The Road goes ever on and on...

[The Frenchman]

The moon was full and yellow, hanging low in the sky, black wisps of clouds unravelling across it in the wind.
The huge man, wrapped in a heavy fur cloak and his face hidden deep within it's hood, stopped amongst the trees to smell the cold night air.
He glided easily over the roots and winding paths, occasionally stopping in front of high bushes, finding his way through them, and stopping and turning back with a chuckle.
This was the second time he walked these woods and valleys, seaching for the Last Homely House. Huer laughed. He wasn't so much searching for it as delighting in his inability to find it.

Once while travelling in a roundabout way between Weathertop and Tharbad, Taka and he had crested a rise, through a tangle of shrubs, and through the morning mist had caught sight of the valley. It was just a glimpse, since when they sought to move closer they lost the path in the trees. Huer was not displeased, the wisdom of wandering into that valley uninvited struck him as rather dubious. Then again, so did young Taka's grasp of the concept of wisdom, curiousity being more his field.

Nonetheless, when he was not travelling to Bree, or spending time with the Rangers, the Beorning liked to walk these woods and valleys, missing Carrock and the Vales of Anduin.
The confusing ways around the Elven valley delighted him. He was more of a warrior than a tracker, but still the whisper of the trees and the circles and dead ends in the path made his massive frame rumble with laughter. He could smell the beauty, and sometimes catch glimmers of it. And that was enough.

Oftimes he felt himself being watched, his animal senses honed by the Mirkwood sending delightful tingles of danger down his spine. He would chuckle and move away, and continue his entertaining exploration of copse and vale. It reminded him of the delights of his forest bound childhood, before... he brushed aside the explosion of rage with a low growl of pure hatred... No orcs here...

With a mornful sigh he turned and set out to Tharbad regretfully. Why he'd agreed to meet them there was beyond him. He'd been there once and hated the place, almost in equal measure to Taka's love for it. He wondered what the hobbit Harold would make of it. Both he and Merrigail would probably approach it with the wide-eyed delight they approached, well anything with. Huer remembered the barrows and Harry's constant complaining, perhaps not everything...

He'd met many on the road, Althane and the mysterious Nightspell, the young Dunlending girl who sought her ancestor's sword... Sturdy dwarves... the Rangers... Many good folk... He liked these hobbits best, for they gave some answer to his reasons for travelling West, to see what it was his people were shedding blood to keep the road open to. His delight in the little folk was strange to him. Travelling with them, feeling their total trust in his strength, untempered by the fear most people regarded him with, brought forth alien emotions, fierce protection married with gentleness, as perhaps folk felt for their children. Huer had lived in the woods all this life since... Joining the men only to do battle, and avoiding the villages, where children scattered in fear at his appearance....

As he hurried towards Tharbad reluctantly, he pulled his hood tighter over the ruin that was his face. He'd been asked to show it by the guard at Tharbad gate on his first visit, and had seen him recoil in horror, which summed up his relations with the place. He pondered the ranger Lance Karrigan's words on the Lord of the last Homely House, and wondered again if healing was something he sought. He growled angrily...

He was Huer No-Face of the Beorning, battleleader amongst his folk, and rage was his life... He revelled in the terror of the orcs as he charged their lines bare-faced, showing them the horror they had made before he and his folk tore into their ranks. Fury and battle madness filled him and the stillness of the trees was shattered by the sound of the rage of bears...

He'd better calm down before he got to Tharbad, or he'd be lifting city folk, or guards, in his huge hands and putting their heads through walls...


This is an open IC thread for the characters of The Frenchman, Beatskins, AIKI-KEN, Ian Sandford, and any travellers who share the road with them, or see them pass on their way. Players and DMs are more than welcome to add to the stories if they tickles their inspiration. *Bows deeply*

[Beatskins]

Taka, grudgingly woke with the dawn light piercing through half-lidded eyes, the events from the previous night fighting his dreams.... Goblins dancing with trolls, missing babies with beautiful dragon tatoos, ye gods - Huers rages! The young gangly lad's eyelids jolt open in realisation, ripping the sleep from his face....wait one second, there was summat else....summat important, some valiant quest for riches untold and admiration from the ladies!!! NO - damnit, he'd promised Barliman he'd clear up the mess in the morning! Peeling himself off the roadside bench in search of a water barrel, thoughts of a quick pint before work flicker in his mind....

"Where in the pony's testicles have ye been lad?" roared Barliman, flinging a soapy mop at Taka's weaving head. "You promised me, the mornin' not two days time!"

Two days? Three, five - didn't seem to matter to Taka, he'd been on a bit of a bender for the past few months, ever since that little misdemeaner with the Tharbad city watch, a grim smile played across his features as the mop flicked around the stools by the bar. Yes, that captain shouldn't have tried to bargain with Taka's father, though not a well admired merchant in the city, Merrick Hariban's calculating grasp of profit versus loss should have been respected. A small smile creeps, yes.... his father had turned him over to join Capt' Cordona's militia, all turned out smart with new shiny buttons, in return for a favourable marriage. Taka had gone along with the ruse, more as an experience than a career, even attending drill parade a couple of times. In return Taka's over groomed, stiff backed puppet of a brother was to wed the Captain's over pampered daughter. He could well remember his father counting invitations to the Tharbad high society.

As he rings the scum from the mop, his back tenses, a wince escapes as he realises some new wounds and rediscovers old, the cut of rusty goblin knives, the scrape of chitinuous spiders, the lash of the drill Sgt's whip... Aye you couldn't blame a lad for helping his family, but you couldn't blame him for legging it either....

The last refuge for Taka had been escape, bolting it from Tharbad with the drill Sgt's 'Extort the recruits to pay for my harlot' fund, a hidden tin with a rusty lock that was no match for a curious mind and nimble fingers. A chuckle escapes as imaginery fights between the whore's minders and the puff faced Sgt play in Taka's mind.

Still, now that the fund was well and truly drunk, a new desire lay in Taka's heart, especially since most of his drink fuelled escapades had shown him more of this shire, with the fun-loving hobbits Althane and Harry, along with their bear of a protector Huer. It was Huer who had taken him through the countryside to show him more than just bricks and walls, glimpsing ethereal valleys that had touched Taka in a way that puzzled him and his curiosity. Spending so much of his youth and adolescence fighting his siblings and his father for scraps from the estate had blinded him to the beauty and opportunity in the land, and the darkness.

In the last few weeks he'd come to travel with and respect the shaggy dark man named Huer, a mutaul understanding had arisen, to the point that Huer had even visited Taka in Tharbad on one of his more daring binges, (well, there were admirers to keep amused after all). The sight of Huer in the Greyflood unerved Taka, especially with that damn mysterious figure behind him, Nightspell. A special place was reserved in Taka's heart for that being, a place that wasn't entirely friendly, - their last encounter in the Troll Shaws left the lad feeling slightly giddy at the power wielded by the cowled one, not always safely.

With a shake of his head, the negative feelings disipate, leaving Taka to ponder his other pursuits, if he finishes off here early enough he may be able to get to the Greyflood in time to see a certain young lady...

