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

Even if Orin had been the type to be easily offended, the journey had killed most of the fight in him. Mostly, but not entirely. So, after a particularly deep breath to muster his strength, Orin forced himself to stand a little more straight back, raised a hand while wearing a face as if he meant to strike, and then... clapped it on Hildebrand's shoulder! That is, if reflex hadn't prompted the hobbit to slip away and avoid the hand altogether, thus causing the dwarf to fall off balance and lose the rest of any dignity left to him.

But if things played out as the dwarf intended, he give the hobbit a pained grin and say, "You're a good one, Master Hildebrand. A right treasure more precious than almost any jewel one might find beneath the earth!" He'd declared before letting out a hearty chuckle. But as the laughter dies down, his expression soon turned more serious. "But, as much as I appreciate the offer, I cannot acquiesce." His tone is firm, and in turning away to carry on to the whatever campsite was chosen, it's clear he considered the conversation over.

The following Day:

Despite seeming to have recovered at least some of his strength, Orin hardly spoke in more than a few syllables. And unless someone made mention of needing someone to stay back and watch the horses, then the dwarf doesn't hesitate to follow Aethelbrim's example in unlatching a few excess supplies to leave with the horses. "Mn. Give here." He said with a bit of a grunt and a hand extended towards Aethel, ready to take up the lantern.

Gwinion woke feeling rested. He broke camp efficiently and led the party back through the trees without a word, his eyes moving constantly across the grey morning landscape. When they emerged from the treeline and he saw the hill rising before them, fog-crowned and near, he paused and turned to the group.

If the treeline is close enough to the hill he suggests they leave the ponies tied just into the trees and out of the sight.  If not he suggests they tie them away from the base of the hill.

Gwinion then stood outside the circle of the stones.  He looked at the standing stones.  Moving closer to the four that are grouped together he brushes some of the moss and dirt away.  He tries to see what the carvings show.

Always wary, he keeps an eye on the fog covered center of the dell where the reek eminates from.

Aethelbrim:

Given the stench already arising from the circle, Aethelbrim opens her cooking spice pouch and pulls out her most pungent minty herbs.  “This may help against the smell if it becomes nauseating,” she says, offering it to her companions should they be interested.

After dosing her upper lip with the minty substance, she hands Orin her lantern, filled with oil and ready to be lit at need.  Then Aethelbrim swallows deeply, draws sword and equips shield, and progresses slowly toward the ring of rocks and the source of that unwholesome smell.

Aethelbrim:

Aethelbrim moves with Gwinion as he goes to investigate the stones.  Sword and shield at the ready, she watches carefully for anyone...or anyTHING...that might endanger them.

Eryndis wakes with an uneasy energy. The night had passed without dream or disturbance, yet as the company breaks camp and makes again for the fog-crowned hill, the young marsh-woman finds herself speaking even less than usual. And her hand clasps her braid tightly.

The stillness atop the hill feels wrong.

As her companions climb, Eryndis keeps close to the ponies, one hand occasionally stroking Saddleback’s neck. The air grows colder with every step, and when at last the stones emerge from the fog, looming like dark watchers, her pace slows.

Her joined brow furrows.

The four stones huddled together remind her vaguely of elders bent close in whispered counsel. But the lone stone standing apart unsettles her more deeply. It feels like a watcher. Or a judge.

Then the smell reaches her.

Eryndis recoils sharply, pulling the neck of her tunic over her nose. “Reeds preserve us,” she mutters.

At Aethelbrim’s suggestion, she readily helps secure the ponies farther from the stones, speaking softly into their ears and rubbing their necks to calm them. Saddleback seems especially displeased by the place, and Eryndis cannot blame him.

When Aethelbrim offers the lantern, Eryndis, once again looking at the stones with apprehension, turns, but Orin is already taking it.

The marsh-woman pauses, then nods once toward the dwarf. Her eyes linger on him a moment longer than usual. He looks stronger than the night before, but not truly well.

As the others begin to move toward the stones, Eryndis hesitates only briefly before following. Curiosity overcomes caution.

When Aethelbrim offers the pungent herbs, Eryndis accepts some readily. She rubs the unknown substance between two fingers first, observing it before smearing the sharp mint beneath her nose as instructed. Then, while Gwinion examines the carvings, she drifts nearer to the clustered stones themselves.

Aethelbrim:

Shivering a bit, Aethelbrim waits for Gwinion to finish examining the stones as she continues to keep guard, saying, “Something unnatural is down here.  We should push forward when you are ready.”

Hildebrand accepts Orin’s refusal with a small bow of his head and no wounded pride. “As you wish, Master Orin.” he says simply. Whatever concern remains in the Hobbit’s eyes, he keeps to himself after that, choosing instead to respect the dwarf’s dignity.

The next morning, Hildebrand rises surprisingly refreshed despite the cold and damp of the wilds. He helps break camp with practiced Hobbit efficiency, checks Constance’s straps twice over, and gives the pony a reassuring pat along the neck before following the others toward the fog-covered hill.

As the standing stones emerge from the mist, Hildebrand slows. The Hobbit’s usual easy cheer fades into quiet reverence. Ancient things always stir something in him — especially old stones and older stories — but the foul smell drifting from the hollow at the center quickly twists his face into open displeasure. “Mercy,” he mutters under his breath, wrinkling his nose. “That is no proper smell at all.”

When Aethelbrim suggests securing the ponies, Hildebrand eagerly turns to the task. He helps lead Constance farther from the stones, speaking softly to her all the while and checking the knots twice once she is tied safely among the trees. He gives Saddleback a reassuring scratch as well, noticing the beast’s unease. Only once the ponies are settled does he return toward the stones.

