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

Aethelbrim:

Taking the interruption in stride, Aethelbrim says, “Of course,” as Hildebrand excuses himself.  

Turning to Rupert, she engages him in conversation over the ale she brought while his companion is otherwise engaged in discussion, “You tales are engrossing indeed, especially the stories of the ruins to the north.  Tell me, are you a naturally gifted storyteller, or have you received formal training?”

Rupert looks both a bit chuffed and shamefaced at the same time - if that's possible -  that Aethelbrim thinks he might be formally trained before answering "... na lass I ain't had no book learning or some such. I just tell stories the same way me Uncle Dick used ta. Now 'e could charm a bird outa tree 'e could and that's no joke!"

Hildebrand watches Eryndis as she listens, and for a moment, he is certain he has struck the right note. Her posture eases. The tension softens. There we are, he thinks, a flicker of quiet satisfaction passing across his face. Perfectly handled.

Then. “Going forth to learn… leechcraft?” His brows knit, just slightly.

East, then. Rivendell. That aligns rather nicely… A faint, pleased smile returns.

“If my companion sends me away…” Hildebrand blinks. Companion? He thinks to himself. The smile falters.

His mouth opens—just a fraction—as if to ask the obvious question, but the moment slips past him. She continues, steady, certain, already moving beyond the conversation as though it had reached its natural end without his consent. He tries again— But she is already drawing up her hood. And then she is gone. Just like that.

Hildebrand remains where he stands, one hand still half-raised, mouth slightly open as though the rest of his sentence might yet catch up with her at the door. It does not. There is a pause. A longer one than he would prefer. Slowly, he closes his mouth.

He exhales, blinking once, twice, as if the room might rearrange itself into something more sensible if given the chance. Then, with a small shake of his head—more to himself than anything—he smooths the front of his coat and lets out a quiet huff of amusement. “Well,” he mutters under his breath. Another beat. “Didn’t even give her name. How rude.” A touch of indignation flickers—brief, and quickly swallowed by curiosity.

He glances instinctively toward the door she exited through—then, just as quickly, turns back. His gaze lifts—and lands squarely on Aethelbrim. "Ah. Right. The other conversation." The one he had politely excused himself from.

Hildebrand straightens at once and, with renewed purpose (and just a hint of urgency), makes his way back across the common room. He slows just enough to avoid looking like he’s hurrying—though the intent is clearly there—and offers a quick, apologetic bow as he comes to a stop before her.

“My apologies—truly,” he says, a hand to his chest, expression earnest but still touched with that easy charm. “I fear I was… briefly detained.” A quick, self-aware smile. “Though I cannot say I am entirely certain by what, exactly.” His eyes flick, just for a moment, toward the door again—then back to her. “In any case—I am at your disposal once more.” He gestures lightly toward the table, the map, the ales—everything he had momentarily abandoned. “Now then… where were we?” He returns to his charming smile as if the previous conversation never occurred.

Orin:

Orin made a noise of mild discontent, took a sip, and then with a half-muttered "Your call", slipped out of his seat ready to follow after Aethelbrim. But while he had agreed to it, his own contributions to any initial tongue wagging hardly amounted to more than a raised mug in greeting, before then hopefully finding a welcoming seat with the others.

After which point, the dwarf intended only to play quiet chaperone. The sort that was present and attentive, but otherwise quick to redirect things back to Aethelbrim should any try to probe his thoughts on things from the start. In this way, he aimed to quietly take the measure of the others, but instead found himself raising a brow in the wake of Hildebrand's polite departure to engage another. He then looks up at Aethelbrim, a smug smile fighting to bloom while the dwarf's better nature demanded more sympathy for his 'charge'.

But seeing her recover in redirecting her attention to Rupert, the smug half-smile turned into more look of general approval and pride, before the dwarf then remembered himself, and took up a chair nearby to observe from while nursing his drink. 

Gwinion allowed himself a faint smile at the exchange between Eryndis and the hobbit—brief, but genuine. She had found her voice, in her way. That was enough. He watched her go, marking the moment without lingering on it, then turned his attention back to the room. The others remained, drawn together now, threads beginning to knot. The North Downs, the tale, the quiet tensions beneath it… all worth noting.

But not tonight.

The thought settled cleanly. The North could wait. Eryndis would not. Nor would the message brought in quiet voice. Gwinion rose. He crossed to the innkeeper, setting two coppers down without a word. A nod given. Nothing more. Then he stepped out into the night.