...Dragon's and Bears! That's it! His waking dream flies back to haunt him, of course - the girl found in the Goblin caves, and that troubled lass with the pretty tatoos - Dragon's and Bears; the young lady who ran straight for the biggest foe every time, Dragon's and Bears, the one who was so disappointed when she wasn't killed in every melee.... Sheesh and to think he'd taken a shine to her in the Pony. Oh bugger it.... no, the last thing young Taka remembers of last night Huer was looking at her in a very un-Huer like way, bugger - Huer and Braint, Bears and Dragons.....

Barliman survey's his nicely polished tables, and muck free floor, "Here you are then lad, well deserved," pouring a heady pint of the Blue Mountain"
"Taka?"
As he walks round the side of the bar, the mop once propped falls to the floor.
"Well, I've never known him work for free...Where's he of to Matham?"

"Didn't say, Barli... just muttered somthin' about dragon's and bear's then rushed off as if his purse had been pinched."

[SNarfel]

Popping a leaf in to his mouth resulted in the anticipated warm feeling and need to do something somewhat reckless and altogether impressive! Having followed them this far there was no going back any way, not to forget that leaving a fellow hobbit at the mercy of god knows what would not at all be seen as entirely good mannered, however strong the desire for self preservation! Still, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t prepared for this, it was the specific reason why his uncle had gotten him use to the acrid taste of the leaf.

The company he found himself in was, well, an odd mixture for want of a better word. There was Taka who seemed very much interested in Braint, who seemed more interested in, well, staying angry!
Then there was Harold, who seemed to be driven by a constant need to overcome his fear, despite doing the sensible thing and suggesting return to safety when opportunity allowed.
Harold’s protector the man giant, Mr Huer, boy was he ugly! Mr Huer, not Harold! Oh yes, under that hood of Mr Huer’s, was a sight fit for inclusion in bed time stories for mischievous hobbit children.
There was Mr Kimli , who must have had an axe put in his hands at birth, on account that he didn’t half enjoy using it!
Finaly to Mr Nightspell, who in his fashion was scarier even than Mr Huer, best to stay behind him when he is mumbling away and waving his arms and hands about!

The mother had come wailing and frantic in to The Prancing Pony and Mr Huer had wasted no time in agreeing to go look for her baby. Miss Braint was quite adamant that the baby would have been dead by now and that the quest was one of rightful vengeance rather than saving the poor thing. She prattled on about it all the way to the cave entrance to which Mr Taka lead them. Althane, never being one to keep his opinions to himself muttered that perhaps Miss Braint wished the child was dead, for which he soon gained the attention of her sword hilt! Rubbing his head he followed them in, the painful bump was soon forgotten as the horror of a cave network full of goblins pierced through the diminishing effects of the leaf. Fumbling for his satchel he quickly plucked another leaf and began chewing hard!

The remainder of the search was a blur, mostly from which he remembered the bear like growls from Mister Huer, the battle cries of Mr Kimli and the relentless charges of goblins! Oh and trying hard to keep blood inside Mr Huer, where it belonged! Still, the baby was found eventually and with Miss Braints strong arms to carry her and broad back to shield her, she was soon back with her mother. There was much merriment in the Pony that night, drinks and food flowed like local folk had all struck gold. And at the centre of it all sat the rescuers, knowing that their fates were now irrevocably entwined. As he drifted in to sleep, slouched forward on to the table, Althane at last begun to think that perhaps uncle Frain hadn’t made up all those stories like everyone said!

[AIKI-KEN]

A spectacular spray of blood from the troll's eye splashed over the floor of the gaping cavern as Harry’s arrow met its mark.
“Oh what am I doing here?” Harry thought as he fluidly strung a second arrow into his bow, “They told me it would be fine, nobody mentioned trolls!”
The troll barely reacted to the arrow, seemingly completely oblivious to its sudden visual impairment, and continued to cause havoc in the ranks of Harry’s wavering companions. Again he shot and again the effects were minimal, but the troll's rampage was halted as it stepped right in the middle of one of Taka's spike traps.
“He may be a bad man,” thought Harry “but I’m glad he's here”
The trap didn't do much in the way of harm to the great creature bar slow its’ charge and Harry could see his friends focus and renew their attack. Yet another arrow flew towards the troll yet again to little avail, this was not working.

It was then that the goblins entered the fray. Harry saw Braint become overwhelmed with anger, killing two in as many heartbeats. The goblins were distracting the company from the greater danger and even Harry’s small brain realised that given time, the troll would break free of its’ temporary confinement and doom his friends to the unspeakable soup of a goblin cooking pot.
Harry knew what he had to do; another arrow flew from his bow and a third goblin went down
“At last I’m of some help,” Harry thought as he loosed yet another. Finally finding himself a purpose in the midst of chaos, the fear that had been holding him back from using his abilities to their full began to dissipate. His arms relaxed, his hand becoming a blur as arrow after arrow was sent to the enemy.

“All that training is finally coming in handy,” thought Harry “I know I won the tourney but that doesn’t seem like such a big thing anymore.” Never in his wildest fantasies had Harry envisaged his skill with the bow being used in such a way, but then never in the wildest fantasies of any that knew him, was Harry likely to be in a situation like this.
“They’d never believe me if I told them.” Harry muttered quietly to himself. Harry was not even slightly aware of the many changes that had come over him; the deeds that he blamed on stupidity on his part were beginning to gain the respect of his companions. These hardened veterans of war, whose deeds by far outweighed his own, were beginning to feel a growing pride in Harry’s actions.

A foot taller than Harry and ugly beyond words, sword raised high and screaming at the top of its’ lungs, the goblin’s evil glinting eyes were focused on the back of Althy. Beyond Harry’s vision came the second, charging at Harry with all its strength. Unaware of his current peril he strung an arrow, paused to be certain of his aim and let it fly, a sharp whistling sound followed by a thud and then momentary silence as the dying goblin stopped screaming and busied itself with choking on the shaft of wood that had just materialised inside its’ windpipe.

Harry fumbled as he was drawing his next arrow and it clattered to the floor, as he stooped to pick it up he heard a whoosh of air coming from where his head had just been. Harry looked up to see another goblin, laughing with savagery as it raised its rusty and dirty sword. He dived forward and rolled, landing on his back, but still the goblin came. Harry looked down to his right and saw the arrow that had saved his head. He quickly placed it on the bowstring and just as the goblin began to swing his vicious blade Harry released his bow. The arrow took the goblin low in the chest and knocked it backwards into the path of Huer’s axes, its head jumping from its’ shoulders and bouncing off the wall.

“It’s about time we got you a sword Harry my lad.” Huer laughed as he cleaned the blood off his axes.
Harry looked around at the carnage, Nightspell disposing quickly of the remaining goblins and Kimli continuing to hack at the dead trolls head quite beyond what seemed entirely reasonable. He, Harry had survived, Harry the Meek from Buckland, mocked for his constant lack of bravery, had survived an encounter with a troll.
“They definitely won’t believe this when I get home.”
It must be said that Harry was rather put out when a couple of turns in the winding cave passages later, a similar situation reoccurred. By the third time he was in the swing of things, though not sufficiently to abandon his customary in-between-wars cry:
“Can we go home yet, I’m hungry?”

