Wilderness, Weathertop, & Wild Things RPG

[piosenniel]

Envinyatar’s post - Veryadan

Veryadan lay on the cot in his sparsely furnished room in the Guard’s Quarters. His cape was thrown over the straight-backed chair at his small desk, mocking him with its memories of the times he had hidden beneath its folds to escape the notice of the enemy. He sighed, turning to his side, his head now elevated on his right hand. One of his larger maps was pinned to the wall, and he traced with his gaze the route he had once taken from Calenhad over the Ered Nimrais to Ethring. There had been reports of increasing numbers of Orcs in the mountainous regions, and he had gone to investigate . . . and eliminate, as he could. Now that had been an interesting foray . . .

He caught himself . . . You are starting to sound like some of the old warriors! Drifting off into dreams of the olden, ‘better’, days! He laughed out loud, startling a sparrow who had come to rest on his window ledge, in hopes of a few crumbs.

‘I beg your pardon, Master Sparrow!’ he said grinning and shaking his head at the discomfited bird. The olden days were only a few short years past, he reminded himself, and I have not reached my dotage yet!’ The bird, appeased by the offer of a small wedge of seedcake, resumed his perch on the window ledge with one wary eye on the now up and pacing Man.

He had been chafing under the duties and expectations of life at court. True, Aragorn . . . No! King Elessar, he reminded himself for the thousandth time . . . had requested the presence of the company of Men who had fought with him, but now there were no foes to fight save the few mice he had seen scurrying to hide behind the arras in the great dining hall or the occasional flying bug that found its way through the open window in his room. And no dark plans to disentangle and avert save for those of his two darling sisters, whose sole purpose it seemed of late was to thrust ‘eligible’ females in his path, at every turn. He had been firm with them, saying he enjoyed their company and the company of their children, and indeed he was all a child could ask for as an uncle. But, that was as far as his desires in that area had gone. In time, perhaps, he thought to himself, when I have had my fill of wandering . . .

^*^

Later that day, seated at his desk, at work on the legend for his newest map, that of the lands just west of the Eastern Sea, in particular Dorwinion, he was annoyed at the discrete knock at his door that broke his concentration and thought to send the offender away with a curt dismissal. A few words heard dimly through the thin door and the sound of a familiar laughed stayed him.

With a grin, he threw open door, and thrust out his ink-stained hand to clasp the arm of the man who stood there, craning his neck beyond him for the source of the familiar laughter . . .

[piosenniel]

Nuranar’s post

Two Elves stood in the narrow corridor. “Why – how – how dare you!” the young female protested to her laughing companion. “Tarondo, you – I never—”

“There you are, Veryadan!” Tarondo interrupted his sister, catching sight of him as the door opened. “We were just discussing the last time we had seen you. Wasn’t it when Luinien fell off her horse into the creek?” the Elf continued, a rascally twinkle in his eye
.
Grinning, Veryadan stepped forward. “Was that how it was? I seem to remember seeing quite a splash…”

“Oh – you two suit each other!” Luinien turned and stormed dramatically down the corridor, her sky-blue gown trailing grandly. At the corner she stopped. “Come along, children,” she teased, a smile breaking through. “We mustn’t keep the King waiting!”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“It pleases me to hear you are settled in Ithilien, at least for a time,” Veryadan said as they strode up the street. “But why does the King want to see us?”

“Because he wants to, that’s why,” answered Tarondo. “As for why—ow!” he broke off, stubbing his toe on an uneven step.

“Serves you right,” Luinien said unsympathetically, then turned to the still-perplexed Ranger. “Surely you have heard stories of the violence up north, along the Great East Road past Bree. Rumors of travelers who are never heard from again, entire flocks and herds vanishing, even several outlying farmsteads destroyed.”

“I have heard,” Veryadan nodded. “The merchants are growing apprehensive about traveling anywhere near there, even as far west as Lake Evendim.”

“I fear that some threat has re-arisen in the absence of the Rangers,” Tarondo resumed, frowning. “It may even threaten the settlement at the Angle. We think the King will send us north to discover what is truly happening.”

“So what do you think we will find?” the Elf-maid questioned pertly, after a short silence. “A dragon or two, perhaps? I think we’re about due for another one to show up.”

Tarondo narrowed his eyes at her flippancy. “Petty bandits, more likely, or some others of the Enemy’s servants, out for themselves. Perhaps even orcs,” he concluded heavily.

“Now that would be fun,” Veryadan said, a new note of interest in his voice. Tarondo looked at him curiously, but no one spoke again until they reached the White Tower.

[piosenniel]

Envinyatar’s post – The King’s request

Elessar was busy with his Minister of Trade when they arrived at the hall. A serving man ushered them into a small, sparsely appointed waiting room and after a while yet another brought in a tray with a small ewer of chilled wine and three cups. Veryadan poured them each a drink, then paced about the room. ‘It’s been twenty years since the War ended,’ he said, fingering the thin and somewhat frayed about the edge tapestry that hung on one wall – some scene of old, one of the stewards, he thought. ‘Twenty years,’ he continued, ‘and this place still looks like the spare quarters we kept as Rangers.’ He nodded at the plain, uncushioned wood chairs. ‘And look at those! You’d think that . . .’

‘I like to keep my visitors just a little on the uncomfortable side.’

Veryadan and the Elves turned from their perusal of the room to see the familiar figure leaning casually against the door frame, watching them. His grey eyes glinted with amusement that they had been caught critiquing the appointments of the room.

Elessar motioned for them to follow him to his private office on the second floor and bade them enter. The door was shut securely behind them by the guard behind them. And once they were comfortable in their chairs he sat on the edge of his desk looking at each of them. ‘I’ve had an increasing number of unsettling reports come in over the past few months,’ he began, ‘of an escalation of attacks on livestock and travelers in Eriador. At first they seemed random – the last dregs of whatever ruffians escaped our notice. But now they seem to happen with a greater frequency and on a greater scale. And sightings of strange creatures, fell creatures, are being reported. I’m especially concerned because most of out troops of Rangers have been withdrawn from that region since it showed signs of settling in peacefully into the Kingdom. There are few left there to stand between any remnants of shadow that might remain.’ He paused for a moment, considering his next words. ‘I also fear that eventually, with Rivendell’s folk for the most part gone West, whoever is behind this malicious actions may take it into his head to overrun the Rangers’ hidden fastness in the Angle. There are still a number of families there – but not enough men to protect them should a concerted attack come.’

‘What would you have us do?’ asked Veryadan, leaning forward, his brow furrowed at what the King had said.

‘I want you three to travel north to Breeland to find out what is happening around the area of Weathertop. Take what action you can against the ones who are the troublemakers, taking care to keep yourselves and what companions you might bring with you as safe as possible. I’d rather have you back here with a report for me, than for you to go haring off after some wicked foe who will easily overpower you.’ Elessar picked up a rolled vellum writ and handed it to Tarondor. It was a writ directing them to be allowed to search out where they wished for the source of the problem and to enlist those whom they needed to assist them.

‘And when would you wish us to start for Amon Sul?’ asked Luinien.

‘Today . . . if I could make that happen. But since that will not be possible, just see my Minister of the Treasury this afternoon for funds. I’ve already spoken with him, and he should have them ready by midafternoon at the latest. And the quartermaster for the City guards will also await your visit – he’s put together supplies for you at my request. Tomorrow, at dawn, breakfast will await you in the Guards’ quarters, and then you should be on your way.’ The guard at the door rapped lightly and opening it announced that there was someone to see the King on some pressing matter.

Elessar stood and bid the three farewell, dismissing them with his hope that their mission would prove fruitful. They bowed and took their leave of him saying they would see it through as he wished . . .

[piosenniel]

Nuranar’s post

Traffic along the road from Minas Tirith through Rohan had increased greatly in the twenty years since the king’s return. The three riders, traveling quickly but not with haste, passed numerous people on foot, farmers with wagons, and men driving flocks and herds to market. Periodically they came upon small merchant caravans of heavy wains, and once a patrol of Riders swept around them.

After several days, the travelers stopped in a small village for fresh supplies, thinking to save their waybread and dried meat for the less-settled lands beyond the Gap. Tarondo found himself delegated to procure bread – “As fresh as possible, and make sure it’s wrapped up well!” – while Veryadan and Luinien went to the market for fruits and early vegetables.

He wandered aimlessly about the square for several minutes, oblivious to the stares of villagers not yet accustomed to the sight of an Elf. Finally, by dint of following his nose, he discovered a small bakery in a street just off the square.

“Good day to you, sir!” he greeted the baker, shrouded in a large apron and liberally sprinkled with flour. He had been a large man, though now stooped with age, but out of his wrinkled face gazed clear grey eyes. “May I buy half a dozen loaves? And my sister would like them to be ‘wrapped up well’ – whatever that may mean,” he confessed with a grin.

