The Doom-Ring at Wuduseld

[Eclecticon]

Two more days' marching alongside the wain brings the band of Sunsteadlings and companions to the western edge of the forest.  At this shore of the sea of leaves, the wood seems tamed, with the trees well-spaced and wholesome-seeming, and here and there a trunk shortened and branches coppiced for firewood.  It does not take long, however, for the trunks to close in thickly about the travellers, forcing them from the straight path.  Arbogast, his spirits lifting in the country ever his home, finds long stretches where the woods long have been cleared, as if a road was once to be built in unconnected spans.  Even so, more than once the entire company must halt while trees are felled to make a way broad enough to fit the wain for Caewin, riding ever tall in his saddle with his head helmed in this less familiar land, seems sore loath to leave it, or even to unpack the goods it carries to lighten its load for a while. 

Much as his followers might shake their heads at his foolishness, though, the miles pass beneath the trundling wheels and trudging feet until at last the Fire-watcher, reading some sign plain to him alone, announces that the Dusky River is nearby.  "Scarce more than a mile from here," he promises, but this last mile is perhaps the worst of the journey, for a pothole lurking beneath a cover of leaf-mulch half-devours the front wheel of the wain, the axle cracking with the sudden shock.  From here, the strongest members of the party take turns bearing the load of the front corner, an ordeal that leaves each bearer with aching hands and back. 

Even this ordeal cannot bar the way of the company from their destination, and at last the high mound of Wuduseld can be spied between the tops of the trees.  When at last the wain rolls to a final stop outside the hedge and wall of the Woodmen settlement, to the clear relief of all but Caewin himself, it is plain that they are the last to arrive, for the sounds of a small town of Men all a-bustle come from within the gates.  Without, though, a grim body of Men, hard-eyed and heavily-armed, has made their camp beneath a richly-woven banner bearing a red circle made of intricate knotwork.  Mogdred, it would seem, has come to make his claim. 

[Telcontar]

Hathcyn frowned at the men outside the gate and weighed his options.

"Lord Caewin the most Generous, I have shared the road with you and I thank you for the company. Now that we have arrived I must make my own camp for I have come as an emissary of my own folk and the House of Beorn. I do not wish to prejudice the thanes of the woodmen, or have them think I am part of your delegation. Though I will hapily share food and drink once my camp is established and invite you to share what I have."

The Longspear nodded to the Lord and broke off with his own companions.

"Friends I do not think it wise to be perceived to be tied too tightly to Caewin in the matter. If this meeting is the same as such matters in the north than there will be much posturing and we need to appear open to any approach. I am wary to be tied to tightly to Caewin, but out shared road may be able to bend his ear. I propose we ride in tigether and formally present ourselves as emissaries and claim the customary rights and privileges."

He turned to the few companions that had come with them from the Greenstone on the journey.
 
"Jarad Flinthand, take a couple axes and fell some staves and brush. We have not brought tents, but here outside the walls let us build a bower to shelter ourselves while we remain here."

He lowered his voice, "and in such a way as we may keep an eye on our southern friends and be close to our arms."

Wheeling once more he placed his on helm upon his head, "shall we announce ourselves?"
 

[tomcat]

Esgalwen gave a nod of agreement to Hathcyn, "Perhaps a clarion call of your horn, friend? Not a call to battle, but a call to announce that the Beornings have come and seek part in this moot."

The Dúnadan did not wish to have her friend outdone by the likes of Ceawin, with his entourage and his wain full of gifts. It might be simple, but the men of the wood would know that the ram horn that sounds in the north is present.

[Telcontar]

Hathcyn smiled, "I thought that would be over doing it Ætheldreám, but since you have asked..."

The Beorning waited for Caewin to make his entrance into the woodmen ring and then let sound a long clear note on the ram horn as the companions rode to the gates.

Inspire

Rolled 1d12 : 12, total 12

Rolled 3d6+1 : 2, 2, 3 + 1, total 8

[Telcontar]

The sprig of green bough danced on the crest of the bright helm as the note rang through the town and the companions rode into the enclosure.

