the Dwarf would know the nature of this structure.

Light from the torch flared and popped in the settling fog that hung in the courtyard, and it cast into the opening. The two companions felt a chill. It was as if the darkness within did not want to reveal its secrets - instead devouring the light. Arbogast reached his hand in and moved the torch about to see and a stairwell down was revealed.

It was a narrow set of steps that disappeared into the earth. Atop the stairs within the chamber, on either side of the descent, was the rusted remains of barrel rings manufactured by some cooper in a distant past. The wood that might have once been tarred and bound within the iron bands was long gone - eaten by termites, rotted, or used as kindling for fires.

Cobwebs of normal sizes, but dense from many spiders weaving over many seasons, draped the ceiling and walls. The stairs were set with paver stones, but these were cracked and broken, and would make the descent dangerous.

[GandalfOfBorg]

Grimbeorn interjects.  "Stay thy hand but for the moment," he sighs.  "It is one to have stricken an enemy down in battle.  It's wholly different to do so whole when they are at your mercy.  We shall see if this worm knows how to speak without any deception.  If it proves false, it won't see it's next breath."

[Eclecticon]

Arbogast lowers the torch flame, making sure that Esgalwen sees the broken and uneven stones of the stairwell.  Seeing her nod, he raises the flame again.  He considers unsheathing his axe, but after a moment's reflection decides that the flame may be more effective against whatever abides below and instead unslings his shield.  With that, he begins to descend. 

[Telcontar]

The elf guessed at what the fiendish ghoul hinted at, but knew as well that his companions would not heed him until they had drunk the cup of sorrow to the dregs. 

[tomcat]

Esgalwen laid her hand on Arbogast's shoulder to stay him, "Let me go first. I believe our greatest ally in this well shall be light, so allow me to go forward while you keep the torch aloft."

The Woodman started to object, but then realized her logic was sound and allowed her to start down the stairs first. To the two companions left behind to guard the old man, it was like two curtains of darkness fell closed behind the others as they descended. Morirúsë heard Fyndylsnitch chuckle to himself and whisper, "There they go."

There were a total of forty steps separated by a small landing that turned the two companions around, so as to enter deeper into the hill. The air was foul and still, and the temperature quickly dropped. The walls were wet - where they could be seen under the blanket of dusted webbing - and their breath could be seen. When at last they came to the landing of the second stair, a passage proceeded them straight into darkness. They could hear a tittering and whispers, along with low moaning sobs. The drip of water was also heard, torturous in its incessant pattern. The tunnel echoed in its emptiness, and so Arbogast could not be certain how many voices he heard.

They slowly moved forward, Esgalwen at the ready. The crunch of small mollusks living on the damp stone and snails, along with other unknown things, popped loudly with each step.

"Who?" came a soft, thin whisper. "Spider, ider, ider...went... went to...have to...eyes...pain. Who? Hel...looooo...hungry...snail...spider, ider, ider."

There was a barred chamber on their left. The bars looked like they were not part of the original construction, as the ironwork was shoddy - not representative of Dwarves. The bars were thin and considerably rusted, looking as if they might be broken by bare hands. Arbogast's torch flared into the chamber and revealed a nude, emaciated figure within. Scabs and sores covered the back and arms, along with scars from long-term punishment. The cell was rancid with human feces and other waste.

"Pain..." hissed the person, who's back was to both the companions. Its hands reached for the eyes, and Esgalwen knew that the torchlight was the cause. Arbogast quickly moved it to the side, so as not to allow the full light to enter the cell. The effect was immediately seen, as the prisoner lowered its hands and slowly turned an insane eye to the heroes.

"Hel....loooo"

Outside, in the courtyard above, Fyndylsnitch sat looking at the mossy ground, all the while ignoring his two guards. He whispered to himself, "First comes Biter...he's a nasty one."

[Telcontar]

Morirúsë was stoic and silent, this was a lesson for his companions that would teach itself. He could regale them with tales of other times and places, but this lesson was best learned first hand.

Then he was lost. His mind filled with its own memories of long ago. He recalled clearly the faces of friends and comrades that had escaped or been released from the Dark Enemy of the world. In those days the folk of Caranthir swore great oaths to one another to not allow each other to be taken captive. To slay each other if wounded or let sharp darts fly from bows if they were overcome. Such was their fear of the dark places of Angbad. 

Of all those who returned, by redemption, by cunning escape, or by the malice of the enemy to do harm, none were the same. None who saw their pained faces believed for a moment they would be healed of it. In their hearts they grew hard, the gruesome battles with the enemy meant no quarter.

He returned to the present and felt in his hand the ancient sword bright, sharp, ready, willing to bite. Was he the sword, or was the sword him?

He heard the creature chuckle.

Here the lesson would be learned again thought Morirúsë they will learn as I did the malice of the enemy.

[Eclecticon]

Okay, Arbogast is going to try for some Insight to see just how much person-ness is left in this guy:

1d12 : 9, total 9
Rolled 2d6 : 1, 1, total 2