“Certainly, sir.” The old man moved swiftly, swathing the hot bread in clean cloths and packing them into the saddlebags Tarondo had brought. “Whither are you bound?” he asked, glancing keenly at his customer.

“Oh, for the northlands, far away from here,” Tarondo said carelessly. It was his habit not to give away too much information – just in case. Yet they still needed to find good men to join their mission. “I have come from Mundburg. My companions and I have been sent on an errand by the King Elessar.”

“Then I wish you a safe journey and success on your errand,” the baker said, handing him his bags. “And any friend of the King will always be welcome here!”

Tarondo thanked him warmly and left the shop. He was gazing into the market, searching for his sister and the Ranger, when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Sir, I heard what you said to Aldor. May I speak to you about it?”

[piosenniel]

Alaksoron's post

"I heard what you said to Aldor. Could I talk to you about it?"

The Elf turned on his heel smoothly. "Certainly" was his cautious reply.

"What manner of errand might you be running for King Elessar?" Tarondo opened his mouth, but the Rohirrim man cut him off. "No, don't bother answering. My name is Osric Falkur, and I was a soldier of Rohan. I am greatly indebted to your King, indeed with my very life, and would be more than happy to assist in your errand for the King, if my services could be of use." He spoke of King Elessar with a touch of reverence.

[piosenniel]

Nuranar’s post

Tarondo did not answer at once, evaluating what he saw. The man was carrying a bow, and a sword hung at his side. Both weapons showed much use. Osric’s voice was low but clear, and his eyes gazed back steadily at the Elf, with just a hint of challenge. He had made his offer and would not beg.

“The services of the Rohirrim will always be valued by the King,” Tarondo said at length. “Come, I will introduce you to my companions, and you shall tell us about yourself.”

They joined Veryadan and Luinien, who were surprised to see Tarondo with a companion but pleased to learn of his volunteering. After a brief council Osric Falkur’s assistance was accepted. After Osric gathered what he needed, the four rode on together.

All through the long, lonely lands past the Gap of Rohan Osric demonstrated himself to be a brave and skillful soldier. The details of their errand intrigued him, and he spent many hours discussing all the possibilities of what they would find, and how they would need to respond to all of them. Tarondo listened with interest (and maybe a hidden smile) but rarely participated, while Luinien was as eager to theorize as the man himself. She had not entirely given up hope of seeing a dragon.

In due course they crossed the Greyflood at Tharbad, where they intended to stay the night at The Trade Inn. This would be their first good chance of hearing recent news. As they dismounted and walked up the path to the inn, Veryadan was not without hope that some of the Rangers would be waiting for them.

[piosenniel]

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[Primrose Bolger]

A little north of the Weather Hills . . .

‘Nay, brother! It’s the little ones what goes on the bottom and then them bigger pieces. And step back a bit. That scraggly old wolf skin of yours is about to catch fire!’

Grimm watched as Broga raised his great ham fist to his temple and knuckled the coarse patch of hair there in a worried manner, trying to recollect the rudiments of making a small cooking fire. Grimm wheezed out a resigned sigh, standing up from the log he’d rolled near for a seat, and went over to help his brother. ‘Here, now. Let me get this going. You ready them rabbits we trapped.’

Broga spitted the stringer of unfortunate hares, skinned and gutted earlier, on two long, thin metal poles. Four to spit, with some fat taters pushed in between them. 'Kay-bobs' they called them, remembering the word one of those Southron fellows had used. Last word, he’d used, in fact, as Broga had bashed him soundly on the skull just after Grimm had inquired what the man called that spitted meat he was holding. Very tasty, they were . . . those first kay-bobs . . .

‘Wish we had sumthin else to eat, brother,’ grumbled Broga, threading the last of the rabbits on the second spit and securing it with a fist sized tater. ‘Rabbits yesterday. Rabbits today. And don’t it just look like rabbits tomorrer.’

Grimm nodded, his beady eyes taking in the wicker cage where their hunting ferret lay curled up on some old rags - a rabbit hindquarter clutched in his paws; his sharp little teeth stripping the meet from the bones; his hind teeth and strong jaws cracking open the bones as he sucked the marrow. ‘Think we might learn him to fetch chickens for us,’ said Broga, breaking in on his brother’s perusal their little companion. The answer to that question was cut short as Grimm’s attention was caught by the slow approach of two other Trolls.

‘Best put on some extra taters,’ he muttered low to his brother. ‘Here comes old Big Nose and his shadow . . .’

[Envinyatar]

He could not say that The Pony had changed much. The paint looked a little fresher on the sign above the entry arch, the faces of the serving girls had changed some, grown older and a little warier, he thought. Butterbur had retired, he learned from the stableboy. His son, just as fat and forgetful, the stableboy confided with a laugh, now followed in his father’s footsteps.

Standing on the wide verandah of the Inn, Veryadan shook the dust from his cloak, watching, in a casual manner, the ebb and flow of patrons. Men, the lot of them. A brief glance in the front window threw the faces of other men into relief from the blazing fire on the hearth and the hanging lamps scattered about the beamed ceiling of the common room. Veryadan looked round at his Elven companions, wondering what stir the entrance of four of the Fair Folk would bring. ‘Won’t know ‘til the deed is done,’ he thought to himself.

With a smile and nod to the ladies he pushed open the door, entering first for a quick survey of the premises. The others of his companions followed closely on his entrance. Heads turned from their pints to see the faces of those whose bright, melodic voices preceded their presence. Conversation lulled for brief moment; chair legs scraped along the wooden floor as those in the back twisted round on them for a look-see. Following its natural short-lived course, interest in the companions waned, mugs returned to eager lips, and the low hum of conversation and laughter picked up again.

Among those, though, whose eyes continued to follow the Elves and the men with them, were two Rangers sitting together at a table across the room from the entrance. And there in the shadows of a dimly lit booth, the rat-faced visage of some man darted quickly in and out of the low burning lamp that hung near him, his glittering eyes taking in the companions with calculating interest before withdrawing into the darkness.

‘Would you just see to getting us a table and rooms?’ Veryadan spoke low to Tarondo. ‘Let me join you in a moment. Make it a table to accommodate two more, if you will.’ He nodded his head toward the two Rangers. ‘I’ll see if they will sup with us. Perhaps they have fresh news they bring with them of happenings in this area.’

A few strides brought him to the Rangers’ table. One of them indicated a chair for his use as he approached. ‘Veryadan,’ he said, nodding to each of the men. ‘My companions and I were hoping you might join us for our meal. It’s been a long road from Minas Tirith to Bree. We would enjoy your company. And any tidings of this area you might have to share with us would be greatly appreciated. What say you? Shall we pull up extra chairs for you at our table?’

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain and his companion Silruth eat their supper peacefully as ,they caught sight of arrival of a Ranger, two Elves, and a man from the Riddermark into the Inn.Aidwain and Silruth both invited them to have supper as they were alone through most of their journey and now they wished for some company ,here they found out that the company had arrived here due to the orders of the King,so wishing to help them as they could they told them about the increasing number of the orcs and trolls near the Angle -The Old fastness of the Rangers.

Veryadan’s ( the ranger's) face was grim as he heard the news they brought. ‘Travel with us, if you will,’ he had offered Silrûth and Aidwain. ‘We are also bound north, at the behest of the King. He has had some reports of the disquiet in that area, though I do not think he knows the extent to which this ripple of shadow has spread.’ Tarondo one of the elves nodded at the invitation as Envinyatar his sister continued. ‘Two extra sets of eyes and blades would be welcome. And you need not fear that we might slow you down. We will head up the Greenway to Bree at first light.’

And so Aidwain and Silruth now joined the company travelling North .

Four days of hard riding with only short, cold camp stops along the way brought them to Andrath, the narrow passageway between the Barrow-downs and the South Downs, through which the Greenway passed, heading north. A day and a half further and the six found themselves passing in through the West Gate, the welcoming archway and windows of the The Prancing Pony now well within their sights .

Aidwain was very relieved that they had reached the Inn at last, for four days of non-stop riding had made his body sore,and he wished for some supper and a good night's sleep.He did not wish to go into the common room and speak with anybody.But inside they found two more Rangers sitting at a table as if waiting for their arrival.Veryadan went and talked with them while Aidwain and Tarondo arranged for a table and few chairs.

There Aidwain and his companions waited for their supper .....