"The Longspear of the Greenstone has come!"

[Eclecticon]

The deeper note of a larger horn issues forth in response to Hathcyn's blast as they enter through the gates, passing through the narrow gap in the tall wall and thick hedge.  There follows as warm a welcome as ever the companions have received, for many are those in attendance who have good cause to fondly recall the Fellowship of the Helm. 

Almost no sooner have they passed the gate than they are met by Hartfast, headman of the folk who dwell in and about the Misty Mountains.  The passage of years since their visit to his home has deepened the furrows upon his long face but the effect is to broaden his smile as he throws wide his arms in greeting.  "Hail, Esgalwen the Southerner!  Hail Arbogast Fire-watcher!  Welcome are you, and welcome the hour of your coming.  Hathcyn Longspear, know that you are told of in travellers' tales even in our far-away home!"  At the sight of the two Elves, he catches himself.  "Forgive me, elder ones.  I am Hartfast, son of Hartmund, of Mountain Hall, at your service." 

Before either can answer, the deep booming of a Dwarven voice announces the presence of another friend of old.  "Ah, my allies, good friends of another mountain folk!  Clasping Esgalwen's hands firmly in his own, Rorin's grin is infectious as he pumps her arms vigorously up and down.  "To all of you, I bring the warm greetings of the King Under the Mountain!" 

"Did he bid you bring these greetings?" Hathcyn replies with a wry smile of his own. 

"Ah, he leaves the details of these things to me, and I try not to trouble him with them without cause." 

By now, a small crowd has gathered around the companions, but through it, her face a mask of busyness, pushes Amaleoda the Shieldmaiden, come north from Sweartmereseld.  "Arbogast, I am glad beyond measure to see you here, and well," she says as soon as she can be heard above the rising babble of nearby voices.  "It is one thing to hear from those returning home that you live, but I feel it much safer to tell your wife and daughters when I have seen you with my own eyes."  She takes him by the elbow and begins to lead him away as she says "If you will allow it, I should like to borrow my kinsman for a short while.  There is news of home I should tell, and I doubt that it would interest you much." 

From nearby, the sound of a flute begins to rise, and a drum soon joins it as the folk gathered at Wuduseld decide, one after the other, that work and cares can be set aside for a short while. From inside houses, food begins to be produced for an impromptu meal, and as Esgalwen finds a horn of ale pressed into her hand from some unknown well-wisher, she chances to glance up toward the high hall on its mound to where a richly-dressed man who can be no other than Mogdred stands.  Aloof, he is but hardly alone, for both a pair of armed guards and a small throng of young men surround him.  If he sees her, if he recognises her in his turn, she does not know.  Then he turns and walks through the grand, carven doors of the hall and is gone. 


Feel free to write in some interactions with any of the people currently accosting you, or with anyone else who might reasonably be here - this is the largest gathering of the Woodmen in more than a decade, and almost anyone who has the time and ability to travel has come here. 

[GandalfOfBorg]

Gwaithlim reflexively bristles at the sound and sight of the dwarven delegation; he thought he smelled their presence ere they arrived.  Remembering his manners, he gives a slight salute and bow to Harfast, "I am Gwaithlim, Swiftfooted in your tongue. At your and your family's," he gives courteously in return.  He scans the room quickly to find a quiet corner to keep unnoticed and a sure eye upon his companions.  "This is my distant kinsman, Luindis -- I am sure you'll find her more than willing to entertain."  And at that, he insinuates himself into the shadows and throng to remain little noticed.

[tomcat]

Esgalwen bowed to Hartfast, giving the elder man a bright smile at his greeting. "Master Hartfast, it is good to see you, too! Long have the years been since I was able to enjoy the comforts of your house. Hopefully the challenge of goblins underfoot has been remedied?"

Hartfast swelled with a bit of pride at Esgalwen's mentioning of his home, but gave a shake of the head, "M'lady, ever are they a blight to our home! We no sooner close a tunnel or passage, and they have snaked their way through another. Still - we keep them away and have not seen such a gathering as that which you and your companions had helped defeat."