[Eggwood Woodward]

Comfort and warmth… Those were the two words that Merrygail thought of when she thought of her peaceful home in the Shire. Sitting in her favourite spot on a hillside looking down on the sea of mottled pink and white flowers dotted around the tiny burrows as the trees blossomed in the spring… absorbing the aroma of the flowers and the freshly cut grass rising up in the summer heat… watching the leaves turn a gorgeous pallet of red, brown and golden yellow as the autumn set in… warming her feet in front of a roaring fire as the snows of winter finally arrived. These were the things Merrygail associated with her home, the things that inspired her to sing. For many years, it had proved to be enough for her, and she did not long for anything else. Home comforts were all she needed.

Recently though, things had started to change in the Shire. Strangers now roamed the dusty roads bringing ugly rumours with them, and in the surrounding lands a dark shadow had started to descend from all directions. It seemed to drain some of the scent and colour from the landscape…

In recent days Merrygail has spent many an hour sitting in her favourite spot and looking down on the sleepy burrows. Life went on below as it had for years, as if nobody had noticed the change in the light. She could see it though and she could not stop looking at. The trees seem charged with a new light and seemed to sway even when the wind was calm. It was as if they were restless…

As she sat huddled in her shawl twilight began to descend from the east and plumes of smoke rose began to rise from the tiny homes below as shire folk prepared their tea. A cold breeze nibbled at her plump feet and turned her skin a pale purple, but Merrygail did not notice this. She was engrossed by the landscape. Her eyes stared unblinking. As the sun withdrew its final rays of light from the hills to the west, a large full moon rose up and cast its milky light on the sleepy scene below her. But there was another light too…

Out toward the Woody End a subtle green glow seemed to emerge from the trees. Merrygail blinked when she noticed this and started to feel the chill in the air… She stood up and drew the shawl tightly around her tiny frame. She blinked again, then stared once more at the delicate hew over the trees, they seemed the be beckoning her… voicelessly whispering her name…

[The Frenchman]

Huer had sat his massive frame by the fire and stared suspiciously at the Dwarf in front of him. He’d spotted him sparring with young Harry on the South Downs, by the Bree road outside Tharbad, and decided to ‘bump into’ him on his way north. As it turned out he had nothing to fear. The Naugrim was a toy-maker who travelled from Erebor to the Blue Mountains regularly. Nalnain was his name, and a jovial seeming dwarf he was. He had simply seen young Harry bearing his sword uncomfortably, and sought to teach him a little, introducing him to his friends in the process, and a merry time that had been by all accounts. Huer could not have hoped for better for the shy young hobbit, and left the smiling dwarf to his business.

He wondered about those brave young hobbits. Merrigail of the crystal voice, Harry who sought to overcome his fear at every turn and Althane, who for all his to tempering the horrors of the road with the strong smelling leaves he chewed, was behind Huer at every dark moment of battle, tending his wounds before scurrying off to relieve another. What he liked most of all was that they did not fear him, like most people did. The children of men ran from him crying, women looked at him with revulsion, and fear shone from the eyes of all but the strongest hearted men at his size and the scars they saw deep in his hood. It did not help that he growled at most of them, anticipating the reaction he was so used to, or pinned them to the ground with the anger in his eyes. Althane had trouble stomaching his appearance, but his polite efforts did not cause Huer to like him any less.
Huer asked himself if one day he would sit by a campfire being regaled with stories of these hobbit heroes, by others who had met them on the road, tales of courage and mighty deeds undertaken by ones so small. He chuckled. Nalnain had called Harry the Dragonslayer, it seemed most unlikely… With a grunt and an anxious look at the full face of the Moon in the cold night sky, he turned over to go to sleep, and the Dreaming took him again in its’ dark embrace…

He stood upon the rock on his hind paws, raging and shaking, his voice roaring his challenge to the foe below him. Before him the sky was shredded by the talons of an onrushing mass of dark clouds, boiling with red fire from the East. Below his rock and rage wave upon wave of goblins rushed towards him, as far as the eye could see, and they came for him, and he snarled and roared...
...The Dreaming tore and wrapped in on itself, night and fire falling upon him... Did others behind him take up his roar, answering the goblins with their war cries...? Was this the sound of great wings beating that he heard...? His Dreaming filled with blood, fury and death...

He woke screaming once again, furs sprouting from his limbs, and his palms blood soaked from the mark of his claws tearing his flesh. He tried to fight, to kill, but great arms were wrapped around him, strong paws held his chest and a warm tongue licked his face… The deep growling voice of the great brown bear spoke to him tenderly…
“Is it your dreaming again little brother?”
Huer sobbed and howled. A lost and wounded child as when those arms had first found him among the bodies of orcs scattered about that of Hueron his father. The same tongue had licked the boy of fifteen summer’s ruined face, torn off little by little by the orc who had tortured him in revenge for the death of his clan warriors. His Bear had first come then, and his last memory was rage beyond reason, and the foul taste of orc blood flowing from the throat on which he had locked his jaws…
“Be still little one, I am with you, you are safe…” The old bear whispered and stroked his head, tears in its eyes.
“Shadowborn, big brother...?” Huer held on to him, his great bloodied hands clutching at his dark brown fur.
“Where is the daughter of Eagle and Dragon, she was with you when last I smelt you?” Shadowborn asked.
“I left her before the Moon was full, I… I… I will not risk harming her in my Dreaming” The big Beorning stuttered “Not after the Trollshaws”. Shadowborn nodded and cocked his head. It was the full moon after the ill-favoured journey to kill a troll chieftain that the Dreaming had begun. Huer remembered that charge, Braint, Kimli and himself bearing down on two trolls, war cries resounding, the sound of Nightfall’s incantations behind them, then confusion, blind rage without direction, troll hitting troll, Huer’s axes slashing at Kimli, the dwarf’s weapon slowly falling towards Braint’s neck, biting… her blood flowing… Huer remembered the rest as madness… He’d pounded the cave wall till his hands were pulp as the others desperately tried to revive her. He’d know that in her loss and anguish over her betrayed folk she yearned for death in battle. That her people called from beyond the river, but the thought of the young woman coming to harm was more than he could imagine without the rage overtaking him and tearing down all the weak barriers he had erected to control it. At the next full moon the Dreaming took him, awoken by his anguish…
“Did more of the Dreaming come?”
“A little, feelings, I still do not understand why I am not my Bear…” Huer sat and started feeling for bandages to wrap around his hands. His Bear was a hulking mass of muscle below a hairless torn face, terrible to behold. The Bear in the dreaming was different…
Shadowborn watched over him for the next few nights, till the Dreaming subsided, and lopped off into the forest to tend the wounds his brother had inflicted him in his madness.

