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

Gwinion listened without interruption, his stillness complete, save for the faint shift of his eyes as he studied her. When she finished, silence lingered a moment between them.

“At times,” he said at last, his voice low, “the heron begins as the mouse. The heron is born gangly and helpless and grows into its strength." His gaze held hers, steady and measuring, though not unkind. “You walked far to follow a name,” he continued. “That is no small thing. Many would have turned back before the road left their knowing.”

He leaned back slightly, his attention never leaving her.

“If it is her strength you would learn, you will not find it by chasing her shadow alone.” His eyes flicked once, briefly, toward the room and the hunter’s tale, the gathered listeners, then returned to her. “If you would walk further than Bree, you would do well not to walk alone.”

Eryndis's eyes do not leave Gwinion's. Somewhat mesmerized, even when he momentarily takes the room's temperature, she stares transfixed.

She tries to think if she has ever heard of a leech partnering with others on her Going Forth. She remembers Thu-Gun occasionally mentioning that some task or technique she was teaching was something she learned on her own Going Forth, but not whether she had journeyed alone or with others. Would it be cheating to rely on others for protection and assistance? Would it cheapen the experience? Even Ranger Eryndis had run into difficulties and needed the help of others to get back on her feet.

This one ... this Ranger with the broad shoulders had spoken wisdom into her. It made her miss Thu-Gun: her mentor, teacher and friend.

"The heron begins as the mouse," she repeats.

At last, Eryndis allows herself to disconnect from the man. She once again glances at the tabletop and her dexterous fingers before looking up at him with a slight smile. "You speak like Thu-Gun." Her grin widens, and she nods. "Yes, Ranger. We go together. Thank you. When?"

"Not today, perhaps tomorrow." He looks at her for a moment and sees a change, ever so slight.  Strong this one is, he thinks to himself.  She possesses a strength she doesn't know, has not made her own.

"Today we sit and we listen." He continued "I do not often spend time here in Bree.  I was passing through as I head south, but it is good to gather news and the Prancing Pony is the best place to do that."

He looks around the room. This time his eyes linger for a moment on different groups. 

"Strange as News From Bree is what they would say in the Eastfarthing." He said, nearly whispering as if lost in thought.

He refocuses and turns his attention to Eryndis again. "Tell me, who do you see in the room this day, who piques your interest?"

Orin:

As much as the work of readjusting straps and messaging sore muscle appeared to occupy his attention, Aethelbrim could clearly see the beginnings of a smile touch the corner of Orin's lips halfway through her answer. "And here I was starting to worry just flint and courage be the only things that filled the space between ya ears, lass." He chuffed in amusement and shook his head.

"But aye. Well, while I wouldn't say he'd have vetted folk the same way a lord might a soldier prospect, enough folk do flow through here that I trust he'd can at least point out the gems among rolling stones. Perhaps even a potential patron or two, as proper support can be just as important if not more so." He says just as he finished tending to his leg. "I'd say just be patient, but doesn't hurt to take the measure if you can spy some on your own... Just, try not to come as being too wet behind the ears."

Wishing she had brought her plate and carafe with her to the Ranger’s table, Eryndis turns in her chair to survey the room. She attempts subtlety, but has little practice in it.

“That man,” she says over her shoulder, “has drunk too much strong drink. A bit of the weed might clear his head.”

She motions toward a red-haired dwarf. “That one has an ache in his leg.” She frowns slightly. “I would need to read the hurt before I could tend it.”

Her eyes linger on Orin, and then those around him — the blond woman in particular — watching and listening for a moment before turning back to Gwinion.

“Have you any leechcraft?” she asks. “I am on my Going Forth for a season — learning what I can from others, to carry it home. To be a better leech for Sûl-gan.”

She pauses, then adds, “I will tend you while we travel, if you have need. Thu-Gun is my mentor. Did Ranger Eryndis speak of her?”