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The smell of roasting coney pulled Arrald and Dim toward the low hill. They went as stealthily as they could, thinking to surprise whomever had set up camp, but their great feet seemed to find every dry branch and loose stone. After each noise broke the silence of the wilderness they would freeze as though by stilling themselves they could silence the air, and make elaborate gestures to one another to be quiet. “Well it’s not me as kicked that ruddy great log into the stream,” Dim protested in a loud whisper. “And it’s not me as thought that going up that great shale bank was a good idea.”

Arrald frowned at his brother so mightily that his beady eyes almost disappeared entirely beneath the sagging folds of his forehead. “I don’t recall your saying nought about the plan at the time,” he rumbled dangerously. “In fact, as I recall it, we both thought it was a good idea to head in a straight line with that smell, so as not to lose it.”

Dim cocked his head to one side and searched the untidy cellar of his memory. “Aye, aye, I do remember that…” he conceded. “But you’re still the one as started the avalance!” he cried out in victory, and his sudden outburst set echoes rattling amongst the hills.

“SSSSHHHHHH!” Arrald practically roared at him, slamming one sausage-finger to his lips while clamping his other hand over Dim’s mouth. Dim’s eyes went wide with shock and mimicked his brother’s action with his own finger in front of his already covered mouth. Arrald slowly removed his hand, and Dim said quietly once more, “Right. Quiet.”

They resumed their trek toward the smell, picking their way through the rough landscape of the hills by the light of a very pallid moon. They were disappointed when they saw Broga and Grimm gathering around the fire, for it meant that they would have to beg a share of the food rather than snatch it for themselves. Arrald sighed – it had been days since his last really decent meal. Fortunately, that might soon change…

Broga and Grimm were none too pleased to see them, if the manner of their reception was anything to go by. Openly trying to hide one long skewer of food behind his back, Grimm burst out, “We ain’t got no food here! Only a bit of rabbit as we’re just finished!” Broga stuffed a half a rabbit and two taters in his mouth at once and made a great show of chewing and swallowing.

Arrald’s eyes narrowed. “Now look here Grimm-me-lad, I’m not stupid nor blind nor have I lost my sense of smell – I know you’re got a stick-full of coney and taters behind your back. You’d best share it round or things are like to get ugly.” Grimm made a great show of defiance at first, to which Arrald and Dim responded with words of their own. Broga swallowed the last of his food and leapt to his brother’s aid. There were a few blows and some terrible curses shattered the night, but soon the trolls were setting about the fire and sharing out the food as equally as they could.

What had finally convinced Broga and Grimm to share had been Arrald’s promise to tell them how they could come by some truly gorgeous fresh meat, without too much trouble. Swallowing the last tater, Arrald leaned in over the fire and explained in a conspiratorial whisper. “You both know as Dim and me have been a-helping some orcs hereabouts in their attacks on the invaders.”

“Of course we know about that, Arrald; we’ve been doing the same and have seen you once or twice in the fights.”

“Have you now?” Arrald said, trying to appear canny. “Be that as it may, and we’ll have to look into that later, the orcs are set to meet with Dim and me later tonight so’s we can plan our next little outing. This one promises to be an absolute feast!” His eyes glittered with a greedy light as he sat up and threw out his chest. “Why those orcs have said that there’s a small farm with dozens of sheep, and we can have half the flock. And all the orcs want in return is the small bag of gold pieces they say the farmer has in his bedroom! Can you believe it?” And his eyes went wide at the idiocy of orcs.

[Saurreg]

It took Andas Loudewater longer than expected to reach the bar. The serving hall was so crowded that he had little choice but to push and shove his way through the masses of warm reeking bodies, raising surprised yelps and curses, rich with local favors from the recipients. By the time he reached his destination, tiny beats of sweat were trickling profusely down his shiny forehead.

Prand Adams beckoned Loudewater towards him and pointed to at an empty bar stool which Andas promptly introduced his arse to.

“Hey Andy,”

“Hi Prand,”

“Trouble with the missus?”

“What else?”

It wasn’t so much of a question but rather a matter-of-fact statement. Loudewater scratched his backside and shifted his weight on the stool so that he was in a more comfortable position, he then raised his left hand index finger towards the innkeeper to catch his attention. The innkeeper nodded in acknowledgement and rumbled towards the duo.

If there was such a thing as Loudewater’s bosom buddy, Prand was it. The two farmers have known each other since childhood and as far as the former could recall, Prand had always been there for him and he was like the suave and world-wise older brother Andas never had. Prand had always been good to Andas, Prand had always had the hapless (in Mister Adams’ point of view that is) Loudewater’s best interests in mind, which was coincidentally, why he introduced his distant cousin, a certain Miss Helga Ofella to Loudewater in the first place.

Both men had since rued the day that in drunken stupor, Prand offered to play match-maker and the equally intoxicated Loudewater readily agreed.

“Lenny’s here too. He’s at the floor talking to some eastsiders,” Offered Prand nonchalantly.

Loudewater merely grunted in reply. He never liked Lenny the carpenter.

Butterbur II was pushing fifty and looking more and more like the old man each day. He was also well on his way in dwarfing his father in girth. The bubbly innkeeper came to a halt behind the bar and faced Loudewater. His robust, protruding belly signaled its own arrival with a fierce attention grabbing “nod” when his master stopped abruptly.

Butterbur Jr. smiled warmly at the west Bree farmer because he was a regular, then frowned when he realized that he couldn’t recall the latter’s name at the moment of time. Absentmindedness was trait in the Butterbur line. That was followed by the shrugging of very stout pudgy shoulders as the innkeeper decided to give his mind a break from the strenuous ordeal of name recollection. He turn reached under the apron (an exerting task for one of such physique) and produced a copper platter of moldy rye bread, obnoxiously foul-smelling cheese and some green stuff that had seen better days. Something very small and brown scrambled across the green stuff hastily. Butterbur Jr. cocked his eyebrows in mild surprise and assisted the refugee on its way with a flick of his pinkie that sent said uninvited one somersaulting through the air. Pleased with his dandy work, the innkeeper set the platter before loudewater with the full aplomb of a master chef unveiling his culinary masterpiece. Butterbur then beamed widely, gave Loudewater an affectionate pat on the head and went off to get the farmer a drink.

Loudewater raised his brows in thought and stroked the day-long stubble over his chin before giving out an very audible “hmmm” Prand had an amused look on his face.

*******
Loudewater surveyed the serving hall as would a raptor gliding high above in the sky, scanning the wide land below for its next meal. The bread was too sour for eating and the cheese was rather dry. But the green stuff was actually pretty good, tasted like chicken.

Loudewater caught sight of Fen Sheperdspurse in a dimly lit booth, narrowed his eyes with disgust and breathed in deeply as would a man trying to control his temper. As much as Loudewater disliked Lenny, it was nothing compared to the distain he had for the greasy headed mongrel. Loudewater remembered many a times how Sheperdspurse tresspassed on his property and stood leering as he toiled and how he had to stop work and wait for the loathed one to leave before feeling at ease again. Sheperdspurse had of course never done anything to Loudewater that warranted such strong detest, but the farmer had always nursed a weighty hunch against him, one that never really went away. Something deep in his mind told him never to let his guard down whenever Sheperdspurse was around.

There was an unusual couple that stood out like sore thumbs amongst the crowd of distinctive Breelanders; two exotic looking men. Both were clad in green traveler’s attire, exceptionally tall and from the looks of their dreadful arms, very dangerous. They were called the rangers and were thought of as dangerous gangsters or sorts until the day one of their kind became the king. Strider they called him, and since then the simple folks of Bree looked upon these strange formidable men with new eyes. It has been a while since Loudewater saw these dark haired men whom were rumored to have come over the sea from some enchanted isle and now there were two of them sitting together at a table. Loudewater could have sworn that he had seen the older man before sometime during the lost years of his childhood. But the man looked of the same age as him and was perhaps a few years younger. It was highly unlikely that he and that familiar face from the woods were one and same.

Unless he was of great longevity and no one lived that long. No one.

The oaken doors of the prancing pony creaked opened and six newcomers ventured in. The buzz of merriment and song died abruptly as all eyes turned upon them. Loudewater saw that Sheperdspure took a quick glance before slinking further into the corner of his dark booth as if attempting to avoid detection by the unfamiliar faces. The five newcomers were led by a man of the same built and features as the two rangers, but he was better groomed and cloaked in grey. There was another man just two steps behind him, slightly shorter, heavier built and crop of rich golden hair. This one Loudewater reckoned to be one of them horse-tamers from beyond the east mountains. His remaining four companions; two women and two men were strangely captivating and charismatic. They had such sharply defined, delicate features and bright piercing eyes that it was almost impossible not to be entranced by them. Just then one of the females, the shorter one pushed back a few strands of stray black hair behind her left ear and Loudewater saw that it was pointed. The four of them all had pointy ears.