At the next moon the dreams came again, though this time Braint rode to them, having heard Huer’s cries from the road. Shadowborn could barely contain him, and had called to her in terror as she passed, both in warning and in a plea for help. She sang to them, and the Beorning had stilled to great sobs in his brother’s arms. The Dream had changed, and Huer was not alone, an army behind him faced the goblins as evil came from the East, and Braint fought at his side… As he had sworn a blood oath he would fight by her, to wrest the sword of her ancestors from the Uruks…
Shadowborn lopped off into the forest, well pleased. Little brother was safe, at least till the moon unveiled her whole face again. The brown bear had decided he approved of the Daughter of Eagle and Dragon. She smelt nice, though not as nice as her horse, shame they’d both be angry at him if he ate it… He wondered what these hobbits Huer spoke about were like briefly then he wandered into the river to hunt salmon…

[SNarfel]

A few months prior............................

Uncle Frain had spent many weeks trying to cultivate a strange plant in the furthest most secluded corner of Grandpa’s garden. One day, about tea time, he called for Althane and beckoned him to sit at the table. He walked off and returned with a small bowl of leaves.

“Sit your self down Althane, you feeling hungry at all?”

“Well, it is tea time uncle, I thought that’s what you called me over for in fact”

“Well, yes and no. I called you over because I thought you may be hungry”

He picked up a leaf from the bowl and offered it to Althane.

“Chew on one a while lad”

Althane took the leaf and examined it suspiciously!

“What is it?”

“Well, if there’s no changing your mind about going out to see for yourself if what I say is true or not I thought I best help you. Especially as I will have been the cause of what the neighbours are calling strange behaviour on your part! Just chew it a while and tell me how you feel”

With a nod and a shrug Althane popped a leaf in his mouth and began chewing.

“It don’t taste very nice Uncle, cant I just have some cake and tea please?”

“Just chew it a while longer Althane, be a good lad and do as your told now”

As Althane sat there chewing, Frain tottered off in to the kitchen and came back with a tray full of cakes and a large pot of steaming tea. He seemed deliberately to put the tray in front of Althane. How you feeling lad?

Althane looked up at him, his eyes looked a little droopy and he had a happy care free look on his face!

“Erm, I feel good uncle, real good!”

“You still feeling hungry?” Frain gestured toward the tea and cakes.

Althane instinctively began adding cakes to his plate and pouring tea, then he looked up at Frain.

“Strange that, I don’t feel hungry as much as I did, or even should!”

He leaned forward and had a good look at the leaves, picking a hand full up and then letting them drop back in the bowl.

“What ARE these leaves uncle?”

“Something I collected on my travels lad, the strange tall folk who used it seemed to be able to do longer without food on hard journeys, and it seemed to aid them in some manner when confronted with trouble. Perhaps it just made them less likely to run in fear or perhaps the nature of the plant is more magical but whatever it was I found it too potent for my liking. My hope is that this variety should help you in a similar fashion with less of the ill effects, once you get used to it at least.”

Althane looked up in shock!

“Ill effects uncle?”

He got up and made for the window to spit out the leaf, but soon found himself flat on the floor.

Frain ran up to him and helped him up with a belly full of laughter.

“Careful lad, you’ll be feeling clumsy for a while until you get used to it. Don’t worry and have a bit of trust in your old uncle. You’ll be fine, here spit it out and have some cake and tea”

Althane nodded, agreeing to do as told and helped him self to the food and drink as his uncle continued to give him instructions.

“Now you take these, and when your sitting down chew on one perhaps 4 or 5 times a day to begin with. After a few months you should have grown to tolerate them, then use them when your running low on food or feeling anxious in a predicament”

He grabbed a satchel and handed it to Althane. The satchel was filled with soil and a heavily foliaged plant. The leaves were the same as those in the bowl.

“An odd parting gift you may think, but one which will keep your mind clear and help you more than a sword or armour perhaps. Keep it safe and care for it well for that is the only one in the Shire. Now, I need my afternoon nap, I’m sure you can make your own way out once your done”

Frain headed off for a soft pillow, Althane put the satchel round his neck and over his shoulder, pocketed a few cakes and was about to walk out when a small bottle caught his eye. He picked it up and read the lable!

“ Frain’s remedy number 21. Tonic for the failing labido”

A book was open nearby with a note under a similar title, part of which read.

“Proven most effective as once tested in Esgoreth”

Still under the influence of leaf, Althane muttered “Oh jubilation” let out a chuckle, grabbed the bottle and walked out.

[Eggwood Woodward]

It was late when Merrygail and Althane finally left Elrond’s library. The road to Rivendell had made both of the hobbits calf muscles ache terribly, but the excitement of having finally arrived, and the intoxicating sights and smells of the place had filled them with extra vigour…. Then there was the strange business of Huer turning into a bear…. Merrygail, was still not quite sure what to think about that, but it had startled her into being very wakeful! Merrygail noticed that Althane’s lack of sleep was beginning to take its toll; he wasn’t looking quite so jubilant.

Althane, said goodnight to her, and made off in the direction of the guesthouse. He mumbled something about the guesthouse beds being exceptionally soft as he trudged slowly away, barely lifting his feet, but Merrygail didn’t much feel like the idea of spending more time inside. Instead she stopped walking, and stopped on an ornate bridge.

Looking down on the pure still water, under the full moons glow, the water reflected her face more lucidly than any mirror. Her body was partially obscured by water lilies, but her face was exceptionally clear. Merrygail, wondered when the last time she had gazed upon her own reflection had been… Had it been back in the Shire that she had last allowed herself the vanity? She couldn’t remember clearly… so much had happened since the days when the spoilt daughters of wealthier hobbit families would mock her. Her appearance had mattered so much more then.

Merrygail sat down, her short but well proportioned legs, dangling over the edge, so that she could get closer. Fixing her eyes upon, her features now, Merrygail noticed how much her face had changed in the last few months. Her eyes looked smaller, and her chubby cheeks looked thinner and there was something altogether more graceful to her appearance. She didn’t look so much like a baby anymore.

Baby Face; that what was Pansy Bracegirdle and the others used to call her… Merrygail wondered if she would say that if she were to see her now. She smiled at this thought, not because she knew that Pansy would envy her, but because she realised that she didn’t really care anymore. She also felt slightly ashamed. Shire affairs seemed so trivial these days. She had begun to realize how large the world was and how small hobbits were in comparison.

Gazing upon the crystal clear water, as the moon formed a crown upon her mirrored head, Merrygail noticed that something else had changed in her face… There was something strange about her appearance… as if she was looking at another person altogether. With a sudden plop a fish briefly surfaced under the reflected image sending ripples out across the water. It made her blink. She refocused her eyes upon the pool, the face that gazed back was like her own, but quite different. The eyes that stared back were kind and wise. The skin weathered like an ancient tree… Suddenly, as quickly as it had appeared the water rippled again and the image disappeared. Merrygail continued to gaze, but could now only see herself gazing back.

[SNarfel]

Althane was quite amazed at what he had already seen outside the borders of the Shire but this Mr Elronds valley was quite unlike anything else! It was like being in a really pleasant dream all the time, or perhaps having had a few too many leaves. The elves certainly enjoyed their singing and of course you didn’t have to understand the words to understand the songs. He was quite certain now that they had done the right thing by bringing artefacts to Mr Elrond rather than giving them to the Mayor! Of course it was just as well for Mr Huer also, what with his curse and all, but Mr Elrond had the matter in hand now, he seemed to know a fair bit about the strange condition for sure!

