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

The Common room of The Prancing Pony (Bree) - early Ivanneth

The common room of ‘The Prancing Pony’ glows with the warm amber light of lanterns and a roaring hearth, casting long shadows across the timber beams and stone walls. It is early evening in early Halimath, or Harvestmonth, or Ivanneth – depending on where you are from – (i.e. September) in 2965 III Age and the air carries the mingled scents of spiced cider, roasting meat and pipe smoke. Outside, a chill breeze rustles the ivy on the windows, but inside, the inn hums with life.

Barnaby Butterbur, bustling and red-faced, hurries between tables with his apron flapping, calling out orders Nob and Bob, who dart through the crowd balancing trays laden with foaming mugs and platters of bread, cheese, and cold meats. The murmur of conversation rises and falls like the tide, punctuated by bursts of laugher and the clink of tankards.

A young Hobbit, dressed in fine clothes is entertaining the crowd by playing tunes on a tin whistle. At one of the tables a short dark haired women is drinking from a carafe of water and picking at a plate of dried fruits, meats and cheeses. Every now and then she looks up in wonder at the size of the beams supporting the second storey of the inn. She idly taps her foot in time with the rhythm of tune the young Hobbit is playing. In a shadowed corner with his back to the wall a tall broad-shouldered man sits apart from the bustle. He wears a hooded cloak that casts his face into darkness. His presence is quiet and commanding like a wolf on the edge of a firelit clearing. Every now and then he glances across to the brown-haired women as if there is something familiar about her that he cannot place.

{Gwinion can you pls make a Perception roll}

The door to the common room then bursts open and red-haired, one legged dwarf – accompanied by a medium height blond blue eyed woman. A sword is strapped to her side and observant individuals can see that she is wearing she some sort of metal armour under her cloak. Barnaby spots the dwarf and rushes hand out-stretched “Orin it is a long time since we’ve seen you this far west. Tell me what news from beyond the mountains and more importantly what brings you to the Pony?”

Hildebrand Performance: 7 (Ugh, the roll was an 8)

The young Hobbit is a bit nervous, and he misses some notes. It has been a while since he left the Shire. He keeps the music going though. He taps his hairy bare feet to try to get back to the rhythm.

With practiced ease and hearty laugh, Orin met the proverbial charge with an eager one of his own until the hands of dwarf and man could meet in friendship. "Barnaby! Has it truly been so long?! Hah! Ah well, such is the way of things as always." He said, not quite grinning from ear to ear, as such as was never the usually wary dwarf's way. But still, seeing at least one familiar face left the dwarf looking as genuinely happy as the otherwise steely-eyed traveler could be.

"Spare me a pipe and plenty of weed, and I'll be more than happy to share a tale or two. As sadly, I plum lost my own favored virtue on the way here." He admits, sighs, and then snorts a little as his mood quickly brightens once more. "And as much as I'd like to say only the usual business brought me this way, I'm afraid this time I'm to play the role of helpful shadow for this one here." He says, gesturing up and over at the blond woman with a half-grin and a mind braced for barbed word. After all, though Orin had done his best to remain accommodating within reason, his company hadn't exactly been one asked for Aethelbrim \ Eosta-flod. And if by some miracle it had been, and his memory was merely faulty in the moment, surely the slower pace the two had to travel (no thanks to his missing leg and admittedly 'slightly' plump figure) has worn a touch at the nerves by now. 

Either way, he stands by absentmindedly running a hand through his very well cared and oversized 'bib' he called a beard, and that little to hide the pot belly he'd developed despite spending so many years of traveling as a merchant. A merchant whose garb swung more towards whatever was practical for travel over the garish, yet still of a quality that has allowed him to fit in an almost any tavern he'd visited regardless of cliental. 

Aethelbrim:

If her journey with Orin has worn on her nerves, it doesn't show in the easy smile Aethelbrim favors the barkeep with.  "What's the special for tonight, good innkeeper?  The road has been long and dry, and I find myself in need of cold ale, warm food, and a hot bath.  Perhaps between the first two items and the third we can discuss our business in these parts," she allows.