Now this is interesting… mused Loudewater to himself as he continued to stare.

[Meneltarmacil]

Thoronmir studied the man in the corner, wondering what he was up to. He was about to go and question him when the door opened and six figures stepped in. Four elves and two men, one Rohirric-looking, the other Numenorean and about Thoronmir's age. The man clad in gray said something to one of the elves, then walked over to the table where Thoronmir was sitting. Thoronmir indicated a chair for his use as he approached. "Veryadan," the man said, nodding to each of them. "My companions and I were hoping you might join us for our meal. It’s been a long road from Minas Tirith to Bree. We would enjoy your company. And any tidings of this area you might have to share with us would be greatly appreciated. What say you? Shall we pull up extra chairs for you at our table?"

"Certainly," Thoronmir said. "I'm Thoronmir, leader of the Dunedain in this area. This is my second-in-command, Menecar. I believe I've met you before, Veryadan," he said as he headed to Veryadan's table and sat down. "You and I fought together at the Pelennor Fields."

"Yes, I remember seeing you there," Veryadan said. "You almost got trampled by that mumak that I had warned you about five seconds ago."

"Well, I was a little too worried about that giant troll that was trying to smash me with his club to hear you," Thoronmir said. "But more importantly, I must ask you not to speak very loud." Thoronmir's voice had become a whisper. "We spotted a man who's been very interested in us..." He gestured toward a dark corner of the Inn, where Fen Shepherdspurse had concealed himself.

[Kransha]

O, toil and work are now all done.
Down, down; there goes that yellow sun.
High-ho, there’s no more race to run
Until the new dawn comes.

The wind blows still, but all is well.
Din-din; so says the farmer’s bell.
And peace is in the field and the dell
Until the next day comes.

The Wargs all sleep, they ate their fill.
The clouds are quiet, the trees are still.
There’s hearth and home on the old bald hill
Until tomorrow comes.

The song was an old favorite, sentimental in some ways. Orcish voices (especially when singing) really didn’t have the same melodic quality as mannish voices, but orc’s didn’t care about that. A good orcish chorus was hard to find, especially in the north. Truthfully, Gundabad orcs sung much better than Mordor worms or the rats from Sharkû’s tower in the south. Bâzzog knew this very well. He’d never been one of the orcs who fell into line with the other marchers, singing those songs, but he’d heard them. In Gundabad, you could hear everything, even if you didn’t want to. It was of those unavoidable, annoying facts that sounded like a proverb or a figure of speech, but really wasn’t. Maybe that was why Bâzzog had left. Honestly, the real reason for his sudden, but supported departure from Mount Gundabad was lost to him. Maybe he didn’t remember it, on account of his lousy memory, or maybe it had been too trivial to waste valuable mental space remembering. He had enough of a hard time remembering names.

Thinking on that subject, Bâzzog looked around, crossing his arms before him, his gaze scanning the camp. A great, smoking fire, black plumes swirling above the crackling tongues of flame, sat in the middle of the darkening camp and orcs sat and stood all about it, eating their fill of leftovers from the company’s last hunt. There were not that many orcs in reality, but enough to make the group look formidable to others. On a number of sharpened sticks plugged into the ground around the camp were, impaled, a number of rabbits, foxes, rats, and other small, furry creatures, which were, one by one, plucked from their roosts to be devoured. The camp was celebrating its victory, though nothing had truly been one. The grand scheme was working and life was good, which was as fine a reason as any to celebrate…for orcs. Bâzzog, the chieftain, did not celebrate, though. He was not a very celebratory individual. He could be jocund when necessary, but he wasn’t in the mood. He usually had to kill something to be in the mood. Right now, he was content to overview his troops and his lieutenants, eyes traveling slowly from right to left.

The first thing he saw, looking to his right, was a monumental orc called Búbkûr. Búbkûr was Bâzzog’s second-in-command (making him third in the line of military succession, a system whose intricacies eluded him) and one of the orc chieftain’s most trusted brethren, though they were not friends…not legitimate friends, at least. He was large, brawny, and swarthy, but still somewhat shorter than Bâzzog himself, which suited the latter just fine, as he did not like orcs who were taller than him. His right arm terminated in a stump where his hand once was. He had lost that appendage in an unfortunate incident involving a late-night gambling session (the other fellow lost more than a hand, as Bâzzog remembered). For the sake of intimidation, Búbkûr had jammed a large, bent hook, twisted incorrectly at several points so that it was really not much of a hook anymore, into the stump on his arm soon after his accident and the residual healing of the wound held the weapon in its place, with the assistance of some ‘appropriated’ nails, bolts, and metal coils. Búbkûr was strong, mightily so, but barely as intelligent as his commander, thankfully. He was, if at all possible, less clever than Bâzzog, and talked more. Some might say he talked too much for his own good, but he defended his own good with really big arms and that hook. To his credit, he was a compulsive gambler and a drunkard.

Rapidly (as Bâzzog did not relish the sight of Búbkûr), the orc chieftain’s gaze turned away to look upon another being. To Bâzzog’s left, sitting upon a mound of solid dirt, was an orc called Gráthgrob, his two hands extended with a mess of sparkling, glittering, coins cradled in them, slipping through the gaps between his skinny fingers. Gráthgrob was, as far as he and his commander were concerned, was Bâzzog’s lieutenant in terms of negotiation and acted as a supply of necessary information. He knew more about the geography and locals of the area than most other orcs, and his input to Bâzzog’s crude stratagems was invaluable at least. He was smaller and less formidable, with a nature and gait that predisposed him to sidling about conspiratorially, like a snake in the grass, but he was not clever, just smart. His features were generic for an uruk, though his arms and legs were more flabby than muscular. No orc cared about his weakness and lack of stamina, since his intelligence garnered him plenty of respect, but not as much as Bâzzog.

At last, after straying over countless nameless orcs, Bâzzog’s eyes fell upon the last orc, Kransha, who stood far off, his shadow and form silhouetted against the night sky’s dark grey-blue as he stood perched atop a cresting hill, looking away into the distance as he often did. It was his job, anyway. Kransha, the eyes and ears on the orc company, was always alert, always wary and circumspect. Even now, in this festive hour, he clutched a hide-bound short bow in his hand with a narrow bolt grasped between his left hand’s index and middle finger. His small head kept spinning on his neck, searching for any sign of life on the plains of Eriador. Kransha didn’t talk much, and some suspected he was a mute orc, a great rarity, but this opinion was dissuaded by the fact that the occupation of scout usually requires the ability to speak. Most orcs had never heard his voice, but they didn’t need to. Though Bâzzog was strong and Gráthgrob was smart, Kransha possessed the greatest battle prowess. He was quick like the wind and could fire his arrows like lightning bolts that could not miss their targets. If Kransha had not been so soft-spoken and meek, he could have taken over the company a long time ago. The fact that he was loyal still to Bâzzog was a testament to Bâzzog’s command abilities, and with the marvel marksman at his side, Bâzzog was unchallengeable. Even the fact that Kransha spoke little added to the aura of eerie splendor…and equally eerie silence, around him.

Unfortunately, that fitful silence was severed immediately.

“Are you done yet?” growled Búbkûr, who sat beside Bâzzog, as he contemplated a large piece of ox meat still fixed stubbornly to a broad bone. As he spoke, he took a grandiose bite out of the victual, allowing a mess of meat chunks, grease, and spittle to fall from his gaping jaws. This action slurred the last two words vilely together, mangling the syllables beyond recognition. Unfortunately, a number of disgruntled, drunken uruks still understood him. With orcs, one often understood what another orc was saying, even if it was inaudible and incomprehensible. One orc, with a dull, witless expression plastered on his drawn face, spun to glower at Búbkûr with a pair of luminous blobs the size of horse hooves, which had taken the place of his eyes, his features twisting grotesquely. “’Ey,” he grunted simply, “shut yer stinkin’ mouth.”

Búbkûr shot a sour glance back, but otherwise, did not look up from his handheld meal. He did, though, develop the verbal ability to reply with witty, elegant, sardonic style. “You shut yer stinkin’ mouth, pushdug!” He snarled, through a second enveloped mouthful, and continued to engorge himself. “Is ‘dat a challenge, bagronk?” snorted the second, anonymous uruk, taking several imposing steps forward. He was obviously a bad logician, or else he would’ve realized that the chances of him being able to deck Búbkûr were slim to none. Luckily for the wretched orc, Bazzog, meandering forward, intervened with a raw scowl. “Maybe both of ya should shut yer stinkin’ mouths, yeah? Now that ye’re all done with yer bloody singin’,” he shot a displeased look at the rowdy revelers, “we can get back to bus’ness.”