After having had his fill of apple pies, he had gone to the library with Merrygail. On seeing the library he was quite certain that the elves must have chopped down a whole forest, so much for loving trees he chuckled. The librarians were very pleasant folk, although they did back bite a bit, he concluded that librarians must be the same regardless of race. The lady on the upper level told him that the keeper on the lower level was quite mean, and something altogether unpleasant would happen should he try and go in to locked areas! Well, Althane found him pleasant enough, especially after he had told him what the lady said! He was so pleased in fact that he allowed him to keep a copy about the Olvar and Kelvar. Why they don’t just call them plants and animals he just couldn’t fathom! Still, he thought he would read it and try and understand it on account of Merrygail being very worried about some change in the trees. That was for tomorrow though, as all hobbits know it is bad manners to read a good book when tired, so he bid good night to Merrygail and made directly for one of those lovely soft elven beds

[the-small-print]

// Well, Seb, you did ask me to contribute.....



"Eight out of eight! Excellent! Once more now, come back around!"

With a brilliant thrumming of bunched nerves, excitement and danger, Braint, daughter of Gwyddhien and Cardagos reined her chestnet mare around and galloped her back towards the makeshift spear stand, now empty but for one long-toothed shaft.

The pounding of hooves and the rush of the wind in her ears kept up a momentum that was echoed by the drumming in her chest. She cantered past the stand and took up the last spear, tossing it up into the air and catching it again arm-raised so that its tip faced the straw bag model of the Great-Urk that was her target.

"Keep her straight, put fear into the enemy with your charge! Let him see that he is already dead!"

On any other day she might have resented Luain for his constant advice, but the spirit of the day was almost as high in him as it was in her, and she paid him no heed. The moment of the charge was hers, and his calls turned themselves in her ears into the terrified screams of the Great-Urk of the Mountains and the hated Torbruggi cowards as they turned and fled before the storming hooves.

Fifty paces, thirty, twenty five... now!

She cast the spear. A pang of terrified regret hit as her knuckle was clipped by the butt of the spear leaving her hand.

No no no! Let it hit! Let it hit!

The spear waggled in its flight and veered right, but not by much. With a heady rush of exhilaration, she heard the hushing thud and crack as it passed cleanly through the target's thick neck, severing the wooden pole that represented its spine. The spray of corn-grey dust became in her battle-lusting eyes a spurt of black-red blood as the head flopped sideways, held on by a few thumbs of rough reed sacking. The thick iron helmet dropped with a thudding smack onto the wet grass below and rolled to a halt.

Whooping her victory at the top of her lungs, Braint leapt from the saddle in a manoeuver she would never normally dare to try - the warrior's dismount at the gallop, perfectly executed. The Gods were with her today, and she could do no wrong.

She came to a running stop in front of Luain, whose eyes glowed with pride. A lesser man might have wept at the moment, but the scarred old warrior, decked out in his full compliment of ragged kill-feathers and with his golden wolf-headed torc about his neck stood to attention with an expression of fierce-faced joy and pride which was almost too much for Braint.

With all the strength and depth he could muster, he called into the air,

"Gods! Ancestors! Here is Braint nic Gwyddhien, Eagle-Dreamer and Warrior to the Cambriani!"

His voice boomed and echoed around the god-filled valley she had chosen as the place both to seek her Dreaming and to take the spear tests that were the final part of her initiation. The meltwater-swollen waterfall behind roared its approval and the great standing stones thrown down into the valley echoed the old Warrior's voice and sent it back to them a hundredfold, filling Braint's mind with his words.

He banged his fist to his chest and then threw out his palm to face her in the salute of one warrior to another upon victory in battle.

Braint fought with all the strength she had to control the exhilaration welling inside of her, and to stop it from bursting out as tears. She returned the salute with good grace and only a slight blur in her vision. The two warriors stood for a moment, statues of dignity, reveling in their shared pride, and then there was the joyful rumble of laughter as Luain stepped forwards out of his salute and flung his arms wide. Braint choked a laugh and tears began to roll down her face. She leapt forward into his embrace, pressing her ear to his chest to hear the cavernous booming of mirth, and breathing in the smells of horse and wolf and man that always hung so strongly and reassuringly around him.

"Perfectly executed, Brother-Daughter!" the giant exclaimed, slapping her on the back. "Your eyes are the great eagle's of your Dreaming, and the dragon's fire burns in your heart. Your enemies will fall before you like corn to the hook! Come now! Let me look at you..."

With this he took her firmly by the shoulders and stood her an arm's length away, looking fondly upon her tear-streaked, beaming face.

"Oh, now that won't do! This warrior has no battle-braid in her hair!" he called out theatrically to the empty valley. He took from his pouch a two-tone grey dove's feather and showed her how to braid it onto her hair.

"There, in the mark of many more and of greater value to come, my warrior," he said to her, clapping her on the shoulder.

Choking back an ecstatic giggle, she shot a covetous glance at his many kill-feathers, all genuine and bound about by gold or silver wire, a mark of the many battles he had fought and the turns of the wire numbering the dead. Amongst them were three of the ragged black crow's feathers with the quills dyed in a dark grey-green that were most highly prized of all, as they showed that he had fought the Great-Urk of the southernmost tip of the Cloudspine, those who came without warning but with a massive stance, a regimental discipline and a sheer monstrous energy that could not be stopped except at bitter price.

"Now then! Let us bundle up your spears and go to fetch your serpent-sword. I am sure that is what you have been truly waiting for!"

Laughing and joking they set about tying up the bundle of spears and strapped them to the saddle of Luain's tall dun stallion. All were already grouped as they had been plucked from the chestplate of the target except for the last, which had buried itself in the tussocky long grass and frosted wildflowers behind.

They mounted and turned their horses to face home, away from the mountains, delighting in the fine weather the Gods had chosen to send for the first true day of spring. The clear, bright blue sky and golden sun warmed the soul and the skin against the last remnants of crisp and frost that still hid in the shadows, and the trees were laden with swelling buds that would soon become flags of the perfect emerald-green that only spring leaves could achieve. The Dreamers' grove of tall, twisted holly trees still bled with the last berries of winter. A brown hare bolted for their cover, heavily pregnant and wet from the melted frost.

It was a long ride and they spent much of it singing in tandem the stories of their people; of Ordovec and his rejection of the Darkfather, of Freca's murder by the Forgoil King Helm, and Wulf's victory that came so close before being snatched away along with the horse-plains; and of Maroc, whose Dreaming was so strong that she rocked the very peaks of the Cloudspine, collapsing the caves of the Urk who had beset them and leading her people to victory.

A cloud that Braint had not even seen pulled across the sun, taking with it the warmth of the day and a measure of her good humour. She stopped singing and furrowed her brows at Luain, seeing that he had also become more alert.

"What think you, Uncle? A sign?"

The bear-like man flicked the battle-braids from his face and looked around, frowning.

"Perhaps," he rumbled. "The gods speak more clearly to you than they do to me, my girl. Do you feel warning?"

