A tangled skein - adventures in western Middle-earth using the LOTR5e system

OOC: Backing up a bit just for the fun of it ...

As Eryndis steps back into The Prancing Pony after saying good morning to Saddleback and Constance, her eyes fall upon Gwinion — and she stops short. For the first time, his hood is down. He has felt like a brother — now he looks like one. Save for his height, he is as the men of Sûl-gan are. She stares a moment, a quiet reassurance of safety settling in her chest.

Before he can catch her gaze, she lowers her eyes and slips into a seat, beginning her meal.

That evening, once camp is made and the ponies are left to graze, Eryndis looks over the others with a leech’s eye.

Her gaze settles on Orin.

She steps toward him and lowers into a squat at his side. “Your leg,” she says, motioning gently toward it. “You have hurt. Let me see.”

Hildebrand listens to Eryndis with quiet attention as she recounts what she has learned of the ponies. He gives no interruption, only the occasional small nod, letting her speak her piece fully. There is a faint hint of familiarity in his expression. This is not wholly new to him, but he keeps it to himself, allowing her the space to teach.

When she finishes with her firm instruction. “You will lead Constance. You will need an apple.” He inclines his head once more, accepting it as though it were a formal charge. “Then an apple she shall have.” There is no argument, no correction, only agreement.

When it is time for the company to retire for the night, he offers a polite smile to the gathered company. “Good evening, then. Best we take our rest while comfort still favors us.” With that, he withdraws for the night.

The next morning finds Hildebrand in good spirits and better appetite. At breakfast, he makes a point to catch Barnaby’s eye before leaving. “My thanks to you, and your staff.” he says warmly. “You’ve set us on the road in finer fashion than we deserve.”

Before departure, he makes his way to the stables. It takes him little time to pick out the ponies. “Ah… you must be Saddleback.” He says, eyeing the distinctive markings with a small nod of approval. But it is Constance he approaches with more care. “And you,” he adds more softly, stepping closer, “are my traveling companion, it seems.” He offers his hand slowly, letting her take his measure before giving her neck a gentle pat. “We shall endeavor to get along, you and I.” Afterward, he makes a quick detour through the market, returning with a small bundle—apples, certainly, and a few other treats he deems suitable.

On the road, Hildebrand falls into step as best he can, leading Constance with steady attention. It does not escape him that the others move with practiced ease: Gwinion at the fore, Aethelbrim watchful, Orin grounded and enduring. He adjusts, and learns by watching. Keeps pace. Midmorning, a thought crosses his mind. Second breakfast… He glances about, measuring the mood of the company. Thinks better of it. Says nothing.

The weather does little to trouble him. When the fine rain comes, he neither hurries nor complains. Barefoot as ever, he walks through puddles without hesitation, the damp earth and cool water taken as simply another part of the road.

At camp, he proves of limited use in preparation—but not absent. He lends a hand where he can, clears space, fetches what is asked. And when the meal is set, he does what he does best. He eats well, and appreciatively. Later, as the fire settles and the evening grows quiet, he draws out his flute. The tune he plays is soft and measured—something light, almost wandering, suited to open skies and uncertain roads. It does not demand attention, but it finds it all the same.

When Gwinion speaks, Hildebrand lowers the flute and listens. Truly listens. Bandits. Worse things beyond the Greenway. The words settle heavily—but not unwelcome. For once, he does not reach for wit or charm. He simply nods, thoughtful, eyes lingering on the dim firelight. The road, it seems, has begun in earnest.

Exhausted as he was, Orin knew better than to immediately pop a squat once the camp site had been chosen, least it would be morning before he found the resolve to do anything more that evening other than sit. So, if but for a few minutes more at least, he'd briefly joined the effort of setting up camp, before ultimately leaving the more important and time consuming task to... whoever was to take point in the matter. Truth be told, he could hardly remember in the moment, and cared little to expend the energy in the effort.

And soon, such concerns drifted far from mind as Hildebrand played his song, further setting the dwarf's mind at ease. He hadn't even notice that he'd begun to doze at some point. But Gwinion's warning, nevertheless, cut through the fog, and prompted the dwarf to sit up straighter and briefly reconsider using his backpack as a backrest. He's unable to dwell on the thought for long when Eryndis made her move, almost startling the dwarf with her "sudden" appearance.