“Why thankee lad, thankee” Rupert says as he takes a draught from the tankard that Hildebrande has supplied. “Now do ‘ee know anyting of the North Downs, lad?” He asks Hildebrande. “Uh uh” the young hobbit says shaking his head. Rupert sets out platers and tankards as a sort of map in front of him. “Well lad I’ll be a tellin’ ‘ee ‘bout then North Downs, a place so bleedin’ massive it’d make Bree ‘ill look like a mole ‘ill in a cider orchard. ‘Tis a gert, wild sprawl o’ country, it is! To the west youse got peaks so sharp they’d slice the clouds clean in ‘alf and leave ‘em leakin’ rain for a coupla weeks. Then there’s the Field o’ Fornost, a plain so ‘aunted youse cold walk for a year and only meet the ghost of a starvin’ sheep. Some call it Deadman’s Dike, ‘cause the ruins is so old and crumbly, even the stones ‘ave forgotten ‘oo laid ‘em.” He sprinkles a line of salt on the table and continues “… and lookee ‘ere at the River Forn, tricklin’ along like a silver thread through a tattered coat passing under a stone arch called Trestlebridge what looks like its ‘eld up by sheer luck and the prayers o a thousand ‘obbits. And then to the north and east youse ‘as got Angmar, a place so cold and miserable it’d freeze the whiskers off a brass monkey and turn ya scrumnpy inta a block of ice ‘fore ‘ee can say ‘cheers!’”

Gwinion follows with his eyes who she watches and speaks of.  "The dwarf and the woman are interesting.  Though not uncommon to travel together it can still be considered an oddity to some". He paused for a moment.  "And that man's tale.  I know those lands and while his description is not wholly correct he seems to know enough that he has likely walked those lands.  I may have to change my direction and go there instead of south."

He again pauses and ponders for a moment.

"I watch these lands. His story is worth looking into.  For now that young hobbit is doing a fine job of drawing his story out, we shall sit and listen some more."

"As for your question, yes I have some leechcraft. The land is wide and empty and one must learn to tend his own hurts and aid those he finds in trouble."

Aethelbrim:

For those paying attention, the blonde human with the dwarf seems to stiffen at the part of the Rupert’s story about Fornost, then she looks almost disappointed at the lack of elaboration past the ghost stories.

Deception to keep from being too obvious:  20

Perception or Insight to watch Rupert and perhaps others who may show interest in his topics:  19

Before Gwinion has finished his reply to her question of leechcraft, the young woman appears to lose interest. She turns again in her chair, leaning forward, head and neck extended. She reminds him somewhat of a hunting dog.

Eryndis slips smoothly from her chair and moves — hunched forward — back to her table. She gathers her plate and carafe as quickly and quietly as she can, then returns to Gwinion’s side, taking a seat beside him so she may watch and listen to the hunter without straining her neck. She smiles and nudges the plate between them in silent offer before beginning to eat — small bites of fruit, meat, and cheese — her eyes fixed on the small party.

She came from the South, and it had disappointed her when Gwinion spoke of returning that way. But now, with the chance of traveling farther north, she listens closely. She wants to learn the lands — what lies where, and how one moves through them — and Rupert speaks in a way that feeds her imagining. Though she walked most of the way from Sûl-gan to Tharbad and then to Bree, there were stretches where kind folk allowed her a place on a wagon, easing the journey. She wonders how she and the Ranger will travel together.

“Only Men live in Sûl-gan,” she says, leaning a little closer, her voice low and turned slightly aside. “But we do not hate dwarves. I saw my first on the road from Tharbad to Bree. They are much like us. Not odd.”

She pauses, then adds, “Is that one with the musical pipe a hobbit?”

After Gwinion answers, she watches and listens a while longer.

“I would learn your leechcraft,” she says at last. It seems she has been listening.

At some point in the evening one of the Inn’s staff come up to the table where Gwinion and Eryndis are sitting and says something in a quiet voice.

Gwinion moved to give Eryndis room at his table so she could also watch the room.  "I will teach you what I can." He says in reply to her.

When approached by the staff who gave the message he listened without interruption, his expression unchanged, though a faint tightening at the edge of his gaze suggested the words were not taken lightly.

When the servant finished, Gwinion gave a small nod. Once the servant had gone did his attention return to the room—sharper now, more intent.