Braint nodded mutely. The tingling up and down her spine was not born of the shadow alone, and she tried to see which of her senses was telling her to beware. She could not smell anything out of the ordinary, just the flowering gorse and the musk of a passing fox. Meltwater rushed distantly in a stream, cut by the flopping splash of an eel, and a few crows clattered overhead.

"There! Smoke!" she hissed, a cold hook tugging at her innards. "There is smoke over the village!"

The old warrior growled as he looked out towards the billowing column of black smoke that had just begun to rise a few hills away, exactly where their path was leading.

"Quickly! To the gallop! I smell treachery...."

[the-small-print]

He kicked the dun stallion into a gallop and Braint reined her mare after it, all the joy of the day draining from her to be replaced by a sullen dread. Her mind raced almost as fast as the branches could whip past her head.

Betrayal... but who? Berkos of the Torbruggi? No, of course not. He was an open enemy, and a coward, and did not command enough spears or respect to attack the Cambrani in full daylight. Then who? Who among our friends would wish us dead without calling war upon us first?

The question swirled around and around in Braint's mind as she galloped, noting the froth forming around the horses' mouths and the rasping of their breath, and each time it found no answer. The two neighbouring tribes were oath-sworn to her mother, and would risk the gods' wrath for such a crime. Also, each was too small to attack alone. We shall see. If they have hurt Lanis, I will skin them all alive.

Braint could feel her steed's energy sapping away and failing as they began the last rise, over which lay the village. There came clear the sounds of screaming and shouted orders, the clash of steel on steel and proudly-sung battle-songs.

Oh Gods, they're losing. They are singing their death-songs.

The hard-run mare finally stumbled as a rock gave way beneath her hoof and weakly kicked, trying to stand. Braint rolled off and began to call to Luain, whose stallion was breathing like a saw and had bloodied foam at his lips.

"Luain... we must go in on foot, they are - " she stopped dead as a monstrous snarl came from over the rise, and was answered by an equally horrible roar.

"Urk! Urk! They have Urk!"

Her panicked voice rose high like a girl's, not with the steady calm of a warrior.

Her heart was hammering at her chest and there was a whining in her ears. Luain growled and leapt down from his horse. He cut the thongs holding the bundled spears and let them tumble to the ground. Taking the bundle, and tossing one to her, he gestured forwards. She ran weak-legged to the top of the slope and for a moment stood awestruck at what she saw. The hillfort was burning in several places, and a large part of the wooden pallisade had been torn down. The Cambrani warriors had held their ground though, and a line of them filled the gap, keeping their shields linked and fighting bravely against....

....two hundred Great Urk were swinging their great toothed swords with the strength of maddened bulls, and dashing at the warriors' faces with their iron shields. Behind them, jeering, was a man in a white cloak, not of any apparent tribe, surrounded by five of his guard.

With an enraged snarl Luain tossed his spear with all of his enormous strength. The man's jeering stopped short as the spear caught him fully in the back and buried itself up to a quarter of its length in his flesh. The guards spun around with cries of alarm and anger, and began to dash towards Luain and Braint, swords and shields raised. Luain took up another spear and hurled it, and then another and another, whilst Braint stood mutely by, holding her spear upright, dumbfounded and held by bowel-clenching fear.

The first spear missed, but the second and third were blocked by the mens' shields, forcing them to drop them and run forward bearing only their swords.

"Braint! On your guard!"

With a roared curse Luain drew his sword in one hand and hefted his smith's hammer in the other. He hurled himself at the attackers. One fell instantly, cowed into dropping his guard by the giant's anger, and another was too slow with his shield, catching the hammer fully in the throat. He collapsed, gurgling, to the muddied earth.

With a jerk, Braint realised that she was standing idle when she should be fighting to the death alongside her uncle. She regretted the lack of sword and shield, with which she was best trained, but instead leapt forward, eyes wide with fear, swinging the spear at the nearest warrior's throat, and kicking sparks off the rim of his shield as he blocked the swipe. She leapt aside from the counter-thrust that came from under his shield, and brought the butt of her spear around, whirling towards his face, and feeling the slight sickening knock as it caught and broke the bridge of his nose, sending him staggering back into Luain's sword thrust.

Another of the guards lay dead at his feet, and the fifth was running for the cover of the Urk line. He tumbled and fell as another of Luain's spears caught him squarely in the small of his back, and lay moaning and writhing upon the bloodied grass.

"We can't get through here... too many!" Luain roared, looking about wildly for another entrance. "There! The Gods' gate!"

A hundred paces around the great palisade wall, there was a small, wooden gate that every man and woman of the tribe had used just once, as he or she returned from her Dreaming in the wilds, in the dazed and gods-filled state that marked their movement into adulthood. It was sacrilege to enter it at any other time, for whatever purpose, but it was the only way into the fortress.

Four Great-Urk relentlessly hacked, cut and splintered the beautifully woven signs of the Dreaming that were painted upon the sturdy oaken gate, grunting their effort and curses to the few warriors who were on the other side, barricading it against them.

Braint ran after Luain towards them, her legs shaking as if she were in a fever, and the cold sweat on her palms causing her to drop her spear twice and stumble on the uneven ground.

The rushing whine increased in her ears as she crouched behind a small birch tree with Luain, twenty paces behind the raging Urk, and his low rumble of instructions sounded muffled to her, and her mind raced to emptiness, taking clumsy moments to understand his words.

"Their armour's weak at the back of the legs and under their ribs, but the warriors above the gate would as well save their arrows from that angle." Surely enough, the two bowmen in the nest above the gate shot straight down onto the Great-Urk and found no gaps in their thick platen armour.

"I'm going to cast my last spear to get their attention and humble one of the damned things maybe, but you must get inside. You can't fight them with just a spear in your hands, and an eagle can fly over a gate where a wolf can't. Those bowmen will get a prettier target with the cursed blackskins coming for me. Now, away! Behind the yew, there!"

Unthinkingly, Braint lurched upwards and ran shakily towards a stunted yew-tree ten paces to Luain's right. Five paces from it, the meaning of his words struck her.

He's going to die so I can get over the wall. Oh Gods....

She turned and stumbled, looking imploringly at him where he crouched, his battered old handsome face set in an expression of determination and barely-surpressed rage.

"Luai..."

Her dejected choke of protest was cut short by a glare from the warrior, and he gestured harshly to the yew tree again, his fingers making a sacred sign that assured her instant obedience. Trying desperately not to burst into panicked tears, Braint turned and ran the last few paces to the yew tree and hid herself as best she could.

Luain burst from behind a tree with the roar of a dragon, casting his spear with all of his strength. It found its mark where the plates met on the back of one of the Great-Urk, which made a gurgling roar of rage, arching over backwards and dropping its weapons to clutch at the spear protruding from its back, and presenting its throat for the bowmen above. It fell, two shafts projecting from its throat, landing so that the spear pushed its way almost through the chestplate. The three others looked around, dumbfounded for a moment, and then charged, roaring, towards Luain, who held his sword and hammer ready. Almost not daring to look, Braint felt a tingle of panic at her back and broke from cover and rushed towards the wall. An arrow caught one of the Great-Urk where the tendons stood out in the back of its knee and it fell with a grunt, catching another in its exposed hamstring.