After a moment or two, he snorts and says, "It ain't exactly pretty sight, ya know. But then, given that look in yer eyes, mayhaps you've seen your fair share of terribleness, eh? Hmph..." He trails off, his smirk falling away as he lets out a sigh. "If'n ya have a mind to lend some salve to soothe me hurts, I'd suggest ya not bother. The thought is appreciated of course, but... well..." Instead of continuing, Orin rolls back a pants leg to reveal the somewhat crude prosthetic of wood and metal and leather binds that was one of his leg just below the knee. "Mining incident. My just deserts for letting a bit of stubbornness and greed and careleness getting the better of me."

Eryndis’ eyes flicker with confusion until Orin begins to roll up his pant leg. At the sight of the prosthetic, she takes a small step back — but after only a heartbeat’s hesitation, she leans forward again, her expression sharpening with a kind of hungry curiosity.

“Reeds and water,” she whispers.

Her attention fixes entirely on the wooden limb at first. Then, remembering herself, she shifts her focus to the living flesh — the reddened skin where wood meets body. She does not hesitate to touch, though her fingers remain gentle as they probe and press.

Medicine: 7

At last, the leech sits back on her balls of her feet, arms crossed over her knees, and meets Orin’s eyes. There is compassion there — and a quiet stubbornness.

“Your hurt is not new to me,” she says. “Your wooden limb is.”

She gestures lightly. “The skin is red. Angry. But not too hot.” A small pause. “I do not think there is foulness.”

She studies him a moment longer, as though reading something deeper there.

“Herbs might help. But you say no.”

She rises with a small shrug.

“You live.”

Hildebrand remains where he is at first, watching the exchange with a thoughtful, measured expression. He does not stare at the prosthetic (at least not directly), but nothing about the moment escapes him either. When Eryndis finishes and rises, and Orin has had his say, Hildebrand shifts his weight and steps a little closer. Not into the center of things, but near enough to be heard without making it a production.

He keeps his tone easy. “Well… if nothing else, it seems you’ve earned the right to decide what’s worth the trouble and what isn’t, Master Orin.” A faint smile, respectful—not teasing. He glances briefly at the ground around their camp, then back to the dwarf.

“That said, there are a few small ways I might make myself useful—purely in the interest of keeping the road from becoming unnecessarily disagreeable.” He lifts a hand slightly, counting them off without ceremony. “For one, when I’m ahead with the pony, I can keep an eye on the ground—nothing dramatic, mind you. Just steering us around the worst of the ruts, loose stones, and muddy dips before they become anyone’s problem.” A small shrug. “No need to announce it. Just… a quieter road where it can be managed.”

He shifts slightly, tone still light. “And at camp—if there are straps, buckles, or gear that tend to sit just out of convenient reach, I can see to them. Adjust things before they start to chafe or pull the wrong way.” His eyes flick once—briefly—to the place where wood meets flesh, then back up, careful not to linger. “Saves you the trouble of wrestling with it after a long march.”

Another small pause. “I’ve also been known to have a decent sense for pacing.” he adds. “If we’ve been pushing a bit hard, I can usually find a reason—perfectly innocent, of course—to suggest a pause that doesn’t sound like one.” A hint of mischief returns there. “Blame it on second breakfasts, if you like.” Finally, he settles his hands at his sides. “Nothing that calls attention. Nothing that suggests you need it.” A slight incline of his head. “Just… one traveler making the road a touch kinder for another, where he can.”

Aethelbrim:

Favoring Orin with a quiet smile, Aethelbrim is gratified at the courteous care shown by her new companions.  She says nothing at the moment, knowing this is a burden her friend has dealt with for a long time--likely since before she was even born.  Still, when she prepares his meal, Aethelbrim moves to serve him so he will have no need to get up from his rest.  She cares for the ponies as well, thanking Hildebrand and Eryndis for their excellent care for the pack animals during the day.

Day 4 & 5 and early morning of Day 6 – 2nd & 3rd Day on the Greenway

The night passes uneventfully! The next morning the rain has gone but there is now a greater bite to the early morning air. The party breaks camp and continues to travel along the Greenway. While the early morning felt a bit chilly, by mid-afternoon the weather was quite pleasant. The day passes also passes uneventfully as does the night. By now the party have established a rhythm as follows. Gwinion selects the best place for overnight camp and maintains lookout while the other four set up camp and prepare the evening meal. After dinner, Eryndis maintains the next watch, followed by Hildebrand and then Orin. Aethelbrim has the dawn watch, while the others prepare breakfast and break camp.