Looking about the room, Aethelbrim evaluates the quality of today's repast, leaning into her culinary skill and wondering if she will need to dive into her own bag of spices to improve the local flavor...(Take 10/ Passive Cook's Utensils: 13)

 Looking around the room, the Captain tries to get a read on anyone who may be a hidden threat to--or conversely a potential ally for--her upcoming quest.

Insight:  13

The dark-haired young woman pushes back the edges of her cloak, trying to uncover her arms. Though generally ruddy and freckled, her cheeks are beginning to burn with the heat of the place. This time of year ... for the inside of a dwelling to get so warm. She shakes her head at the wonder of it, and a wry smile thins her already small mouth.

She had heard stories of towns and the folk who lived in them from her mentor. But when she first set eyes on the place called Tharbad, she marveled at its buildings and streets. It was so different from her own community within the marsh, which is all she had ever known until her Going Forth. Little did she expect to be surprised even more by the size of Bree. But more than surprised, she feels ... wary. Disquieted. Bree's shadows rise and settle on its people. She's used to knowing almost everything about everyone. And now she knows nothing.

She sighs and runs a hand down the plait that hangs over one shoulder. Picking up a berry between two calloused fingers, she pops it into her mouth and chews slowly. Her eyes drift upward toward the crisscrossed beams once again, and then she begins to scan the room. Despite the shadows, she sees merriment on many faces. The small man with the music pipe is aiding that effort. Her eyes drift from face to face, turning almost completely around in her chair, until they settle on the broad-shouldered man sitting alone behind her. She squints at his obscured face and then suddenly feels very afraid. With a small gasp, she twists back around and instinctively pulls the hood of her cloak up over her head, hoping she has escaped his notice.

The urge to flee begins to rise within her.

Barnaby turns to Bob and says “get to the kitchen and get the a plate of food for the lady and Orin as well because I know he likes his vittles” before turning to “Nob you go make sure that two rooms are made ready and a bath is put in the room for the lady.” He then pours two tankards of beer and pass one to Orin and one to Aethelbrim before turning to Orin “we’ll have a pipe and good chinwag once things quieten down in here!” 

Perception from Game Log - 7

Gwinion sat in the corner and watched the people who filled the room.  The music was acceptable, the young hobbit was not the worst Butterbur has had perform in his common room. 

Gwinion did not turn at the noise of the door. Others watched the newcomers; he did not. A glance had already told him enough.  A dwarf, known here, and a woman beside him, armed and steady.

His attention lingered elsewhere.

The brown-haired woman had shifted. Slightly. A breath caught, a turn too quick. He remained still, waiting for the moment to resolve but it did not. She only drew her cloak closer, as if from the heat or the press of the room.

That same faint pull returned. Not recognition, no face came to mind, but something just beyond it, like a memory that would not take shape.

Aethelbrim:

”Much obliged,” replies Aethelbrim warmly, taking the foaming mug and looking for an open table.  Hopefully this is a place she can rest and not have to look over her shoulder overmuch.  The past few weeks of travel had been steady but boring at times.  Still, Aethelbrim was closing in on her destination, though she worries if she and Orin are enough to handle the quest alone.

Sitting gratefully, the young captain is content to replace conversation with steady pulls of thick ale.  Already starting to relax a bit, she leans back and stretches her shoulders, the mail shirt shifting slightly.

Gwinion’s gaze moved once more across the room, though none marked it; only his eyes shifted beneath the shadow of his hood.

They returned, unbidden, to the brown-haired woman.

Eryndis.

The name settled in his thoughts with quiet certainty. A Dúnedain of the south, if memory served—one who kept to the long reeds and hidden paths of the Swanfleet, where the Glanduin and Greyflood met in mist and marsh.

He pondered for a moment what to do with the answer to the riddle.  He then settled on his course of action.

The next time the woman glanced in his direction he made a slight motion with his hand and beckoned her over.