The wall did not seem to be coming any closer, and rocks jumped and rolled from the mud beneath her feet as Braint ran up the short hill. There was a horrible sensation of the skin on her back tightening in expectation of the hooked blade that would surely sever her spine at any moment, and time slowed, so the wall seemed a year's run away.

With a final rush she planted the butt of her spear into the ground and leapt with all of her might at the wall, using the spear to vault upwards as she would onto the back of a horse. With a crash that knocked all of the air from her lungs, she hit the wall, managing to grasp between the splintery wooden spikes that served as battlements with her left hand and swung painfully from side to side. She fought for a breath. It did not come, and the screaming and roars of battle became muffled in her ears.Her vision turned red, tinged at the blurred edges with black.

She felt her legs collapse beneath her and cold angular rock pushing painfully at her ribs and realised that she must have fallen, and would now certainly die. She pulled with all her might for a breath of air, and after what seemed an eternity, one came racking into her lungs. The terrible sounds of the world returned.

Fueled by this insignificant victory, she fought desperately to stand, and to her infinite surprise, found that she could. She tottered for a moment, light-headed, and then stooped to pick up her spear. Turning, she jogged back a few paces and pinched her eyes tight, too late. She had already seen the two strewn bodies of Urk at Luain's feet, and heard the monstrous snarl of rage as the last of the three, who wielded a great two-handed sword and no shield, lifted his blade and swung so fiercely that it could not be blocked by the tired warrior.

[the-small-print]

Her ears conveyed to her the ringing 'tang' of a sword being knocked aside, and the sickening slapping crunch as the sword found its way from collar-bone to hip and out the other side.

Unable to contain an eruptive sob and a feverish wave of nausea, Braint turned and charged at the wall, screaming her tear- streaked plea to the Gods, throwing her full strength at the spear. She felt the swooping rush as she sailed through the air towards the wall. She hit higher up this time and felt a hand grasp her elbow and roughly yank her upwards. A cry of alarm did not quite block out the methodical grunt and thrumming swish of the Great-Urk Captain as he swung his grisly sword from behind her blind back. There was a splintering thud as its hooked tip buried itself in the palisade, and her foot was twisted aside as the halted blade ground grittily against the bone of her heel, mixing her blood with Luain's.

In a moment of exquisite pain and grief, she felt a rush of panicked energy unfurl inside her. With a roar of effort, the two warriors atop the wall pulled her up and over the built wooden spikes, which rasped roughly across her belly before she flopped to the platform deck, breathless and stricken numb with grief and terror. She felt for the briefest moment the tingle of relief at her rescue, and a heartbeat later felt it swamped with a pouring rage which could not be quenched.

She leapt to her feet, drawing in a deep, pained breath, and grabbed the tip of a pike that was rested against the guard-nest inside. Tossing it up, hand over hand, she turned with a terrible scream of rage that shook her very bones and raked at her throat. She rammed the pike down with all the strength the Gods would lend her, and its tip speared viciously through the up-looking eyehole in the Urk Captain's helm. With a blood-rage the like of which she had never felt, she felt the scraping pike pass through the back of the helmet, and heard the crack as the weight of the loose shaft twisted the dead Captain's head back so far that its neck broke.

The two warriors stared at her, open-mouthed with amazement, but she had no time for them. Four able-bodied swordsmen had been barricading the gate below and were needed elsewhere.

She leapt down from the wall and landed in a tumbling roll that found her on her feet again, not noticing the hundred pounding pains or the gritty sting of mud working its way into her heel.

Inside the fortress, she could see where the smoke had come from, as it lay still chokingly thick above the ground. The Greathouse was aflame, as was the Elders' place, and several sections of the wall. Massed warriors moved in blocks, cloaked in the black-rimmed sky blue that marked them as Cambriani, fighting savagely against the metallic storms of energy that were the Great-Urk, and singing aloud their wish for Mandedd to take their souls when they fell.

Anelis, the Elder Dreamer, stood beside the burning greathouse, and such a ferocity was in her eyes that Braint quailed. All the years were stripped form her as her eyes burned with flickering red fire, screaming incantations that caused the very flames of the thatch to leap up and plough into the lines of Urk, wrapping their foes in an incendiary embrace which caused them to drop their weapons and wail, tearing at their skin and letting off a foul black smoke that made their fellows gag and choke.

The rest of the Dreamers stood around the greatest of the roundhouses that was still whole, chanting in unison with a power that made the grass ripple and wave and the air sparkle with brilliance. Flickering blue bolts of light shot from them, furies condensed into blue flame, which massed into the Urk, causing black sprays of blood and demolished muscle where they hit, and making them drop their guard so that the Warriors could plunge their weapons in.

But still the Warriors sang their death-songs, and from where she stood, Braint could not see why. She pelted towards the smithy, thinking to find her father, or failing that, at least a sword. Inside, there was no one, except for a few scattered parts of Efnal, who worked the bellows. He had seemingly been torn apart. Stemming a violent wave of nausea, she forced her warrior's eyes to glance about for a good weapon.

A number of good blades hung from a rack, but each had a bare tang and no handle. The only sword that was whole was the testing blade, notched and partly blunt from where a hundred better blades had struck it and left their mark, but still, it was the right weight, and its metal was as good as any made by their enemies. She grasped it and ran outside, scampering up the conical thatched roof to overlook the battlefield.

What she saw made her sway and nearly fall. The two hundred Urk she had first seen were all slain, and the ten or so warriors who had survived and could still limp were dashing as fast as their tired and battered legs could carry them towards the main fray, which came from the western side of the fort. Four hundred Great-Urk were battling with as many warriors, formed in a great saw-toothed line, shields locked, pushing forwards and stamping on the fallen warriors with their great iron-shod feet.

What made the tribe's fate inevitable was the hundred mounted men, cloaked in white and bearing spears, who were galloping at the warriors from their left flank, tossing their spears and waving their swords with a great roar of impending victory.

Braint looked about wildly, the feeling of a hook at her stomach tugging so tight now that she was surprised her insides did not burst out. Her breathing came shortly, in gasps of panic.

Where are our horses? The only cavalry I see is theirs!

And then she found them, a tumbled mass of bodies, outside the far gap in the palisade, all soaked with blood and with the shafts of spears and lances standing proud from them, the occasional glimpse of their coloured cloaks flapping in the wind or lying blood-weighted over the bodies. The briefest moment of pride welled up through the horror as she realised that the bodies of the Cambriani horsemen were less than half in number than those of the enemy, and that.....

....the faces of all those she knew who would have been in that heroic charge flashed up before her face, smiling and joking, tending to their horses with a loving care that was so rare amongst the tribes.....

The grief bit at her throat, and she half-slid, half-tumbled her way down the roof, her eyes swimming in hot tears. Her limbs were shaking, and the reality of the situation hit her in one black swoop.

The Cambriani are no more.