The morning of the third day is colder again than the previous day but still well above freezing. The party continues to trudge along the Greenway but the hills of the north downs are getting steadily closer. Gwinion selects a place to camp for the night that is in the lee of a small hill just off the edge of the Greenway. “Tomorrow we will leave the Greenway behind and make our way to the northeast and further into the hills” he says. That night while Hildebrand is on watch he notices that all the other members of the party stir in their sleep as if dreaming; interestingly it seems to happen at simultaneously. He chooses not to wake them as the party has a hard day the next day starting their climb into the North Downs, but he does resolve to raise the matter with them all next morning.

The next morning – Day 6 – Hildebrand says to the party “I noticed that you all seemed a bit restless last night! Did you not sleep well?” At Hildebrand’s questioning Aethelbrim responds “… no not really, I dreamed of a soldier in ancient war gear yelling to a companion ‘Mornil, run and tell the others the enemy is advancing!’'” At Aethelbrim’s response Gwinion says “I too dreamed a similar thing but, in my dream, a second voice yelled ‘but what about you Hadirion?’ to which the soldier answered as he strung his bow and knelt behind some sort of crenelation ‘… don’t worry about me I will try and hold them off!’ ” Both Eryndis and Orin murmur their agreement as if they too had had a very similar dream!

Orin hadn't fully clocked it during their meeting, much to his current chagrin, but seeing the attention and care Eryndis put into examining the injury added much more -- much needed color to an otherwise half finished canvas in the dwarf's mind. "Aye, no foulness." He found himself half-muttering in agreement, no longer watching her work at that point but looking to the woman herself with a new found sense of respect and curiosity.

"Well, I, uhm... I mean, uhh.... It was more in jest that I said what I said, as I doubted any salve could, uhh, return what I lost." He confessed with a slight tinge of red entering his cheek. "But, if our resident leech says a few herbs might aid me yet, well, who am I to deny them?" He went on to more nonchalantly say to Eryndis.

Come what may of her response to that, Orin would either find himself sighing softly in relief or grumbling inwardly at his tongue for being a touch too flippant. Just as Eryndis response would shape whether the dwarf put on a show of combing his beard by hand and listening intently, only to shut the hobbit down at the end with a firmly spoken, "Grand as all that sounds, I think we can and /will/ manage well enough without distracting ourselves like that." Or alternatively, Orin might more genuinely consider Hildebrand's words before still somewhat begrudgingly admitting a spotter at least /might/ be nice, as it was easy for the taller folk to forget the extra some folk have to put in at times to navigate the world. But that would seem as far as the dwarf would comprise!

Only Aethelbrim's more quiet approach to care in bringing food to him appeared to garner no particular scrutiny fromt he dwarf. He simply thanked her in a nod, then carried on as he was for the rest of the evening.

Though the next few days of travel proved largely uneventful, Orin had gradually become accustomed to things; especially with the aid of the others... had he not put his own foot to deeply in his own mouth. When on the sixth day and the dreams hit everyone, an acknowledging nod is but all Orin can muster for a time, as his mind struggled to process it all...

The next morning – Day 6

Gwinion is quiet for a long moment after the others speak, his eyes on the hills ahead rather than the fire. When he turns back to the group his expression is serious but not alarmed. "It was not an ordinary dream." He picks up a stick, turning it in his hands slowly. "The road we have been walking, this Greenway, is what remains of the great north-south road of the old kingdom. It was built when Arnor still stood, when these lands were settled and ordered. That was a long age ago." He pauses. "The Greenway ends, as we leave it tomorrow, near the ruins of Fornost. A city once. The last capital of the North Kingdom before it fell."

He lets that settle.

"The land remembers. That is the only way I know to say it plainly. The North Downs are old beyond reckoning and the grief in them has not fully passed." His jaw tightens slightly. "I cannot say with certainty what stirs now, what has caused the land to remember like it has.  Only a dream shared at the same moment is not a dream, it is a memory of this land I think." he again pauses for a moment. "It is some years since I traveled this far north but I felt nothing like this before and my people have reported nothing like this either."