Then, without looking directly at her, he spoke low enough for Eryndis alone.

“News travels on quiet feet in Bree,” he murmured. “And not all of it is meant for open ears.  Speak nothing of this to others.  I know this woman, we will see her."

Hildebrand listens with rapt attention, his earlier smile softening into something more focused as Rupert begins to lay out his “map” of tankards and platters. At the mention of the North Downs, he gives a small, almost apologetic shake of his head.

“I’m afraid my travels haven’t yet carried me so far afield… though I suspect they soon might.”

As Rupert rearranges the table, Hildebrand smoothly slips a folded bit of parchment from his coat, along with a stub of charcoal. He leans in—not intrusively, but with the air of someone genuinely invested—and begins sketching as the hunter speaks. He glances up briefly, nodding encouragement.

“Go on… I’m following.”

As Rupert gestures westward with a tankard, Hildebrand marks a jagged line.

“Sharp peaks to the west… noted. Not the sort of place one wanders lightly, I take it.”

When the “Field o’ Fornost” is mentioned, Hildebrand pauses just a fraction longer, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he writes.

“Fornost…” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Old stones, forgotten builders… yes, I’ve heard whispers of such places.”

He adds a wide, empty space on the parchment, tapping it lightly.

“A haunted plain, you say? ‘Deadman’s Dike’… charming name.”

As the line of salt becomes the River Forn, Hildebrand carefully traces a winding path across his sketch.

“A silver thread through it all… rivers tend to remember what the land forgets.”

At “Trestlebridge,” he sketches a small mark across the river, a faint smile returning.

“Held together by luck and prayer? Then I shall be sure to cross it very politely, should the need arise.”

When Rupert speaks of Angmar, Hildebrand’s expression shifts—just slightly. The charcoal stills for a moment before he adds a distant mark at the edge of the page.

“Yes… I’ve heard enough of that place to know it’s best kept at a distance.”

He leans back then, studying the rough map with quiet satisfaction. It’s not perfect—but it’s something. Folding the parchment halfway, but not putting it away just yet, he looks back to Rupert with renewed interest.

“You paint a vivid picture, Master Rushlight. I daresay I almost feel the wind myself.”

A quick glance toward the bar. “Another ale here, if you please—our guide has earned it.”

He turns back, tone easy, inviting—but his eyes intent.

“Now then… these ring of ancient stones of yours. Where, on this fine and fearsome stretch of land, did you make their acquaintance?” A small pause. “Where did you sense this… "wolf" of yours?”

Another, just a touch softer: “…or ghost, perhaps?”

“Thankee lad” Rupert says as Hildebrand arranges for a top-up. He then looks at Hildebrande’s map and says “that looks about right! The dreary dell what I call it is ‘bout ‘ere” he says pointing to a place on the map on the northern edge of the hills “…‘bout a day’s walk from an ‘ill men’s village called Crann.” 

Orin:

Though it shouldn't have been surprising, having seen his words of wisdom elicit even a passing remark left Orin furrowing his brow in worry. Yet, even the dwarf could feel himself so drawn back in by Rupert's words that any prior feelings fall away. He even sat up a bit straighter in his seat seeing Hildebrand work his own touch of magic with but a stub of charcoal. But, rather than embarrassment trying to stand up in his seat, or let too much interest show in leaving it altogether to go over for a better look, the dwarf held his peace and let hope dance in his heart for the Hobbit's sense of showmanship leading to the map's reveal to all assembled in the crowd.

But then he felt it. A familiar itch in the back of the ear before it traveled to the back of the back of his skull. A warning. As an old hat at playing games of some subtlety, Orin kept calm and just relaxed into the backrest of his seat. Then while absentmindedly brushing a hand across his beard, his eyes grew half-lidded as if he might doze off at any moment. While putting on such airs, he carefully scanned as much of the crowd as he could without revealing that he was, searching for whoever gaze appeared to linger a little too long at his table.

Unfortunately, as the sources of his discontent had long since moved on to other concerns unknowingly, he soon found himself grumbling and tuning back in on the latter half of Rupert's story with little show except feigned renewed interest. 