"T'is good to hear! I have been spending much time with the Beorning's of recent, but I will see to coming to your home again soon."

"It will be an honour to have you."

Rorin appeared and Esgalwen was drawn from the thegn of the mountain, as her dwarf friend had also been a long time gone.

"Rorin, I fear you will take my hand and perhaps my arm," she said as he vigorously welcomed her.

"Forgive me lady," flustered the dwarf, "my hands are more oft bent at the task of smithing than holding the delicate hand of the Lady of Gondor."

"Pray I am not too delicate, Master Rorin, lest I no longer be able to do my part in these lands," Esgalwen laughed. Again Rorin took on a shade of pink, as he released her hand. "Of course, m'lady. It is good to see you and that you fare well. I have not seen you since your time in Dale. What have you been doing with your days?"

Esgalwen proceeded to tell a brief tale of all that she had done since her release from King Bard's service - some was good, some was not - but Rorin listened with great interest. The Ranger soon became distracted at the sight of Mogdred, and she apologized to Rorin.

"Perhaps we might continue this tale at dinner? There are more greetings I must make." To which Rorin smile broadly and told her he would see her later that night.

With that, Esgalwen made her way towards the grand hall.

[Telcontar]

A merry gathering soon over took the companions. They had hardly made it through the gate as the well wishers and old friends gathered about them. The throng pressed to the side to clear the gates of the town, but no building within the circle could contain the merry making. The joyous shouts and the raised voices attracted others and soon tables and boards were laid out as the greeting began to take on a life of its own.

Undeterred the revelers rolled barrels of beer into the street and tapped the kegs as they stood. Torches dipped in pitch were pounded into the ground and then lit to add to the scene. Any passerby or distant folk attracted by the noise who happened to investigate the site would have thought that the wedding of some great magnate had occurred for so freely did drink and song come. The names of the companions circulated quickly through the holding and old friends, new friends, and would be friends thronged into the growing celebration.

Hathcyn noted his elven friends exit and the slipping of the Firewatcher into the crowd and found that he and Esgalwen now bore the brunt of the arm pumping, the back slapping and the bows of greeting. He wished in that moment that Aestid were here. To share in this celebration and the joy of people that had become so rare.

He marked the passage of Mogdred and the inkling of an idea sparked in his head.
"So he would be the war chief of the woodmen, but what credit is sung to his name?" thought the Longspear.
"There are others with greater fame who's name could be shouted with popular acclaim. Another leader to challenge his villainy."

A jar of wood ale in his hand, the forest helm now off and hanging at his waist, the Longspear climbed upon a barrel and with the help of Harfast quieted the boisterous crowd. He faced the High Hall and spoke clear and loud.

"Friends, Wood-Folk, Sons and Daughters of the Anduin Vales! I Hathcyn Foresthelm of the Greenstone Land speak, hear my words. From the joy of my heart springs forth song. A tune that has been long in the making for it was written in pieces with every blow and every act of courage upon countless unknown and known fights across Wilderland. Now in part it bursts from me and I am moved for you to hear the first telling of it. For I will begin it, but other hearts and other mouths will finish it as it grows.

The Wandering Lady of Gondor.

In days of yore, when arrayed spears did shine,
A heroine of might, a Ranger fine,
With sword and shield, she fought for her kin,
Her valor unmatched, noble spirit within.

Ætheldreám, Ætheldreám, the warriors cry!
Ætheldreám, Ætheldreám her sword by our side!

Her long, bound braid did swing in woven bind,
Her eyes, like the stars, shone bright and kind,
Her strength, like the oak, unyielding and true,
Her courage, like the sun, forever renew.

Ætheldreám, Ætheldreám, the warriors cry!
Ætheldreám, Ætheldreám her sword by our side!

She rode into battle, her heart full of fire,
Her enemies trembled, their souls desired to retire,
For she was a warrior, a shieldmaiden of old,
Her prowess in combat, a tale of a lady bold.

Ætheldreám, Ætheldreám, the warriors cry!
Ætheldreám, Ætheldreám her sword by our side!