The dreams still sit somewhere behind his eyes and he has not yet finished turning them over when the camp is cleared and the company is ready.  He pulls his hood up against the morning chill and looks back at them once, a brief measuring glance, then turns his face north and walks.

- Perception: 15. 

Aethelbrim:

“Did anyone recognize the names called out in the dream visions, or the battle they were fighting?” asks Aethelbrim, “Perhaps, the dream memory is related to the strange presence in the dell.”

(Perhaps History or Old Lore?)

That first night on the road, after Orin quietly withdraws his refusal, Eryndis’ face brightens at once, and she gives a firm nod.

“Very well,” she says. “I will make something to soothe it.”

She turns and looks over the camp, then moves to a flat stone and lowers into a squat beside it. From her belt she draws several small bundles and tools, setting to work cutting, crushing, and mixing. The others cannot help but notice that she adds more than a little of her own spit to the mixture.

After near half an hour, the leech returns to the dwarf, holding out a small glass vial filled with something the color of deep evergreen.

“It will help best if you put it between the skin and the wood,” she says.

She tilts the vial, studying it once more. “It should last a week, if you do not use too much.”

She holds it out again. “Try it. Let me know.”

The morning after the shared dream, Eryndis feels a strange unease. Her movements are slower, and she finds her gaze drifting, as though her thoughts will not settle.

When the others begin to speak of their dreams, she understands. What power is this, that would send the same dream to many sleepers? She has heard Thu-Gun speak on dreams before — what they might mean, what they might reveal — but never of such a thing as this.

Gwinion’s words do little to ease her.

“Is this a place of dark power?” she asks, her voice edged with worry. She looks from one to the next, her brown eyes wide. “Are we to be plagued by dreams every moon?”

Day 6 - The edge of the Greenway

As the party is breaking camp Aethelbrim’s eyes keep being drawn to the top of the small hill in whose lee they had camped the previous night. As Gwinion finishes speaking she says “I’ve been looking at the top of the hill and I’m pretty sure the lumps and bumps on its crest are far too regular to be of natural origin. What do you think?”

Gwinion snaps out of his reflection and turns in the direction that Aethelbrim indicates.  "What do you see?"  My mind has been too occupied with the riddles of this land and the dreams." 

Aethelbrim:

[edited]

”The pattern embedded in the hill reminds me of something…” says Aethelbrim, looking at the lumps in turn.  She climbs the hill, trying to get a different perspective and suddenly it clicks—the mounds are laid out in a regular circular patter of a watchtower!

”May I see the map?” asks Aethelbrim excitedly.

Looking at Hidebrand’s map, she compares the location of a ruined watchtower to the drawing and the locations marked of the stone-ringed dell and the Hill man village of Crann, saying, “If I read this right, We are at the site of this ruined watchtower, which means the dell we seek should be roughly sixty miles to the northeast of here.”

“Tell me, Gwinion, are the Hill Men hostile or territorial, or perhaps could we trade with them if they are approachable?” she asks, reminded of the presence of Hill Men in the area by the map.

Hildebrand falls naturally into the rhythm of the road over the next days. He keeps Constance to the firmer ground where he can—subtle shifts here and there, guiding her away from loose stones and muddy ruts without slowing the company. It is not something he announces, nor draws attention to. Just a quiet habit, forming. At camp, he makes a point—without fuss—of settling not too far from Orin. Never hovering, never presuming. But present. If something needs reaching, adjusting, or shifting, he is there quickly enough to lend a hand—if asked.

When Aethelbrim thanks him, he gives a small, almost bashful smile and a light incline of his head. “You are very kind to say so, my lady… though I suspect the credit belongs properly to you.” He glances briefly toward Constance. “She is your pony, after all. I’m merely… keeping her company along the way.”

The matter of the dreams unsettles him more than he lets on. As the others speak, Hildebrand listens, his usual easy expression replaced with something quieter—more thoughtful. He does not interrupt, nor attempt to explain it away. “I cannot say I’ve any learning in such matters.” he admits at last, lightly rubbing the back of his neck. “But I’ve heard enough stories to know that when 'everyone' dreams the same dream…” A small pause. “…it’s rarely just a dream.” He lets that sit, offering no grand conclusion—only a shared unease.