“What business?” queried Búbkûr dumbly, his face the very picture of obtuseness. His mouth lolled open, as if he were searching for more to say but could find nothing and had settled for wordless movements of the tongue. Bâzzog fixed him with a damnable expression. “You know roight well what bus’ness.” He spat, slurring half the words together, “The trolls, sha!”

“Ah, the trolls.” Said Bubkur back, feigning understanding.

For good reason, Bâzzog hated it when Búbkûr pretended to be smart. Any one-eared dimwitted, ape knew that Búbkûr had the intelligence of an under-educated rock, so it was senseless and silly for the orc to deny it. Perhaps, if he kept his mouth shut, he’d surely be thought less of an idiot than he’d publicly proclaimed himself to be. Brushing this fact and irritance aside, Bâzzog spoke to the orcs, his voice swelling to one of command and superiority. “Alroight, lads,” he said, “gather ‘round, gather ‘round. Gráthgrob ‘ere ‘as us a plan, that he does. Go on, Grob, show ‘em the map.” On command, the orcs began to congregate in a huddle around Gráthgrob, who knelt on the grassy ground. Most uruks settled into comfortable seats on the earth, looking toward Gráthgrob as he dug around in his multilayered outfit for something. Bâzzog and Búbkûr both took places just behind Gráthgrob, on either side of him, while Kransha, stowing away his bow and arrow, took a seat at the head of the orc audience, bemused and seemingly uninterested. With few exceptions, all eyes were fixed on Gráthgrob.

Gráthgrob, looking very intelligent to the other orcs, produced a grease-slathered scroll of parchment and unrolled it expertly, revealing a large, monochromatic map, simply designed, of a small area. On the top right hand corner, in nearly illegible chicken scratch was scrawled the word ‘Bree-land’ and under that, in a smaller handwriting, the words ‘Whittleworth Farm.’ Gráthgrob, his eyes coldly illuminated and reflecting the vague light of dusk, jabbed his pudgy forefinger at the map, aiming it at a series of overlapping rectangles which represented a building in the map’s center. “This here is the farm of one Rob Whittleworth,” he began most astutely, “a Bree-land farmer with a modest fortune…but not too modest.” There was an immodest snicker from the huddled group, and Gráthgrob smiled in a self-congratulating fashion before he continued. “He’s got a load of gold in his house collected after his last shipment of crops was exported to Combe and Staddle. My sources tell me that he keeps the gold unguarded, since he lives in a remote area, so it should be easy to get it, ‘specially for trolls. The man’s got plenty of cattle and sheep all fenced up in pens on the farmland. The trolls can have their fill of ‘em. They think they’ll get half, but tonight, we seal the deal by tellin’ them they can have the whole flock. They won’t question our motives after that, not that they have yet.”

One anonymous orc interjected, objecting. “’Ey, can’t we have a few o’ the sheep?” Bâzzog silenced the wretched goblin with a fearsome look, one eye opening wider than the other to glare murderously down. With a meager little whimper, the orc shut his mouth tight, but Bâzzog still saw fit to explain his reasoning, thinking himself very wise in his tactics. “No,” he said, gesturing philosophically with his gauntleted hands, “we let the trolls ‘ave the flock.” He pointed coolly at the orc who’d posed the question. “You can get all the bloody food ye want with yer share of the gold.” With this, he turned back to Gráthgrob and hunched over, peering over the other orc’s lumpy shoulder and at the map. “Now then, back to the plan.” Gráthgrob nodded and went on. “Well, Mister Whittleworth don’t have much in the way of material possessions, maybe some personal items, but nothin’ we need. There ain’t any other folk in the area, ‘cept Whittleworth’s li’l wife and daughter.” At this, there was an unsettling surge of chatter and gossiping whispers among the orcs, and a second interrupting goblin raised his hand, like a schoolboy in a classroom, and began to wave the limb about madly as he spoke. “Oh,” he cried in a raspy, eager voice, “tell the trolls ta bring the wife!”

Again, Bâzzog’s sinister mono-ocular gaze fell on the orc who spoken out of turn, his other eye shriveling into a beady dot. The orc’s excited expression shrunk, and his puffed out chest deflated dejectedly. “No!” growled Bâzzog, irritated by the constant surfeit of interruptions. Them trolls’d probly crush the lass before they got ‘er outta the house. Anyways, t’was ‘ard enough to get the trolls ta understand how to get the gold. Tellin’ ‘em ta bring us the farmer’s wife’d just confuse ‘em. An’ we don’t want to get the trolls confused, now does we?” There was another unanimous snicker from Bâzzog’s captive audience. The dullness of the trolls had become a running gag among the orcs. Some had even been using the word olog as a synonym for ‘dimwit’ and the slang caught on fast. Ever since the trolls first accepted the orcs’ one-sided offers, orcish opinion of troll intelligence had plummeted. Whenever the trolls were brought up, laughter was sure to be close behind. Unfortunately, the merry mood was cracked and shattered by a last ill-aimed question.

“So, who’s gonna tell Ugwakh all this?” Búbkûr inquired, moving up beside Bâzzog, stooped over with a hand on Gráthgrob’s back. “Ol’ ash-bûbhosh’ll wanna know the plan.” Bâzzog rolled his eyes (actually, he managed to roll only one eye, while keeping the other affixed on Búbkûr, who still bore a look of unadulterated stupidity), and shot a reply back filled with false, but familiar, orcish pleasantry. “Yer gonna tell ‘em, Búbkûr, that ye are.” He said sweetly, eliciting a chuckle from Gráthgrob, and a distinct gulp from Búbkûr, who knew that when Bâzzog was pleasant it was a sure sign of trouble. “Use yer bloody fancy talk and tell ‘im that he’ll get half the gold.” The orc chieftain concluded, with a wry grin. Búbkûr’s right tuft of eyebrow rose inquisitively.

“We’re gonna give ‘im half?”

“No, glob,” snarled Bazzog in response, “we’re givin’ ‘im a fourth of it. What d’ya think I am, stupid?”

The stare given reduced Búbkûr’s interrogative nature. He shrunk back, much to the satisfaction of his rivals in the horde and nodded obediently. “No, sir.” He murmured, “I’ll tell ‘im he’s gettin’ a fourth.”

A second later, Bâzzog’s armor-covered hand shot out and a fist clenched around Búbkûr’s throat, hauling him to within an inch of the snorting chieftain’s face. Gráthgrob below, eyes wide, threw himself defensively backward, out of the way, as the rest of the surrounding orcs leaned forward curiously. “Don’t TELL ‘im that, ye bloody fool,” Bâzzog roared, hot breath and saliva covering Búbkûr’s large, quivering nose, “tell ‘im he’s getting half, got it?” Búbkûr nodded frantically as Bâzzog pushed him away harshly. “Y-Yes, sir, yes I do, sir.” He stammered miserably, stepping back. Bâzzog approached again, looking enraged. “Than get off yer high horse and TELL ‘IM!” He bellowed; his bass voice rumbling and echoing throughout the camp. In an instant, Búbkûr had spun on his heel and was scurrying away, with a few illicit giggles following him, but no laughter or speech. When Bâzzog put his foot down, what he said was final. No one would speak until he had broken the unsettling silence, on pain of death (or painful dismemberment). Luckily, he did so.

“C’mon, lads.” He said, a smile returning to him as he turned to Kransha and Gráthgrob, “We’ve got a date with the ologs.”

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain and his companions waited patiently as Veradan talked to the two people who looked like Rangers.Aidwain obsevered that one man from the common room was particularly in terested in their company.And he meant to ask one of the rangers whether he was slinkard sort of a person.But then Veryadan arrived with the two rangers and becokoned them to sit with them.They had a very pleasent and fulfilling dinner of meat and mutton and some green stuff that tasted like chicken which Aidwain did'nt like it at all.

Butterbeer had given them a private room so they could talk in private as they certainly wished to do.

A few minutes found the eight of them in a small room with a fire. There were a few chairs, but not enough, so Butterbur brought in a few more stools. “And if there’s anything more you need, just ring the bell on the table there, and I’ll come runnin’. Always a pleasure, anytime . . .”

Menecar shut the door on the burbling landlord and turned around with a grin. “Just like his father,” he said, shaking his head.

“I will close these,” Silrûth said, crossing to the window. Swiftly she swung the shutters to and barred out the night.

Luinien was looking quizzically, almost expectantly at Tarondo. Catching her eye, Tarondo glanced at the door and then back. “Would you be so kind?”

“Of course.” Luinien picked up a stool and set it down by the door. She eased it open, peered swiftly down the hall in both directions, and noiselessly re-closed it. Sitting on the stool, she leaned her head back against the doorjamb and winked at her brother. Her hand rested gently on the hilt of her dirk.