As the final notes of the young hobbits tune die away, one of the locals – a hunter by the name of Rupert Rushlight – says "I’ve got a story what youse all need to know!” He pauses and takes a deep draught from his tankard before continuing “… now youse all know that I’m not a bloke what scares easily but this one will freeze your britches right off! One of the other locals shouts out “get on with ya old gasbag!” Rupert replies “alright, alright keep ya shirt on” before taking another deep draught and then saying “well it goes like this! A couple of weeks ago, while out ‘untin’ up in the eastern foothills o’ the North Downs, a sudden summer storm blew in. Wind was ‘owling, damn near tore me cloak right off and there was thunder and lightning. I sought shelter y’see, and stumbled on this ring o’ ancient stones, queer as ya like, in a dell atop a ‘ill! Not a place I’d go after dark but needs must. Thought maybe there’d be a cave or summit to ‘ide in! So I climbed down inta the dell, and that’s when I felt it. Somethin’ old! Somerhin’ powerful! And not friendly neiher! Like it were searchin’ for me, sniffin’ me out like a wolf in the dark …” And he pauses and takes a final draught from his tankard, emptying it.

Hildebrand put away the tin whistle, and was about to take out his flute, then he saw that a man was to start to speak. So, he decided that the show for tonight was over. At the least for now. He moved closer to listen to the tale from the man.

The dark-haired woman closes her eyes and takes a steadying breath. Surely this anxious feeling is just her imagination running away with her. She's not even 14 moons away from home, of course her nerves are going to be on edge. She has no reason to believe the man she saw is paying any attention to her — and he definitely isn't pondering some way to hurt her.

She opens her eyes and forces herself to smile. She runs her fingertips down her braid again. If she doesn't learn to remain calm in strange places, her Going Forth will be for naught. If she isn't willing to speak with strangers, she will never learn anything.

She pops another berry into her mouth and turns her head again to peek around the edge of her hood at the man. When he motions to her, she stops chewing abruptly.

She twists back around, sitting up straight, her brown eyes wide. Did he really just motion to her?

Despite the juicy berry, her mouth suddenly feels dry. She picks up the carafe of water, sips and swallows. Eryndis, she thinks. You are Eryndis. You are brave. You are strong.

She carefully places the carafe back onto her table, rises from her chair, resolutely turns, and walks the few steps toward the man with the broad shoulders. She pushes back her hood once again and lets her arms hang limply at her sides.

The man can now see that the small woman has pouches, dried herbs, a thin knife, and more decorating the belt around her middle. Her face, neck and hands are tanned and slightly ruddy. A cloud of faint freckles dusts her cheeks and broad nose. She is no beauty, but her face is slightly interesting.

She looks at him with her dark brown eyes for a moment — almost challenging him — before her small mouth parts. "I come," she says in her unusual accent. She raises her joined brows, clearly ready for a response.

Gwinion saw her rise at once, too quick, too visible.
His hand shifted slightly on the table, a small, controlled motion—two fingers lowering in a subtle command.

“Sit,” he said quietly, the word low but firm, meant for her alone. “You draw eyes.”

His gaze flickered briefly about the room, measuring who had noticed and then returned to her, steady beneath the shadow of his hood. Up close, the doubt faded.

"Yes…” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “Eryndis.” He leaned back slightly, studying her now with a more certain eye. “The Swanfleet. The reed-paths where the Glanduin meets the Greyflood.” A faint pause. “You are far from those waters.” At last, his attention settled fully upon her. “What brings you to Bree?”

Gwinion one again quickly looked around the room.  The man who suddenly gave a tale likely drew enough attention that most, if not all, did not see that Eryndis had joined him at his table.

She sits at his command, her face darkening in confusion. Why would she be drawing eyes? Is Bree such a dangerous place that even she would be watched? Perhaps it was wrong to come to such a place so early in her Going Forth.

She glances over her shoulder, mimicking the man's scan of the room, though hers is not at all practiced for security. She only notices the few patrons who appear to be inebriated, or who appear to be in some kind of pain.

When he says "Eryndis," she whips her head around to look at him in surprise. But as he continues to speak, understanding follows, and she calms. She nods once and lets her eyes fall to the tabletop.

"Not Ranger Eryndis," she says, trying to speak quietly enough that only the man will hear. "I know your Eryndis." She places a hand to her chest, smiling a little. "Not me."

"I come to Bree. To look for Eryndis." She suddenly frowns, clearly troubled by what she has just said. Her hand runs down the plait of dark brown hair draped over one shoulder, and she forces the grimace away with effort.