When he notices Eryndis slowing, his attention shifts at once. He falls back half a step to walk nearer her, keeping his voice low so it does not carry. “Are you well?” he asks quietly. “You seem… a touch distant this morning.” There is no alarm in his tone—only concern, gently offered.

As Gwinion and Aethelbrim turn their attention to the hill, Hildebrand’s posture changes almost imperceptibly. His hand tightens slightly on Constance’s reins. His eyes lift, scanning the crest, the strange regular shapes, the way the land seems to hold its breath. Not a natural hill… He says nothing, but shifts his footing just enough to keep both the party and the slope in view.

When Aethelbrim calls for the map, he is quick to produce it again, unfolding it carefully. He watches as she compares markings, his brows knitting slightly as the pieces come together. “Sixty miles…” he murmurs. His gaze drifts from the map to the hills beyond. “Well,” he adds quietly, “it would seem our road is becoming rather more… deliberate than I first imagined.” At her question about the Hill Men, Hildebrand glances briefly toward Gwinion, clearly deferring to the Ranger’s knowledge—but not before adding, softly: “If they are anything like most folk we’ve yet met… I imagine much will depend on how we approach them.” A faint, cautious smile. “Though I suspect it would be wise not to assume too much either way.”

Aethelbrim:

”The view up here is phenomenal,” says Aethelbrim breathlessly, “I feel like I could pen a map just standing up here and writing!”

”You guys should come up here and see the view!” She calls down.

Wary of disturbing any wildlife that might be hiding up here from her approach, Aethelbrim pulls out her shield as she approaches the glinting metal…could this be the location of a recent battle?  Surely the ancient battles would have been so long ago the metal items would have rusted to dust, not just be damaged by the oxidation.

Gwinion strokes his chin thoughtfully. "The Hill Men? I've never dealt with them directly, but I've kept my ears open. They live in small palisaded camps and follow the Losrandir herds. That's the heart of their life. They're organised into tribes, each led by a chief they call a Tiark, with a wisewoman called a Wegec at his side. Short and stocky folk, by all accounts, and they have their own tongue, Blarm, which I'm told bears some passing resemblance to Eryndis's native speech, though I wouldn't count on that getting us far." He continues, "As for their temperament they're not looking for trouble with outsiders, but they're not warm either. Wary is the word I'd use." He pauses, glancing northeast. "If we encounter them, I'd say approach carefully and make our intentions plain from the outset. Beyond that, I cannot say how they'd receive us."

The night of the initial treatment, Orin examined Eryndis offered vial with the critical eye of a layman. Which meant a whole lot of holding it up to the light and peering needlessly close to the vial, but ultimately gleaning nothing before simply nodding and setting to work making immediately use of its contents as per her directions. Though the process of doing so visibly pained him at times, as he'd yet to take to the pipe for the evening, he bore and grinned through detaching the leg just enough to treat the stump.

"Mn! My thanks, Ernydis. Might be I can stretch it a bit longer still, if'n should my time on the road afford plenty of chances to make use of my pipe! But, ehh, we'll see, eh?" He said before tenderly adjusting things back into place.

"Oh, I'm sure it is. But 'less our path be needing us cross over it, I think I'm fine down here." Orin called in answer to Aethelbrim with an amused smirk. Yet despite his words, if it seemed further discussion on the next leg would be taking place at the top of the hill, he'd at least force march himself far enough up to be able to seat down in easy listening distance. "Then those watch towers are there's then? Passing strage for folk that sound more like the nomadic type. But I confess it's been a time since I've had any personal dealings with the type. Though even then, most of that handful I've maybe met were those that broken away from such traditions anyhow, I suppose."

Gwinion's expression shifts, the practical discussion of Hill Men giving way to something older and heavier. He gazes toward the ruined outline on the hilltop, his voice quieter now. "The watchtowers? No. They are the last remnant of Arthedain — a kingdom of Men, ancient and proud, whose capital stood at Fornost." He pauses. "Men call it Deadmen's Dike now."

A silence settles over him, and for a moment he seems very far away, as though the weight of years long past has laid its hand upon his shoulder.  Gwinion's gaze drifts northward, and something unreadable crosses his face. "We draw closer to the ruins of Fornost each day." he says quietly, almost to himself.