Cool air met him, carrying the softer sounds of Bree settling into its evening rhythms. He paused only a moment before moving on, his path unhurried but deliberate. A circuit of the village, a quick stroll to make sure all was secure before retiring for the evening.

Aethelbrim:

”Well, as I just finished introducing myself and my friend, I expect you were about to introduce yourself, accept these ales, and either politely ask us to move on or invite us to sit and converse,” replies Aethelbrim with a wry smile.

”Your call,” she adds airily. ”But if your thirst has already been quenched, my Dwarven friend is good for—what, 6 or 7 more?” she adds with a wink at Orin.

Eryndis makes her way upstairs to the communal sleeping quarters. There are several pallets (straw-filled mattresses), on low bed frames, placed around the walls of the room. In the centre of the room a banked fire is smouldering gently in the fire pit. A table and benches are next to the fire. The room is not overly crowded, and no more crowded than the communal lodges of her people. She manages to find a pallet in a far corner of the room, which has vacant beds on either side of it so it will mean she can have a degree of privacy. Not long after she has retired for the night, the door opens and she sees Gwinion come into the room. He takes one of the pallets by the door. Anybody coming into the room will have to pass him!

Hildebrand’s expression brightens with recognition of her tone, and he gives another quick, apologetic dip of his head. “Quite right—entirely my failing.” He straightens, then offers a proper, low bow—one foot sliding back just so. “Hildebrand Took, at your service. Son of Fortinbras the Second, and—” a faint smile tugs at his lips, “—of the Shire, as you may have guessed.” He rises smoothly, accepting the tankard with an appreciative glance. “And I think I could be persuaded to one more, at the very least.”

He lifts it slightly in acknowledgment toward Orin, giving the dwarf a respectful nod before taking a small sip. Turning back to Aethelbrim, he has to tilt his chin up just a touch, the height difference not lost on him—but he carries on without missing a beat. “Truth be told,” he adds a bit more quietly, leaning in just enough for conversation, “I was considering a journey eastward myself. The North Downs sound… informative, certainly—but I suspect I am not especially well-suited to being hunted by whatever stalks lonely hills in the dark.”  A flicker of humor crosses his face. “I prefer my dangers a touch more… negotiable.” He gestures lightly between her and Orin. “And yourselves? What business brings you to Bree—and, perhaps, beyond it?”

Aethelbrim:

“We have traveled quite far FROM the east, actually, good master Took, as I hail from Laketown and Orin, well, he travels quite a bit, though I daresay he is quite welcome there as well,” responds Aethelbrim, sitting down and having a sip of her own ale.

“Travel can be a dangerous business, and there are few enough hobbits who have the spark for it, be it even to the purportedly more civilized lands.  I wish you well on your journey.east if that be your eventual direction.  My business takes me north into the lands most uncivilized, though the whys and wherefores of such a quest are better left unsaid in the common room of even so fine an inn,” answers Aethelbrim forthrightly but carefully.

”While I would welcome traveling company, I would not ask anyone to go into the wilds of the north who was not already intent on that path.  Nevertheless, I salute you, good Hildebrand, for taking such an interest in the world outside the Shire.  I have often thought that we ‘longshanks’ could benefit from the common sense and simple joys supplied in such great quantity by your folk,” she says kindly.

Hildebrand listens, tankard in hand, his easy smile lingering—but quieter now, more thoughtful. At first he nods along, as if confirming his earlier decision… east, safer roads, civilized company.

Then something shifts. Aethelbrim’s words settle in, and for a brief moment he says nothing at all. His gaze drifts—just slightly—toward the folded parchment at his side. The rough map. The hunter’s tale. The wild north.

A faint exhale. “Yes… well,” he begins lightly, though there’s a new note beneath it, “one does like to think oneself sensible.”

He glances back up at her, a flicker of amusement in his eyes—at himself, more than anything.

“But I’ve been told, on occasion, that there’s a… Tookish streak in me that objects to such plans.”

A small smile returns—this one more certain “And it would seem, my lady, that you’ve made a rather compelling case for ignoring my better judgment.”

He lifts his tankard slightly in her direction “North, then.” A brief pause, then with a soft chuckle: “With any luck, that very questionable map of mine may yet prove useful after all.”

He sets the tankard down and offers another polite bow—first to Aethelbrim, then a nod to Orin.

“If you’ll forgive me, I think it wise I get what rest I can before I regret this decision entirely.” That familiar glint returns to his eye. “I suspect tomorrow may prove… educational.”

With that, Hildebrand gathers his things, gives a final courteous incline of his head, and slips away to retire for the night.

