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

When the party ventures into the Hildebrand will stay in the back.

Perception: 16 (Game Log)

Orin:

Unfortunately, Orin could scarcely maintain his focus on any one thing even after the group made it to the other side of the dell. Though he'd later claim his alertness at the time having naught to do with fear, his jumpiness from Gwinion briefly breaking the silence to talk about some path bespoke another story! He quickly gets his wits back about him... well, most of it, before letting off a huff and asking just above a whisper, "Well? Down the path we go then?"

Perception: 7 (originally 9 before exhaustion kicked in)

@LM: I made an assumption about the animals that Scott's post made me realize was perhaps an incorrect assumption. Can we do a quick backtrack to when everyone was down under the hill: What would I roll to identify how the animals died?

Gwinion crouches at the head of the path, scanning the ground with a ranger's eye. He sees nothing of concern and is about to rise and wave the party forward when something stops him — some quiet instinct, the kind that had kept him alive in wild places. He drops back down and looks again, properly this time.

There it is. Staring up at him from the earth as plain as day.

The unmistakable print of an orc's boot.

He stares at it for a moment, jaw tight, then shakes his head slowly — more at himself than anything else.

"I almost missed it," he mutters, the admission clearly costing him. He straightens and turns to the group, his expression grim. "We are not alone on this path. Orcs have passed this way."

As the party prepares to move down the trail Gwinion stows his bow and draws his sword and shield.

He then warily leads the party down the trail.

Again, backing up a bit to inside the hill:

Unlike some of the others, Eryndis does not shrink from the carcasses. If anything, she moves toward them faster.

The smell is foul, but foulness does not frighten her. Rot, blood, opened flesh — these are things she has studied.

She kneels beside the grisly heap, her thin form folding low as she studies the remains with sharp, careful eyes. Her head tilts this way and that while she examines broken bone, leathery hide, and the lingering scraps of flesh upon the goral. Even the buzzing flies scarcely seem to register to her.

But she does not touch.

After a long moment, she says, “These were offering.” Her voice is low and certain. She points toward the goral’s throat. “Cut to bleed,” she says bluntly. “Not clawed. Not torn.”

Rising slowly to her feet, she looks toward Gwinion. “Someone kill proper. Leave here proper.”

Then her eyes return to the remains. She studies the still-clinging flesh and makes a thoughtful humming sound in her throat. “Not old-old,” she murmurs. “Less than three moons, I think.”

Her gaze drifts across the rest of the chamber — the blackened bones, the shattered remains, the signs of deliberate ruin — and something uneasy creeps back across her expression.

At last she steps away from the offering pile, and her fingers find her braid once more.

And again her eyes begin searching the chamber’s shadows, unable to shake the feeling that something unseen watches them still.

Back atop the hill, once the faint trail reveals itself to their eyes, Eryndis wastes little time. The oppressive feeling hanging over the standing stones has settled deep beneath her skin, and every instinct urges movement. Away. Forward. Anywhere but here.

So when Gwinion starts toward the path, the marsh-woman immediately moves to follow close behind him, clutching her cloak tightly about herself as she walks. But before she can fall into step at the Ranger’s shoulder, Aethelbrim smoothly moves ahead of her.

Eryndis stops short. For a heartbeat she simply stares up at the taller woman, surprised by the interruption. Her joined brow lifts faintly, and her fingers tighten reflexively upon her braid. Then her eyes flick from Aethelbrim to Gwinion ahead. No protest comes.

Among her people, order upon dangerous ground is practical, not prideful. The strongest shield stands nearest danger. The sharpest eyes lead. It is simple.

So after only the briefest pause, Eryndis quietly accepts the change and falls into place behind the knight instead. Third in line.

At Gwinion's mention of orcs, however, the leech sucks in a cold breath. She immediately begins scanning the area for signs of danger as well as places to hide. She is no warrior, and so she will need to find cover if one of the beasts shows itself.