In about 20 minutes, Barnaby calls out “… last drinks people. For the guests of The Prancing Pony, your rooms are ready but please feel free to stay and enjoy the fire and company of the room for a bit longer if you wish. For the villagers, your better halves are undoubtedly looking for you and if you don’t want a scolding I suggest you start to make your way home!” Within about 10-15 minutes of Barnaby’s last drinks call the number of people in the Common Room have dropped off considerably as some guests make their way to their rooms and the villages drain their last drink and start to drift away.

Aethelbrim:

Just before last call, Aethelbrim orders a quartet of ales.  Handing one to Orin, she suggests, ”Let us speak to those who made the map.”

Unless he disagrees, she heads over to Rupert and Hildebrand’s table and says, “Greeting travelers,” putting the ales down in front of them.  “Quite an interesting tale and description of the wilderness to the north.  From what I could tell, a passable map as well.”

Smiling at them, she adds, “I am called Aethelbrim, and this is my companion Orin.  Perhaps we would be well-served to share an ale and a bit of conversation tonight.”

Persuasion if needed to represent how well she approaches the two:  26

Gwinion remains seated, his gaze following those who depart, but his true interest lies with those who linger. His attention sharpens as the woman and the dwarf approach the hobbit and the man, inquiring about the tale and the map. He stays where he is, listening closely, intent on catching whatever fragments of their conversation he can.

Eryndis grips the edge of her plate as the inn-servant approaches, half afraid they might clear it away before she can finish the last of the meat. It is not her favorite food, but her coin is limited, and she must make use of all she buys if she is to last a full season away from home.

When the message is given, the dark-haired woman looks from Gwinion to the servant, then back again, her joined brow lifting slightly.

“News travels on quiet feet in Bree,” he murmured. “And not all of it is meant for open ears. Speak nothing of this to others. I know this woman, we will see her."

Her mouth forms a small O as she considers this unseen figure. Someone important, perhaps. Will this end their agreement? Rangers are not common folk, and a summons such as this would surely outweigh any word given to her — a lowly woman of the fen.

Well. If that is so, it changes little. She had her purpose before she came to this inn, and she will see it done, even if she must walk alone.

Eryndis slips another piece of dried meat into her mouth and begins the slow work of chewing it down. Her eyes drift once more to the storyteller — and then to the hobbit listening so intently. Her thoughts turn. If he travels north, perhaps ...

She chews, her unease easing, though a new uncertainty takes its place. Speaking to strangers is still a trial. Everything in Bree feels large and loud and difficult.

When the call for last drinks goes up, she realizes she has not heard the tale for some time, her thoughts having been occupied by her new task. She tucks the last strip of meat into a pouch at her belt, drains her carafe, and rises.

“I will see you at first light,” she says to Gwinion, though her gaze remains fixed on the musician.

She runs a hand down her plait, draws a breath, and crosses the room to Hildebrand. She stops beside him — eyes wide, mouth set, cheeks flushed — and grips her braid as though it might steady her.

As soon as she catches his attention, she begins: “Good eve, sir,” she says in her strange accent. She takes another breath. “I wondered ... if you mean to travel north soon. I may have need of a companion.”

Hildebrand finishes folding the parchment with a small, satisfied crease, slipping it neatly into his coat just as the last call echoes through the common room of The Prancing Pony. Two silver pennies flick easily from his fingers to Barnaby—one with purpose, the other with flourish and a wink.

He looks up—just in time to find a tall, fair-haired woman setting ales before them with the ease of someone accustomed to command. For a heartbeat, he blinks, caught off guard. Then—almost reflexively—his expression settles into that easy, disarming smile of his. "This must be my lucky day." He tells himself.

“Well now,” he says lightly, inclining his head, “either I’ve grown more entertaining than I realized… or Bree has grown unusually attentive this evening.” He smiles and winks. His eyes flick briefly to the dwarf at her side, taking in Orin with a quick, measuring glance, before returning to her. “Aethelbrim, you said? A pleasure—truly. And any friend of Master Orin’s is already halfway to good company.”