"Are you a Ranger?" she asks him politely, raising her eyes to his and speaking even more quietly.

Gwinion eyes her for for a moment.  "I am," he says in answer to her question "that is no secret.  If you are not her yet you bear the same name, are you family then?  Tell me your story, why do you seek her?"

Orin had already downed half of his tankard by the time he joins Aethelbrim at the table, for such was elation over Barnaby's words.  Unfortunately, the dwarf could scarcely content himself with just sitting there nursing the rest of the drink. The hobbit's music had been fine enough, sure, and the promise of a story after from Rupert got the mind whirring over it's direction. Yet the latter would go on to play second fiddle for the dwarf that wasn't quite young or old, as old familiar discomforts made themselves known the moment he sat down.

Even with years of tangling with it, his own physique left him softly grunting or huffing now and then as he pulled another chair in place, propped up his badge of shame, and set to work adjusting the makeshift prosthetic in place of his left leg.Though calling it a 'prosthetic' was ever a generous title, even though crafted finely enough as it was out of wood and metal. "You naught be getting any more ideas are ya, dear?" He asks of Aethelbrim during the pause in Rupert's story without looking up from his work and despite maybe knowing the answer.

Eryndis relaxes slightly. Her joined brow furrows, not out of frustration, but thought. Her eyes drop again to the tabletop as her hand finds her braid. She is not sure why she now feels safe with this man, but she decides she can answer his questions. For Eryndis.

“One winter ago, she came to Sûl-gan — my home. She was low. Her flesh was full of hurt. They brought her to Thu-Gun, our leech. Thu-Gun saw foulness and used hard-won herbs to mend her. She stayed five moons ere she went on.

“Eryndis showed great vigor in hurt. I saw it. All saw it. Much vigor. She stood like a heron in deep water.”

Eryndis’s other hand finds her braid as well, and her smile widens, if only a little. “The same hair as mine. The same eyes. As tall as I am.” The smile dims. “I am not like the heron. I am more like a mouse.”

She sighs and places her hands carefully on the table, her gaze lingering on her calloused fingers. “Thu-Gun will soon lay down the burden. I must take it up. I am on my Going Forth — to learn. I need the vigor Eryndis had.”

She looks up into Gwinion's eyes, which she can now just barely make out within the darkness shed by his hood. “So I am Eryndis,” she almost whispers.

The young Hobbit let the silence linger just long enough for Rupert’s words to settle over the room. A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—not mocking, but intrigued.

With unhurried steps, he crosses the common room floor, weaving between tables with the ease of someone who already belongs there. "Excuse me. Pardon me." He pauses just within Rupert’s circle, resting one hand lightly on the back of an empty chair, tankard balanced casually in the other.

“Now that,” he says warmly, “is a tale worth finishing, Master Rushlight… and I’d wager there’s more truth in it than most here would admit.”

His tone is light, but his eyes are sharp—studying the man, not the performance. A glance toward the bar.

“Nob—another for our storyteller, if you please. A dry throat does a tale no favors.”

Hildebrand turns back before waiting for the reply, giving Rupert an encouraging nod as if the rest of the room has already agreed.

“Storms pass, Master Rushlight… but places like that rarely do. I’d be curious to hear what else you noticed—no matter how small.”

Hildebrand leans back just slightly then, opening the space again, as if inviting Rupert to fill it.

While encouraging a drunken hunter to keep telling his story, Hildebrand is not quite so sure he believes a word that is being said. Although, this Mr. Rushlight did mention "North Downs".  He tries to recollect if he has heard of this place.

Old Lore: 8

Aethelbrim:

”Ah but you know me well, my friend.  I know I promised to wait until after we ate to speak of it, but the vagueness of our quest weighs heavily on my mind.  There is very little we can plan for given the paucity of details, and we don’t know how powerful the foes might be between us and the Lady,” replies Aethelbrim earnestly.

”Perhaps we should try to find others to join our cause, that we might have a better chance at success—but whom do we trust?  I am hopeful your friend the barkeep has vetted a few helpful souls, though we may need to get past the dinner rush before he can come speak with us,” she adds, looking around and realizing how far she has truly come from home.