Nearly everyone else had found a seat, but Osric Falkur still stood in the middle of the floor, his brow furrowed. He glanced speculatively at Tarondo, then turned to Thoronmir. “Who is he? The twisted man hiding in the shadows?”

“Fen Shepherdspurse,” the Ranger replied. “One of the brigands who took cover under the Shadow in this area, and nearly the only one to have survived this long. We try to keep aware of him, but he is very sly and has no love for us.” He spoke quietly, a wry smile on his lips.

“And the other?” Aidwain leaned forward, his eyes glinting in the firelight. “The thin one, who watched us the entire evening?”

“That was only Andas Loudewater, a local farmer,” Menecar spoke up. “I expect he was taking refuge from that sharp-tongued termagant he is married to.” He paused, frowning. “Surely he could have nothing to do with any of this,” he said, a note of protest in his voice.

“That is not the issue, Menecar,” Veryadan interposed. “We have no reason to believe either Shepherdspurse or Loudewater of being involved in anything. At the same time, we are not going to assume they are not involved. Especially when both have showed particular interest in us.”

Tarondo nodded. “This is simply part of being aware.” He stood up and paced slowly across the floor. “The problem is, we don’t know what is going on, much less who is behind it. We are here to discover exactly what is happening and who the enemy is. Only then will we take action, if we can. The King gave us strict orders to keep as safe as possible. He would rather have a report on the trouble than our deaths proving that there is trouble.

“Thoronmir and Menecar, what can you tell us? We need specifics on these attacks, and the more recent the better. Right now, that is the place to start.”

Thoronmir nodded. “We have that. Four weeks ago, there was . . .” he paused. “If you have a map I can show you more clearly.”

“Here.” Veryadan rose and extracted his map case from the pile of their gear. He pulled out a roll of parchment and spread it out on the table where the lamp stood.

“This is marvelous!” Thoronmir said.

Veryadan smiled slightly. “It’s by way of being my vocation. Now, tell us when and where everything happened.”

Then the two rangers described the places where most of the attacks took place,and Veryadan marked each of them with an "X" .Meanwhile Aidwain had been throughly bored of this dissucsion and he wished only for a good night's sleep,but then he was waked from his stupor by Thoronmir ( one of the rangers) "How far into the Trollshaws would you say they have come?",he asked to Aidwain.

" Well we can certainly say that the base of the attacks is not from the Trollshaws,we elves regularly patrol the Trollshaws but except on some occasions where we had to fight some trolls , we found nothing,but we did sense some evil in trees , what it is we do not know?"

At that time Aidwain noticed that one of the Ranger had opened the door and was peering outside,out of sheer suspicion he asked

“Ranger what are you doing?”

“Someone was trying to get in here so I blocked the door.” Answered Menecar

“Could you come over here and tell us where some of the attacks happened?” asked Veryadan

“Sure, I would love to.”,said the Ranger .

Aidwain settled down on his stool and with some thoughts of sleep still lingering in his mind began to listen to Menecar...

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Arrald stalked toward the farm with as much quiet as he could, but as always his lumpen toes found every stone in the fields and kicked them. Each time he made a noise, Broga would “shush” him with growing impatience, but when – finally – Arrald kicked a stone so hard that it hammered off the side of the barn, Broga let out a roar of anger and clubbed Arrald across the face. Arrald reared back with his club and Dim made to punch Grimm, but they were prevented from their battle by the cries of the farm hands. Brought suddenly awake by the angry yells of the trolls, the farmer and his five sons – all of them broad shouldered and thick-limbed – charged out of the large house and made their desperate stand. The farmer was armed with an aged sword, and had hurriedly put on an iron helm that was clearly the remnant of a more glorious past, but his sons were all armed with little more than farm implements.

At first the sight of these men in their nightshirts was a cause for mirth, but when they began yelling insults at Arrald and even throwing rocks at him, he began to get angry. He let out a really good roar and charged the men directly, swinging his club above his head. Dim was right behind him but where those numbskulls Grimm and Broga had got to he did not know. He was almost upon the men when a sting in his head brought him up short. He put his hand to his brow and found an arrow protruding from his skin. Looking up he just had time to catch the next needle-sharp arrow that flew toward him from the bow of the farmer’s wife.

Now truly angry, Arrald rushed forward and swung his club at the farmer and his sons. They all evaded his attack, but the impact of his club in the earth knocked them all from their feet and sent the wife shrieking into the recesses of the house. Whirling about in anger, Arrald noticed for the first time that Broga and Grimm were engaged in battle with another six or seven men who had appeared from the farmhands’ quarters. That’s their problem he decided. Me, I’m going to take care of these farmers then look for the plunder.

He turned back to the farmer and his family and found only empty air. He looked about dully with Dim, but saw nothing. They were just about to give up when a sudden hail of arrows began falling about them. Looking toward the trees that lay near the house they saw the farmer, his five sons, and his wife all armed with bows and all peppering them. Now Arrald was truly angry. Hefting his club he gave the farmer’s house a terrible knock that brought down the front half of the structure. Seizing a large chunk of debris, he hurled it at the meddlesome family where it fell with a satisfying crunch in which at least two of the farmer’s sons disappeared in a twisted maze of wood. He and Dim then gave it their best roars and charged the remaining family members, but they broke and ran.

Their initial impulse was to continue the pursuit, but the orders of the orc chief had been so insistently drilled into them, that they stopped to see if they could remember what they were. “It ‘ad something to do with the sheep,” Dim ventured.

“No no,” Arrald corrected him, feeling sympathy for his brother’s slow wit. “‘E said we could have the sheep for ourselves, but only if we brought back the gold.”

Dim nodded, then a light went on in his eye. It was not a pleasant light. “Gold?” he said, as though hearing of the substance for the first time. “I like gold! All shiny and slippery it feel in my hands. It’s nice to have something twinkly to look at when one’s eating.”

Arrald came up short at that. “Why that’s quite true, Dim. It is.” An idea struck him. “Look here now, Dim, something’s just occurred to me. The orcs, see, they’re not here, right? Well how are they to know how much gold is in that sack?”

“I don’t know,” replied Dim, his head on one side.

“That’s just the thing, see. They won’t know. So what say you and me take a bit of it for ourselves before we ‘and it over?”

Dim’s eyes lit up again with an even less pleasant light. “Oh, I like that, that’s good.” Smiling he started toward the farm house, but he paused and with a very serious look upon his countenance he inquired, “But what about the sheep, Arrald? We won’t give them up will we?”

“Of course not, don’t be daft,” Arrald replied, happy that his brother had reminded him of the sheep, which had all but slipped his mind as he contemplated the brilliance of his plan to deceive the orcs. “C’mon,” he said, “let’s see how them other two ‘ave made out.”

[Primrose Bolger]

‘Take care of them other wood-ticks, brother! I’m heading for the house.’

Grimm gave a final blow to the three farmhands who’d been foolish enough to face him. Their clubs had bounced off his scaly hide, much to their slack-jawed surprise; his axe, to their further chagrin, had found purchase in two of their soft skulls. The third had provided some brief amusement with a show of bravado – the man had moved in to help his mates, and been brought to his knees by a single blow. Grimm laughed as the man’s bloody stumps hit the dirt.

As he made for the rear of the farm house, he could hear Broga baiting his four distractions . . . followed by the sound of his thick oak club thwacking something in a satisfying way.

The rear door was locked. It offered no resistance to the ham-fisted grip of the Troll, soon parting company with the door frame altogether. A single lamp stood on the kitchen’s table, its light glinting off the polished pots the goodwife had hanging along the wall. Grimm’s eyes lit up with greedy anticipation at the lovely glitter that enticed him. A few moments of rummaging brought the find of an empty cotton flour sack. Its empty interior was soon stuffed with all manner of pots, a smoked ham from the pantry, several loaves of bread, and a number of pots of jam.

From the kitchen, Grimm made his way to the front room. Nothing much of interest there - save for the fire poker with its polished brass knob, which soon found its rattling way to the bottom of the sack. Up the dark stairs he went, then, trying each of the room doors as he came to them. Naught of interest in what appeared to be the children’s rooms, but the last room at the end of the hallway was a treasure trove. Pretty glass bangles hung from the edge of a lamp’s shade. Grimm harvested them, carefully stowing them in his leathern pouch – some lacy doily from a nightstand serving to cushion them from each other. A wooden box on the same nightstand gave in easily to his prying fingers, and the few baubles within (hair combs, a cloak pin, and a necklace with earrings) soon found themselves nestling against the glass bangles from the lamp.

Grimm poked about in the wardrobe of the room; pulled out drawers from the storage cabinet, emptying their contents on the floor; flipped the mattress off the bed, all in hopes of finding the gold. Nothing! In frustration, he kicked the massive wooden chest he’d already gone through, sending it flying against the wall.