Aethelbrim:

"Indeed," replies Aethelbrim as Hildebrand speaks, reacting with genuine surprise as he seems to consider going north instead of east.  "Yes, sleep on the decision and let me know your thoughts in the morning after the glow of fire and ale have faded.  I will be headed north regardless, but company along the way for mutual protection would be quite welcome.  See you tomorrow at...uh...first breakfast," she summarizes.

"Orin, have you aught else to add, or should we finish our beverages and retire for the evening?" asks Aethelbrim.  If not, she prepares to rest for the evening in her room.

Hildebrande, Aethelbrim and Orin say their goodnights to those remaining in the Common Room, which has dwindled down to a single group of three hunters/foresters from Archet who are celebrating that the youngest of them has recently be awarded his hunting bow. Hildebrande’s room is in the Hobbit-wing. It is simply but well furnished with a wood-framed bed and wash stand set under a small round window. Aethelbrim and Orin both have separate private rooms of better quality on the upper floors of in one of the quieter wings that include a real bed, with fresh linen as well as a wash stand set under the window. There is a cupboard in a corner and one wall a banked fire gently smoulders in the hearth.

Gwinion and Eryndis both wake as the three hunters/foresters from Archet come to bed but soon realise they are no threat.

Next day

Both Gwinion and Eryndis wake before dawn as do the three hunters/foresters. They efficiently make up their beds, collect their belongings and make their way to the Common Room where a hearty breakfast of oats sweetened with honey, rye bread, dripping, fried mushrooms, preserves accompanied by tankards of small beer is laid out.  

Aethelbrin, Orin and Hildebrande are all served breakfast in their rooms. Hildebrande is served fried eggs, with savoury pork sausage, and fried herbed mushrooms, fresh-baked rolls, butter and preserves and a pot of tea imported from the Southfarthing.  Aethebrim and Orin’s breakfast takes it up another notch and reflects the hospitality that The Prancing Pony is known far and wide for. Their breakfast includes bacon, pork sausages, fresh bread rolls and scones, a collection of cheeses, buttered mushrooms, a selection of preserves, fresh apples and a pot of tea, or chilled morning ale, or fresh pear cider.

Aethelbrim:

After having the hot bath the previous night as requested, Aethelbrim rests in comparative luxury overnight.  With the road grime of her long journey washed away, she awakens rested and has a delightful breakfast before washing up quickly and heading downstairs to greet the others.

Orin:

Orin's answer had been but a gentle shake of the head to the side, as the late hour was no time for anything truly productive. His body seemed apt to agree in releasing a yawn around words of goodnight. So, with a heart only mildly burdened but not having found time to keep his appointment with Barnaby, he went to bed for what might become his last sound sleep for the next several weeks. What with how things seem to be gradually shaping up to be!

Next Day:

"Oh Barnaby you never disappoint!" Orin found himself sayin gas his meal arrives the next day. Not with a pot of tea or fresh pear cider for the dwarf, but chilled morning ale! Just the way he licked it. Yet after biding goodbye to the server, and though no stranger to eating alone, Orin took his tray and headed right over to Aethebrim's room, giving the door a knock with his false leg. "Hey! Mind a wee bit of company, or is her ladyship in need of a bit more time to get freshened for the day?" He jests.

Aethelbrim:

”Ah, Orrin,” says Aethelbrim as she opens the door, her face still wet from a morning rinse in the basin.  Her breakfast sits on the table, roughly half eaten as it seems the young captain tends to graze on the food as she prepares herself for the day.

”Come in, come in,” she says, gesturing to the open space on the table for Orrin’s tray.  Once he is settled, she takes a sip of her pear cider and continues to brush out her long, blond hair in preparation for the traditional warrior braids.  “I trust you slept well?  There seemed to be a few prospects last night, though I am not sure who has the foolhardiness—or bravery—to join us once the cold reality of such an endeavor hits them this morning,” she says.

Gwinion woke before the first light touched the sky, as he always did. For a moment he lay still, listening to the quiet of the inn, the faint stirrings of those who rose early, the absence of anything out of place. Satisfied, he rose and made his bed with practiced efficiency, gathering his few belongings without noise. When he stepped into the common room, the scent of oats and warm bread met him. He chose a place where he could see both door and hearth before sitting.

“The day may turn quickly,” he said after a moment, voice low. “We have a meeting to keep.” He ate in silence for a few breaths, then his gaze lifted to her again, more intent now. “The one who sent for us is no common voice in these lands,” he said. “You would do well to understand that before we go.”