He is just about to continue—perhaps something clever, something smooth—when the second voice reaches him. He turns, and pauses. A dark-haired woman stands there, tense as a drawn bowstring, her grip tight on her braid, her words careful but urgent. Not the approach of someone making polite conversation. Not at all.

For the briefest moment, Hildebrand’s smile falters—not disappearing, but shifting. Sharpening. "Well now… this is different." He studies her—quickly, instinctively. The accent. The posture. The eyes. Not from Bree. Not comfortable. And very much in need of something.

He glances back toward Aethelbrim, offering an apologetic half-bow. “Madam, if you would be so kind as to indulge me a moment—I shall return shortly. I would not miss the chance to share that ale.” 

Without waiting for refusal, he turns and approaches the dark-haired woman, lowering his voice as he nears. “Of course one might use a companion,” he says with a faint, reassuring smile to the crowd. “Though I suspect you mean rather more than that.” But his tone softens as he steps closer, lowering his voice just enough to suggest discretion. With a gentle but confident motion, he guides her a few steps aside—far enough from the press of the crowd that words need not be guarded quite so carefully. Once there, he releases her arms, lifting his hands slightly in a gesture of easy reassurance.

“Now then,” he says, tilting his head, studying her more closely, “I suspect we may have crossed wires somewhere along the way.” A small, apologetic smile. “If I gave the impression that I was about to dash off into the North Downs chasing ghost stories… I fear I must disappoint.” He taps the folded parchment lightly. “This?” he adds, with a faint chuckle. “A useful exercise. Information, well-presented, has a habit of becoming valuable—whether one intends to use it or not.”

His gaze flicks briefly back toward the room—the hunter, the others—before returning to her. “But you,” he continues, more gently now, “you are not here for idle tales.” A pause. Not long—but deliberate. “You said you had need of a companion.” His tone shifts—still warm, but now attentive. “That suggests purpose. And purpose suggests danger… or at the very least, urgency.”

He folds his arms loosely, not defensive—thoughtful. “You are quite right about one thing, though: traveling north is no small matter. The Downs are not kind to the unprepared… and rarely kinder to those who are.” A faint smile returns, softer this time. “As for myself, I had been considering a journey eastward—toward Rivendell. A place where questions tend to find better answers… and dangers are, if not fewer, then at least more… civilized.”

He watches her reaction carefully—perhaps more carefully than before. “You might find that road safer. Or at least more predictable.” Then, after a beat, he adds: “But I suspect you did not cross the room—and gather your courage—for safety alone.” His voice softens just a touch. “Tell me—what waits for you in the North that outweighs the danger?” He holds her gaze, steady but not pressing. “And why do you think I am the one to help you reach it?” He pauses. "Tough, I hope that you should have gathered by now that I am not the type. However, please do enlighten me."

Eryndis is not at all put off by his forwardness. She does not shy from his touch, nor does she take his intent as ill. She is used to such things. It is the way of her people — direct.

She listens as he speaks. For the most part, her eyes give little away, though her hand relaxes slightly on her braid, and the flush in her cheeks softens to a more natural warmth. But when the name Rivendell is spoken, something in her gaze sharpens.

Before answering, she glances toward the Ranger’s table, trying to hide the motion. His face remains lost in shadow, unreadable from this distance. Her eyes flick briefly to the fair-haired woman, then return to the hobbit.

“I am Going Forth to learn. To learn leechcraft before I take up the burden for my people. I was not set on the North. East would serve as well.” She pauses, weighing her words. “I have heard of a place where the Elf-folk dwell. That it is a place of ancient leechcraft. I would go there, if I could.”

Her gaze drops. She resists the urge to look again toward the Ranger.

“If my companion sends me away ... I will go.”

There is no bitterness in her tone. Only fact.

“I was told that if I go beyond Bree, I should not walk alone.” She lifts her eyes again to the hobbit’s. “But I will, if I must.”

She raises her hood, covering her hair save for the plait that rests over one shoulder. “I will know by noon tomorrow. If you would have a leech as companion, you may find me here.”

With that, Eryndis steps past Hildebrand and the others and leaves The Prancing Pony, seeking a place to camp for the night beyond the edges of the town.