Seeing Eryndis unsettled, Hildebrand sidles nearer to her side — not crowding, merely making his presence known. “Do not worry.” he says quietly, offering her an encouraging smile beneath the mist and gloom. “There is a Hobbit watching your back.” Though the words are light, there is genuine sincerity behind them.

When Aethelbrim offers the mint-scented herbs, Hildebrand gratefully accepts some at once, rubbing it beneath his nose with visible relief. “Oh, now that is much better.” he says quietly. “Still dreadful, mind you. But better dreadful.”

Then, drawing his cloak a little tighter around himself, the hobbit follows after the others toward the ancient stones and the fog-hidden hollow, his eyes moving nervously between the dark monoliths and the unseen place from which that terrible reek arose.

Gwinion moves slowly around the stones, his eyes tracing the carvings with growing unease. He pauses at the orcish markings, leaning closer, his lips moving silently as he works through the crude script. When he straightens, his expression is troubled.

"These are not merely old carvings," he says quietly to the group. "The orcish markings — they are an invocation." He glances back at the stone, as though reluctant to look at it too long.

"They call upon something named Garaf." He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "The Mighty Queen of the Night. The Fang of the North." He is silent for a moment, his gaze drifting toward the fog-filled hollow at the center of the circle and the dreadful reek rising from it. "Whatever was summoned here," he says at last, his voice low, "I do not think it has gone."

He turns his attention to the where the reek comes from.  He readies his bow.

Despite Hill's reassurance, Eryndis cannot help but worry. The young marsh-woman keeps glancing over her shoulder, searching the grey veil between the stones and the grass beyond. Her eyes dart from shadow to shadow as though expecting something to stare back at her. One hand clutches the front of her new cloak tightly closed across her chest.

The place feels wrong. Not dangerous in the way of wolves or hostile men. Worse. Older.

When Aethelbrim speaks of going beneath the hill, Eryndis immediately moves closer to the knight, relief flickering briefly across her face. Underground means walls. Shelter. Somewhere the unseen watcher cannot circle endlessly around them.

But then Gwinion speaks.

As the Ranger interprets the carvings and gives voice to the ancient doom bound to this place, the little comfort Eryndis had found slips away. Her eyes fix upon the fog-choked hollow at the center of the stones, and for a heartbeat she nearly reaches for Aethelbrim’s arm like a frightened child seeking reassurance.

She stops herself at the last moment. Still, she unconsciously edges nearer to the armored woman.

When Gwinion finally admits he believes something malevolent may yet linger here, Eryndis takes an involuntary step backward. The fingers gripping her cloak tighten hard enough to whiten her knuckles.

“Perhaps we should go,” she says quietly. Her voice sounds very small against the silence of the hill.

She swallows, then adds, eyes never leaving the mist below: “Dead things should stay sleeping.”

Aethelbrim:

Steeling her resolve, Aethelbrim advances alongside Gwinion, saying, “Eryndis, the next person to stumble into the circle may not be as fortunate as Rupert—or even worse, the growing shadow may allow this ‘Garaf’ to range far afield from this circle, preying on the local Hillman or others.”

Thinking about Gwinion’s words, she adds, “Names and titles are important.  We must combat the night with light or fire, so carrying a lantern or torch is well-advised.  We must combat the fang with strong armor and weapons of our own.  Steel your hearts, my friends, and let us lay this unnatural abomination to rest before it can threaten another.”

Despite the shadow trying to clutch at her own heart, Aethelbrim digs deep and finds courage, pacing the Ranger as they advance towards the fell creature.

Hildebrand looks from face to face as the weight of Gwinion’s words settles over the company. Even the Ranger — steady as an old oak through most hardships — seems troubled by what he has read upon the stones. Yet the hobbit feels none of it. If anything, the fog-filled hollow stirs the same feeling that Bilbo’s stories once did when told beside a warm fire in the Shire — danger certainly, but also mystery.

When Eryndis quietly says, “Perhaps we should go.” Hildebrand immediately notices the fear in her voice. He steps gently beside her and lightly places a hand upon her shoulder, careful not to startle her. “Easy now.” he says softly. His tone is warm and steady, like someone trying to calm a frightened pony during a storm. “If there is evil here, then we shall face it together. No shadow has swallowed us yet.” He offers her a small reassuring smile. “And besides,” he adds quietly, glancing toward the hollow, “if something truly dreadful lives down there, perhaps it has never before encountered a Took with more curiosity than sense.”

The attempt at humor is light, but genuine. Then he turns back toward the others. “To tell the truth.” Hildebrand says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I reckon I should feel what the rest of you are feeling. But I do not. Not in the least.” His brow furrows slightly, almost apologetic about it. “Which likely means this Took is either the most foolish among us…” — he gives a tiny shrug — “…or the least sensible.”

He adjusts his cloak, looks once more toward the fog-covered depression, and squares his surprisingly small shoulders. “I think I should take a closer look. Just a little way.” Before anyone can protest too strongly, he raises both hands quickly. “Only a little! I shall not wander off into ancient curses and dreadful queens of the night without the rest of you.” His eyes flick briefly toward Eryndis again. “I promised I would watch backs, after all.”

Then, with cautious but unmistakably Tookish resolve, Hildebrand steps carefully forward into the pale fog, moving slowly enough that the others may still hear the soft squelch of his bare feet upon the damp earth. “I shall be back shortly.” his voice calls quietly through the mist. Hildebrand moves just a couple of feet into the fog.

As Hildebrand speaks the words queen of the night Gwinion's hand goes up sharply, his eyes widening slightly. "Do not speak it aloud," he warns, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. He glances around the circle, suddenly alert, as though expecting something to shift in the fog. "When I just did... the presence — the thing that watches from afar — it grew stronger. As if it heard." He exhales slowly, steadying himself.