Broga, by this time, had finished off his assailants and come in to look for his brother. He found him leaning against a wall in the bedroom, rubbing the toes of one foot. ‘Oh! What’s this?’ his piggish eyes caught the sight of a thick metal ring, set in the floor where the chest had stood. He pulled on it with one hand, the other reaching down into the dark recess beneath it. Not one but three, leather bags were soon brought up. Their ties undone; the glittering treasure within fondled lovingly by the rough hands of the Trolls.

‘Gold!’ came the soft exclamation from Grimm. His eyes narrowed, looking about the room suspiciously as if prying eyes might see their find. With a sweep of his hand he picked up one bag, the largest, and stuffed it into the waist band of his ragged kilt. Broga was about to do the same, but Grimm’s hand stayed him. ‘These two’ll do for those other lugs, brother. Keep the Orcs from wondering who’s been dipping into their gold.’ Broga grumbled at this reasoning and gnashed his teeth in frustration. ‘Just a handful for me own?’ he whined. A wide grin split his face as his brother sighed and nodded ‘yes’. Broga’s massive fist closed about a pile of coins, hiding them in the hollowed leg of one of the wolf skins adorning his body.

Making their way back out to the farmyard, they found Arald and Dim making their way to the house. They’d plundered the smokehouse, and a necklace of sausages hung about Arrald’s neck while Dim’s hands grasped several great hams. ‘Here!’ cried Grimm, waving the two leather bags at the approaching Trolls. ‘We’ve done your work for you!’ He threw the two bags at Dim. ‘Gold . . . for them Orc scum.’ Arrald looked at the lumpy flour sack and snorted. ‘Nowt you need to be seeing in here,’ said Grimm, axe coming quickly into his hand. ‘Some pots and pans we want; and a few little baubles from the bedrooms.’ He narrowed his eyes at the other two Trolls. ‘Take your gold and hams, and sheep, too. We’re heading back. Had enough fun for tonight.’

Broga and Grimm gave the other two a wide berth, heading toward their camp. Their retreat took them past the chicken coop. The poor birds were in a dither from the sounds and the smell of blood on the air. A single swoop of Broga’s fist gathered up a fair number by their scrawny necks. ‘I’m hungry,’ he said, holding up the now limp forms for his brother’s perusal. ‘We can cook ‘em up while we sort through our prizes.’

The two great lumpish forms made their clink-clank way to the edge of the farm proper, disappearing beneath the darkness of the trees that edged it.

[Saurreg]

A faint reddish hue tinted the night sky, but the clouds were smooth on the underside. There were no rumbling of thunder or bouts of lightning flashes within the wispy cotton nimbuses. There would be no storm tonight, not even a heavy downpour. The evening was turning out to be an anti-climax despite the cloud built-up during dusk.

Loudewater bursted through the door of the Prancing Pony and barely came to a stop at the middle of the dirt road. He was breathless with amazement and had to bend down with his arms propped against his kneecaps to catch his breath and allow the blood to flow to his head. Nausea came but he did not feel the urge to heave. As the farmer continued to breathe heavily and stare at the ground, he espied his old dagger dangling by the left side of his leather belt and froze in terror.

It would have been so easy for him to simply reach down, unsheathe the blade and slash Lenny across the neck, had he felt the dagger during his moment of temporal insanity at the bar…

Morbid realization sent shivers down the farmer’s frame and he suddenly felt the urge to make water. The lavatory of the Prancing Pony was behind the establishment, whereas he was standing in front of it. Loudewater felt immensely irritated by his inconvenient location and he was reluctant to walk around the huge complex or worse, reenter the serving hall where he had just committed his self exodus.

Nature’s call persisted and Loudewater’s temper augmented. He was irritated both by the discomfort of his bladder and the shameful state he was in. Face distorting hideously, he emitted a harsh low growl and kicked at the dirt, fashioning a small cloud of dirt and sand in the night air.

The imp of perversion and his sidekick, the pixie of irrationality paid a visit again. Loudewater’s eyes flashed with mad mischief and he bellowed,

“I AM ANDAS LOUDEWATER! A REAL MAN! RULES OF PATHETIC TOWN FROGS DON’T APPLY TO ME! I’LL MAKE WATER WHEN EVER I WANT! WHERE EVER I WANT! ARRRAAGH!”

The farmer then proceeded to untie the drawstrings of his trousers right where he stood, but his fingers were clumsy with adrenaline and complicated the knot even further. The more he struggled, the tighter the knot went. Loudewater was in such a desperate state of exasperation that he found himself clenching his teeth and literally hopping around like a great ape in heat.

The world worked in mysterious ways. Sometimes it drove normal men to the brink of unexplainable insanity and sometimes it was compassionately kind to said men. In this case, it decided to spare Loudewater the blushes and embarrassment of potential memories. An icy night wind blew and its cold touch washed over the maniacal farmer, who immediately became still. He tilted his head thoughtfully, cursed a little under his breath and then toddled into a dark dingy alley (well sheltered from the elements) between the inn and another mason building to relief himself.

After he was done, the farmer found himself unable or rather, unwilling to leave the dark recesses of the deserted pathway. Loudewater’s legs gave way and he fell heavily onto his own filth. He drew his knees together, rolled his shoulders so that he was in a fetal position and wept silently to himself…

[Esgallhugwen]

After Silrûth had closed the shutters she sat back down on the stool, moving it closer to the table. All of them had huddled closer together, watching as "X's" were inked onto a thin parchment paper, the places of stolen livestock and other violent happenings.

The fair golden haired Elf could not help but be bothered by the beady stare of a haggard old man that preceded their meeting, she was often distracted by the noises outside but kept a close ear to what the Ranger's were discussing.

"If kept unchecked, they could threaten the Angle, Rivendell, Annuminas, and our own base of operations in Evendim." Thoronmir added. "Aidwain and Silrûth, I believe you are both from Rivendell," he said to the elves. "How far into the Trollshaws would you say they have come?"

Silrûth looked at him, "too far for my liking", she gazed coldly at the markings on the map showing a widening range of attacks and thefts. She added to her partner by saying, "though the attacks are not based out of the Trollshaws, it is quite obvious on my scouting missions that the Trolls are indeed migrating from that region, something is giving them the confidence to move out from their refuge, while something else is moving in, orcs and such no doubt, the trees have ways of telling me".

She could not hide the hatred in her deep grey eyes, but she remained calm and smiled warmly at the Ranger's, one of whom was peering over the group about to reveal further locations, Silrûth believed his name to be Menecar.

“Could you come over here and tell us where some of the attacks happened?” asked Veryadan

“Sure, I would love to.”

But before he could continue Silrûth interrupted as politely as she could, "pardon my asking, but do any of you have any speculations as to what may be causing these disturbances, some sole force must be behind all of this, Orcs are not very independent and Trolls are far too feebleminded for well thought out attacks".

[Alaksoron]

"The Rohirrim horses are, indeed, the finest horses in the West, and I might say even in the known world." Osric Falkur said with a smile, but then his face grew serious. "Let us return to my question. I know that Tarondo is a swordsman, but I'd sooner think he would learn from me than I him. I am a blademaster, and a blademaster's sword is not something worn lightly." He paused, and drew his sword. "I could teach you to use the sword, if you like."

The blue-silver of the blade flashed in the sudden sunlight, for Osric had polished it only that morning, and it gleamed. It was a magnificent sword, indeed. The pommel was a silver wolfhead, highly detailed, with diamond eyes. The hilt was dark ebony, with a red-enameled serpent entwined over the guard. Taking it by the blade, dull edge on the inside of his palm, he extended it.

As Aidwain reached out to grasp the hilt, Falkur said "That is the proper way to hand a sword. There is your fist lesson for you, just to start." He flashed one of his rare smiles, and Aidwain knew he spoke teasingly.

As Aidwain hefted the sword, he noticed how remarkably light it was, how perfectly balanced. "That's Elven craftmanship," Osric spoke into his thoughts. "I call it Azar. Sindarin for lightning-blade." He said, sounding quite scholarly.

[Nuranar]

Luinien's dark head appeared at the door. "Ah! there you are, Veryadan." The Ranger admitted his presence. "Would you mind joining us in the meeting room? You too," she continued, turning to Aidwain and Osric. "Unless you're too busy, of course," she continued, a dangerous glint in her eye. Aidwain and a silenced Osric followed her and Veryadan into the inn.

Silrûth and the Northern Rangers were already in the room. Tarondo pointed to the map. "The Whittleworth farm is here near Staddle, on the east side of Bree-hill. Fen Shepherdspurse will show Silrûth and I the way there." Silrûth nodded, a small, satisfied smile on her lips. "Veryadan, you and Aidwain and Osric go here" - he pointed to a spot just east of the Midgewater Marshes - "where the shepherd was killed."