He set his tankard down. 

"But before we go I have a question for you.  How do you come to bear the same name as the Ranger Eryndis?  It cannot be only chance." He watched her face and studies her as he waits for an answer.

Hildebrand lies awake longer than he would care to admit, staring up at the low, rounded ceiling of his room in the Hobbit-wing. The quiet creaks of the inn and the distant murmur of late voices drift through the walls as his thoughts circle back, again and again, to the same conclusion. North. He turns onto his side with a soft sigh. “Perfectly sensible decision,” he mutters to himself. “…in a thoroughly unsensible sort of way.” At some point, despite himself, sleep takes him.

Morning arrives not with dread—but with the unmistakable, glorious scent of breakfast. And just like that—the North Downs, ghostly hunters, and questionable decisions all fade into the background. He sits up, eyes lighting slightly as the tray is set before him. “Now this,” he murmurs, reaching immediately for the tea, “is a far more agreeable matter.” He takes his time—properly so. Eggs, sausage, mushrooms… a generous amount of butter (perhaps more than strictly necessary)… and a careful appreciation of Southfarthing tea. Each bite is given the attention it deserves, as though the world beyond the window simply does not exist.

A contented sigh escapes him. “I might get used to this traveling business after all.” It is only after this “first” breakfast—fully and respectfully concluded—that Hildebrand finally makes his way downstairs. He descends into the common room at a leisurely pace, a fork in hand and the last of a particularly fine sausage speared upon it. He takes another bite as he walks, clearly in no great hurry to surrender such comforts.

Then he looks up, and sees them: Aethelbrim & Orin. Waiting. Ready. Entirely too composed for this hour of the morning. Hildebrand stops. Just for a fraction of a second. His smile falters. Reality returns—swift and unwelcome. North.

Without breaking stride (or dignity, as much as can be managed), he quickly—though not inelegantly—finishes the remaining sausage with a decisive bite. He straightens his coat. Reassembles his expression. And approaches. By the time he reaches them, the smile is back—polished, confident, and just a touch brighter than necessary.

He gives a small, earnest bow… then, with a sudden flourish of enthusiasm, attempts something resembling a salute. “Hildebrand Took,” he declares, “reporting for duty, my lady.” It is, perhaps, not the most precise salute ever rendered—but it is delivered with conviction. Up close, however, the truth is harder to miss. The coat is well-kept—but not travel-worn. The boots—cleaner than they ought to be. The pack—light. Possibly too light. And beneath the charm and confidence, just the faintest hint that this Hobbit… has no real idea what he’s gotten himself into.

Orrin: 

"Oh, I slept well enough, I suppose. Though, I wouldn't have mind capping off the evening with a few more drinks and pipe beside." Orin admitted alongside a chuckle as he made his way on inside. By the time he sets his tray down on the table, his expression turned a touch more serious. "But not you, I take it?" He asks as he looks up to her with tankard in hand. "Even with a pleasant night's sleep and your own morning revelations, you remain set on the course then?" He clarifies, despite clearly knowing the answer.

Thus, it may come as no surprise when he sighs, takes a sip, and shakes his head before an answer is even given. "Well, I hope at least given the state of things you've tempered your own expectations. But otherwise, do not lose hope. It might take us some several days, but the world is filled with plenty enough foolhardy souls yet of a like mind. Just as there's plenty of souls that might yet take advantage of such free spirits. So, never forget to remain viligent Aethelbrim." He warns her, before finally allowing himself to smile. "Now! Let's not keep our breakfast waiting on us, shall we?!"

At the conclusion of breakfast, all that remain left to do (aside from any last minute tidying up) was to head to the common room and start recruitment anew. Well, relatively anew, or so Orrin figured upon finally clapping eyes on Hildabrand. Once again, the dwarf had every intent on letting Aethelbrim take point on conversations to come, only half-swallow a noise of surprise in Hilderbrand's approach and subsequent confirmation. "Is that so? Well, well, well! Here that Aethelbrim? Seems you worried in part for naught!"

Aethelbrim:

In the privacy of her room, Aethelbrim listens carefully and respectfully to her friend’s concerns.  In addition, she asks if he noticed anyone else of interest last night they should consider recruiting, or perhaps the innkeeper had some suggestions.

After detouring for a few moments to check on her pony, she arrives in the common room and experiences Hildebrand’s greeting.  “Indeed, my good fellow, I appreciate your enthusiasm.  Once we have gathered those who may be interested in our journey, I will give more details—and if you wish to reconsider at that time, I completely understand,” she says.