Her armor, unadorned with cuts and worn seem,
Shone bright in the sun, like a beacon's gleam,
Her sword, like a lightning bolt, swift and true,
Cut through the ranks, her foes to subdue.

Ætheldreám, Ætheldreám, the warriors cry!
Ætheldreám, Ætheldreám her sword by our side!

Our people, they sang her praises loud and long,
For her bravery, her honor, her strength so strong,
She was a wanderer, a warrior, a legend in her own right,
A shining star, in the annals of the fight.

Ætheldreám, Ætheldreám, the warriors cry!
Ætheldreám, Ætheldreám her sword by our side!

And though the battles raged, and the wars were fought
She struggled on, unyielding, her spirit unfrought,
For she knew that the people, the land, her name,
Were worth fighting for, until the end of the day.

Ætheldreám, Ætheldreám, the warriors cry!
Ætheldreám, Ætheldreám her sword by our side!

So let her name be remembered, through the ages,
As a heroine, a warrior, a shining sage,
For she fought for what was right, for the few,
A Gondorian warrior woman, forever strong and true.

Ætheldreám, Ætheldreám, the warriors cry!
Ætheldreám, Ætheldreám with her name on our lips ride!


The words of the chorus now known to the assembled folk reverberated off the walls and echoed into the evening sky of Wuduseld.

Lundis her harp catching the tune of it as he went joined into the lay. The words of the warrior matched with the accompaniment of an Elf minstrel would be a tale that was told for many nights to come and the song itself entered that night into the folk memory of the Wood-men.

"Again!" Came the cry from the crowd. Another tankard was lifted to the Longspear and he drained it in one motion. "If Lundis is willing, but this time let's see how red we can make the face of the lady of Gondor with the strength of the chorus.

He began again, but in his head he thought. "I honor a friend who deserves this much and more, but with it a barb to strike at the pride of Mogdred. Here in part is my oath fulfilled Wife-Father, and here is the beginning of the trial to make Ætheldreám War chief of the Wood-men."

Ætheldreám, Ætheldreám, the warriors cry!
Ætheldreám, Ætheldreám her sword by our side!

[tomcat]

That was very cool, Tom. In my mind, I see Esgalwen red of face, and trying to hide from such fanfare but the people keep her there with them.

[Eclecticon]

And now it really starts to get interesting!  Doug, I'm just checking - are you alright with Tom's plan?

[tomcat]

I am fine with it, for sure.

I think Esgalwen would be really surprised at Hathcyn's choice - not deeming herself the right pick. Not because she is unsure of herself, but due to her humility. She sees herself in a land where she is ultimately a stranger and even though she has stepped up to face their challenges, she is still an outsider. She might have traces of blood coursing her veins of the great men of Númenor, but here she is just Esgalwen.

I look forward to seeing where the story takes us! 

[Telcontar]

  this was 100% an inspired thought from Hathcyn that wasnt a plan until it was.

[Eclecticon]

She sees herself in a land where she is ultimately a stranger and even though she has stepped up to face their challenges, she is still an outsider.

Not gonna lie - that's going to make things much harder!  But few things are impossible here.  As a certain wanderer might say, the board is set and the pieces are all in motion, though you don't necessarily see all of them yet.  Much can turn on seemingly small things. 

With that in mind, let's roll for Hathcyn's song - not to see how well it's received in the moment, but to see how well it plants the notion of 'well, she's pretty badass, why doesn't she lead us?' in the heads of the crowd.  I'm setting the TN a bit higher (at 16) to reflect the fact that she's an outsider.  Luindîs helping him out with backing vocals helps to carry the tune, but not really to cement the political idea:

1d12 : 11, total 11
Rolled 2d6 : 1, 6, total 7

[Eclecticon]

Well, that could've gone better!  Looks like lots of people are thinking 'how fortunate are we to have the friendship of this heavily-armed wanderer who will roll up, solve our problems and then leave again without stealing so much as a single chicken!' rather than 'Ætheldreám for War Leader!'.