"That was a week ago," Osric spoke up. "Will there be anything to see after that long?"

"That's what we are to discover," Veryadan said coolly.

Tarondo continued, "Luinien, Thoronmir, and Menecar, you go on past Amon Sûl - that is Weathertop - to where the merchants were attacked."

"Will we meet up after we finish?" Aidwain asked.

"Yes, at Weathertop. It's three or four days' gourney from here, and we need to allow time for investigation. So we will meet no later than six days from now. If you have not even sent word by then, the rest of us will assume that you have run into trouble." He grinned suddenly. "So please be there if you possibly can. I hope that is clear?"

A few murmurs, then Menecar spoke. "What you have said is very clear. But I want to know for certain exactly what we are to be looking for."

"The King has sent us to find out what is happening," Luinien answered. That means we need to discover who is behind it. And we do that by going to the scene, studying the ground, looking for footprints, and so forth."

"All the while using our heads and thinking and fitting the pieces together," Veryadan said.

"And then we decide what to do about it." Tarondo stood up. "Fen Shepherdspurse is waiting in the common room. I suggest you saddle your horses. We can travel together as far as the road to Staddle."

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain and Osric were chatting about swordsmanship and Luinien's dark head appeared at the door. "Ah! there you are, Veryadan." The Ranger admitted his presence. "Would you mind joining us in the meeting room? You too," she continued, turning to Aidwain and Osric. "Unless you're too busy, of course," she continued, a dangerous glint in her eye. Aidwain and a silenced Osric followed her and Veryadan into the inn.

There Aidwain saw that everybody else were already there ,he went beside Tarondo who was sorting everyone into groups, " Veryadan, you and Aidwain and Osric go here" - he pointed to a spot just east of the Midgewater Marshes -"where the shepherd was killed."

' Ah! Midgewater Marshes of all the places to scout I have to go to the marshes',Aidwain thought. After the discussion they were supposed to meet in the common room. Aidwain went to his room and picked up the water skins he had purchased and some spare clothes threw them into his backpack which also contained some bread.

Picking up his backpack he went down into the common room,here he found Silruth was already ready . "So shall we saddle our horses or are you keeping an eye on him ? ",he asked gesturing towards Fen. "Indeed not ,we should saddle our horses Tarondo will bring him . "

They both went outside and saddled their horses,meanwhile all the company came outside with Fen walking beside Tarondo,they all saddled their own horses,checked their belongings and trotted along the lane . "At least we are off now ",thought Aidwain....

[Esgallhugwen]

Sitting on the window sill as the sky slowly brightened with the coming sun, Silrûth breathed in the fresh cool air before it was warmed by the dawn. She smiled to herself knowing she should savour the moment, chances such as this would come far and few between on the journey they were about to undertake.

Reluctantly snapping out of her reverie, she entered her room through the window and gathered up her belongings. She quickly dressed and headed out the door, down the stairs and out of the Inn.

Her silver white mare, Falma, greeted her warmly, "come, we must fetch some supplies before the day breaks and we are off".

Luckily for the two they weren't too early as the shops were open, even when no one was really about. First to the Smithy to get my sword sharpened, she pulled her sword out examining it with her keen Elvish eyes, yes one side was beginning to wear slightly.

~*~*~*~*~*

After she made her rounds and gathered all the supplies she needed she found herself once more inside the Inn, for her last time. Thoronmir was found walking towards her, "we will be having one last meeting before we depart". The walked side by side then single file as they entered the meeting room.

They seated themselves similarly to last night, around the small oak table. Murmurings began before everyone arrived but it did not take long for the others to be in attendance.

"The Whittleworth farm is here near Staddle, on the east side of Bree-hill. Fen Shepherdspurse will show Silrûth and I the way there." A small smile played on Silrûth's lips satisfied she would help to keep an eye on the shady Fen Sheperdspurse.

Each group had been organized, and each knew their purpose. Silrûth was waiting by the door for her compatriot Aidwain, "So shall we saddle our horses or are you keeping an eye on him ? ",he asked gesturing towards Fen.

She shook her head "Indeed not ,we should saddle our horses, Tarondo will bring him. "

With their saddle bags laiden with supplies they harnessed and saddled their horses along with the others. Fen was brought out by Tarondo a most displeased look was on the old man's face.

Silrûth reigned in her horse next to Aidwain's as the company rode off, Tarondo was in front of them with Fen on a dusty grey pony. The company trotted down the lane and soon left Bree all together.

[Meneltarmacil]

A mumak trampled over Valamir. Targon's head was chopped off by an Easterling chieftan's axe. A troll's war club knocked Halbarad to the ground.

Thoronmir woke from his nightmare of the Pelennor Fields and the deaths of his friends. He got himself together and went downstairs, where some of the others had gathered.

"Good morning," Menecar said. "Sleep okay?"

"Um, yes," Thoronmir made no mention of his dream.

"We'll be having a meeting here in about half an hour," Tarondo said. "Make sure you're here by then."

"I'll be here," the ranger said. He walked up to the bar. "How about some coffee?"

"Sure thing, Thorondor," Butterbur said.

"Ummm..." Thoronmir started to say.

"What?" Butterbur asked, clueless as usual.

"Never mind." Thoronmir got his coffee and didn't say any more. He went outside. The day was quite sunny with only a few small clouds. He walked out to the stable to feed his horse, Awyrgan, who was happy to see him, then bought supplies for the long journey ahead of them. On the way back to the Inn, he ran into Silrûth, who was also on her way to the Inn.

"We will be having one last meeting before we depart," he reminded her. They entered the Inn together.

************************************************** ***************

"So, we're going to check out where this shepherd was killed?" Menecar asked his old friend.

"Yes," Thoronmir said. "Right near Weathertop, and a very ugly sight if travelers' tales are accurate. That's right about where my scouting party disappeared when I sent them to investigate."

"Do you think some of your scouts might still be alive?" asked Luinen.

"I highly doubt it," Thoronmir replied, knowing the ugly truth. "These guys don't seem to like taking prisoners. Anyway, we must be cautious while searching for clues. On the journey, it would be best if we keep up a watch at night. Nobody should ever go off alone. If someone disappears, don't run off after them or you'll likely get killed. Do we have enough supplies for the road?"

[Envinyatar]

The third day of riding brought them in sight of the bridge, Veryadan could smell the muddy flats that lay along the length of this part of the Hoarwell. The rains had been more frequent of late in this area, he guessed, since the smell was not as cloying as in high summer when the water ran narrow in its channel. The companions had pulled up just before the bridge. Tarondo had sent a scout ahead to see if there were signs of the enemy that could be made out. There were Orcs, number unknown, who had followed along behind them as they made their way along the road. But they were always just out of site, and the companions had decided not to hunt them at this point but to flee with all haste to the safety of Rivendell.

Veryadan’s eyes took in the areas to the north and south of the road. Forested areas here to the north, but set off a ways from the road edge – still he wondered how many Orcs were watching as they neared the river. To the south were low, rolling hills, less apt to provide places for the enemy to hide, though yet . . .

His right hand reached to where the bandage was secured. What herbs they had used seemed to be doing some good. There had been very little bleeding this last day, though there was some increase if he twisted his torso too much. To fully heal, he knew would require the remedies available from the healers at the Last Homely House. He flexed his left hand and carefully raised the arm up and down. Full feeling had not come back until yesterday, late, and the muscles still felt weak, his grip tenuous.

The scout had come back, saying there had been no sign that he could find, save for the fact that the birds seemed unusually silent in the fir forest that stood beyond the bridge. ‘That, yes,’ thought Veryadan, ‘and the heavy feeling I have as if the darkness beneath the vows is waiting.’ The ranger urged his horse up to where Luinien was stopped. ‘Bind me a little tighter, if you will,’ he said to her, handing a length of clothe one of his caregivers had placed in his pack. Once done, he pulled his boiled leather jerkin back into place and checked the lacings on his vambraces. Loosening the strap that secured his blade, he nodded to Tarondo. ‘Take the lead. Let’s make our way across the bridge, then.’ Osric and Aidwain brought up the rear, weapons ready.

The clip-clop of the horses’ hooves over the stone bridge sounded loud against the waiting silence of the trees. The companions followed the needle strewn path that led under the thick layers of boughs. The last two had barely passed under when stinging arrows flew at them from behind a few of the trees.

‘The Orcs are upon us!’ Veryadan cried, spurring his horse along. ‘Make for the clearing a little ways on,’ one of the other Rangers shouted. ‘We’ll regroup there to make our stand.’