Lair of the Weaver: Grimbeorn

[Eclecticon]

Even in the barely-there light of a Mirkwood sunset, the entrance to Tylquin's lair seems to shimmer, its edges ghost-like.  As the Fellowship comes near, they see that the surrounding stones are covered in the most delicate, intricate webs they have ever seen, spun with the same black spider-thread that they followed to find this place, yet barely so near akin to them as gossamer is to rope.  Within the threshold, the webs converge and spread in macabre traceries and beautifully grotesque frets that call to mind nothing so much as the tapestries that hang in the Elvenking's hall beneath the hills, if ever the elves tried their hand at something so dreary and cheerless. 

Cautiously, the companions follow the russet light of Radagast, who leads them along a rough natural passage that slopes steeply downward.  Taking heed of the Wizard's caution and care, they go slowly, minding each overhang and outcropping lest some trick of the Weaver lie in wait for them.  Greatest is Tylquin among the sorcerors of the spiders, however, and subtle beyond the ken of Men her works.  Grimbeorn barely feels the thread that grasps at his leg... 

... And he is elsewhere, in what was once a snow-covered mountain meadow, perhaps, though now the bodies litter it so thickly that barely a gleam of white can be seen.  Men and orcs alike, he cares not, for he stands astride the slain like a god of war, the axes so light in his blood-slick hands that they might have grown from them.  Forward he strides, and with each step he strikes down another foe, for none can stand before him! 

Before him stands the black stone, the idol to which his foes have offered the blood and entrails of his young wife.  Now, each step brings him closer, his mind and body alight with fury, his blades thirsting.  This is the time of his revenge!  His once and final triumph!   

[GandalfOfBorg]

The more he looked at the rock, its visage shifted, once appearing as if it had eyes -- her eyes -- that mirrored a sorrow he felt.

Like a vise, Grimbeorn's heart is squeezed in his chest almost to a stop.  The wound that he thought he'd come to terms with burst open anew, fresh as the blood upon his hands.  Tears begun to flow again from eyes that hadn't seen them since the day that was to be bliss.  The beast within roared and howled but it was not enough to release all the rage and sorrow that had built up within.

He stood poised to strike down this thing of evil yet couldn't also bear to do so lest he see her eyes once again.

[Eclecticon]

How long he stands there, unable to turn away and unable to raise his hands, he cannot later recall, but it is not until he feels the hot breath on his neck, not until he sees the blast of steam come over his shoulder and go, not until he hears the working of those enormous lungs, that he is stirred from his tormented reverie.  He does not turn, for he knows without needing to see that the Bear has arrived to loom over him.  It huffs another great breath, filling the air with the charnel scents of meat and blood and, beneath these, honey, and as it does Grimbeorn understands its meaning-without-words. 

Why do you hesitate?

[GandalfOfBorg]

"She was the best of me.  She was my strength.  How can I go on without her?  I followed the murderers to the end of my endurance.  I gave my all in vengeance.  It did not bring her back.  It did not fill the hole in my heart.  She did not want this for me.  I love her still, forever, yet there is another."  He is momentarily stunned at his own revelation.

The scape about him blurred and reformed into The Carrock; great eagles wheel about far above.

"You are the beast within that I contend with every day.  I let you out when there is need beyond my own strength that can contend.  We grapple and I win, mostly.  You and I are brothers.  You know why I hesitate -- you know better than any save the one whom I am namesake.  I fear giving in to the lust of power, its raw and untamable fury.  I have seen what it does to lesser men and if it were to happen to me, the consequences would be dire for more than just their petty fiefdoms.  I bear the weight of a people, which means I bear the weight of all others as well for that responsibility extends to protect them all from me."

"I know you sense it though.  The weariness.  The strain.  How can I keep going on like this, putting off that inevitable day?  It won't be long until you and I end the fight and become one -- a one more powerful than either of us separate.  But it will only when I am ready.  Today is not that day."

[GandalfOfBorg]

  Grimbeorn seeks to cow the beast
 

Awe -  1d12 : 5, total 5
Rolled 5d6 : 3, 6, 3, 2, 1, total 15

[Eclecticon]

The huff of hot breath comes again, and beneath it the growl of an angered beast, but the sensation of its immanence vanishes.  Grimbeorn turns his back to the stone to look full upon the Bear, and he cannot stop his eyes from widening.  Where he had thought to behold the manifestation of his savagery in a red-eyed tower of bulk and fury, he sees instead a pathetic bundle of rags and bone, barely keeping the familiar shape of his father and the ancestral spirit that links them. 

You like not what you see? it asks with a wheezing breath, the brute white of its ribs clear amid the matted fur.  Will you pretend not to know that it is the hot blood that gives life to me?  What is the bear if it will not raise itself to battle?

Slinking now about the edge of the Carrock's summit, its movements loose and jerking, it gives another great, rattling breath.  If you will not raise your hand against her, then perhaps you will against him. 

And the cry of a great eagle above becomes the scream of a woman - the cry of his mother.  "No!  He is but a boy!" 

Turning again, his heart beating so hard within his breast that it feels as if it will shake itself loose, to see a long-familiar face, framed by loose hair  as she runs toward him.  But before him, towering so high that his eyes are lost in the depths of his beard and his hands, large and hard and cruel as the stones of the high mountains, hang level with Grimbeorn's beardless face, is his father. 

"WHAT WEAKLING WHELP HAVE I RAISED?" comes a rumble that shakes the world as his nails lengthen into talons, as his hair thickens into fur, as Beorn begins the terrible change.

[GandalfOfBorg]

To the air he speaks, an inkling of what is possibly transpiring.  "I see it now!  I see it!  I do not seek or desire of mastery over my father or ancestors.  That is child's dream and foolish!  A father seeks only the best for his son and nothing is greater than the son overcoming the weaknesses and transgressions of his father.  Beorn is a great man and father; I couldn't have asked for better.  I am a Man though, full of regrets and errors of my own so when I have sons of my own, they will have the same task before them."

"If now is the time to take on his mantle I will not do it for my own glory but as my rightful duty!"

[Eclecticon]

Sounds like an opportune time for his Insight roll:

1d12 : 7, total 7
Rolled 3d6 : 4, 3, 6, total 13

[Eclecticon]

Handily!