When she reached the bottom of her slide at the eaves, she stood shakingly, and tried in vain to wipe the tears from her eyes.

She ran forward, towards the house around which the dreamers stood, flinging their final curses before being ridden down by the white-cloaked traitors.

The hundred or so Urk left standing roared their victory, and the shivering desolation of it coursed through Braint on a wave of renewed nausea. The screams she heard now were not warriors', nor hurled challenges and curses, they were the screams of the children and elders as the Urk made a great circle and took their pikes, thrusting them at the screaming crowds as they ran for their lives, and set their ends into the ground, raising their grisly trophies high into the air.

The final blow that stopped Braint dead in her tracks, aghast, came atop one of the pikes. With a crippling shock, Braint spotted the green-clad form so alike to her, except for the hair, which was the colour of wet straw. She was dressed to her best - a torc at her neck and a heavy gold bangle around her wrist, hanging limply at her side - in readiness for her sister's homecoming as full Warrior and fourth of the Royal line of the Cambriani.

[the-small-print]

That sight hung in her mind, as Braint sat sobbing under the blackthorn hedge, the walls of Bree looming darkly through the rain off in the distance. She could not remember fleeing like a kicked hound into the wilds, nor what had happened since.

The first day of autumn dropped its heavy, clinging rain through her muddied sky-blue cloak, and all she could remember of the time between then and now was when after two days she had returned to lay as many brave warriors as she could upon the death-platform, so that they might find their way across the river into the care of the Gods and Ancestors, and might never again be disturbed by the grief of the world. Everything of value had gone; all the gold, silver, and most of the swords, including that which was hers: the Ancestor-sword borne by her father and named Mona, that she had last seen being tossed into a sack by a Great-Urk Warlord, his belt pendant with the freshly cut heads of warriors and their families.

....Lanis' face had been beautiful even in death, the birch-bark strip of the Dreamer at her brow, a slight, knowing smile upon her lips and eyes closed as if in sleep.....

Braint had wept herself hoarse as she had tidied her sister's hair and drawn in her own warm blood the mark of her Dreaming inside Lanis' forearm, to guide her on her journey to the other side. She had found her father, and her mother, and all three of her brothers and laid their hewn bodies beside Lanis, close in death.

....and Luain. Never had she had such a task before, but she did the best to make him whole, binding his cloak tight about him, and had lain him by her father; his brother, with his sword and hammer upon his chest, and the head of his killer placed as an offering at his feet, the cut-off pikehead still projecting from the back of its helmet and holding the head within.....

It was the best she could do, and now she must simply ask the Gods to keep their bodies for one year, until their journey was complete and she could burn their bones, and speak their names without fear that they would hear her and turn back out of pity, losing their way. Until then....

Until then.



//Ask and you shall recieve, Sensei. *bows*

[The Frenchman]

Braint pulled the reins and rode on, as the clatter of her powerful black steed’s hooves on the Bree road began to fade, Huer turned away, his fingers running down the spine of the journal they had found. He frowned… Twice the spirit had visited them… though this time at least it had left some hint as to the purpose of its’ pleading.

Huer sat by the fire, on the rim of the hill, the journal on his knees, a comfortable tree trunk at his back. He stared into the leaping flames, watching the embers glow and crack. In that yellow and red dance he saw his Bear, raging and tossing goblins about him… He shuddered. Though his Dreaming had abated a little, and he found he could call the form he called simply No-Face unto him with less danger to others than before, the images and feelings of that battle to come played on his eyelids every night.

His friends had got him to Rivendell on time, Braint pushing him unto her horse as he snarled and shook, fighting sleep and the Bear under the moon. Huer hoped he had not frightened the hobbits overmuch, he knew Shadowborn had been terrified he would have to hold him down, and fight him till dawn to keep the others safe. No-Face was his match, and the blood of brothers would have been spilled in the darkness.

It had all started when they had tried to help Taka. The likeable rogue had wanted do get into the good books of Tharbad’s mayor, and had offered to undertake a task for him. Huer bared his teeth angrily at the memory of the fell deed he had asked of them, and mourned the spirits of that place, there for protection against a great evil that they had had to fight. He would rend that mayor from ear to toe. At the last they had found that they could not obey their instructions, and made for the Last Homely House. The boat journey had been terrible for the Beorning, as he stood, battered by wave and rain at the prow, watching anxiously for the moon.

In Rivendell he had changed, and the violence of his Dreaming had receded like the tide, suddenly washed away by the peace of that valley and the presence of Hir Elrond. Since then he had spent much time there, seeking the stillness it brought to No-Face. All was well for a while, and he had taken much joy in fighting at the elf lords’ command. After all, he had a hundred Urk heads to collect for Braint… His chuckle was interrupted by a soft growl and Shadowborn’s wet nose on his neck…
“You seem happy… What’s so funny?” the brown bear grumbled.

With a sigh Huer told him…

He’d been hunting with Muti of the Pukelmen and Agazil the Red Dwarf, felling trolls with joyful cries. The creatures had not stood a chance beneath the little man’s club, the Naugrim’s axe, and Urk-Reaper’s twin blades. Once again a wooden figure of a terrified fleeing Urk had been placed outside one of their caves, so that it and the rotting bodies would serve as a warning to any of the cursed creatures who might have thought of dwelling there. On the road home a traveller had told them of a famous trader selling her wares in Tharbad. He’s wanted to give Braint something in thanks for the beautiful great-axe she had gone to so much trouble to craft for him, and which had served him so well since. A hundred Urk heads was not enough, and anyway would take too long or happen in time, depending on how you looked at it. So after a quick discussion with Agazil of the Red Armour, they had formed a plan. Tharbad was a dangerous place for Huer to enter, since he knew not if the mayor had put a price on their heads since they had fled the city for Rivendell. The mayor had only met Taka, and Huer had not seen the grinning young man for a few too many moons. Huer had hoped the silver-tongued one had melted into the winding side streets of the poorer quarters, avoiding the Watch, and that perhaps when they met again he would have some information for him as to their standing in the city.

It had been hard to change into No-Face, but he had managed it. Harder still to pretend he was a dancing bear, amuser of crowds, so he could get close enough to the merchant. No-Face was no pretty bear, and the folk of the city had looked on him with the mix of fear, disgust and pity Huer was so used to in his human form, and few had thrown coin at them, despite Agazil’s booming banter. Wary of the presence of the Watch near the trader, but lacking any other solution, Huer had crept into an alley to change again, and hidden in the shadow of the blond woman’s stall to barter with her. There was a beautiful cold-forged sword he had his eye on, for even though it would never replace the blade of Braint’s ancestors, he knew it was keen and would sing in her hand, cutting through Urks like through water. Sadly either the woman was mean-spirited, or he was a lumbering idiot, because his attempts at discretion, his overly loose tongue, and his lack of gold had induced the trader to call the Watch. She had wanted five hundred gold pieces to hold her peace, and Huer had preferred to run for the gate.

The Watchman had been suspicious, and the situation was not aided by a young woman’s support of the trader’s story. Only Agazil’s angry denials, the lack of clarity with which the trader made her accusations and her fortuitous lack of a trading permit had saved Huer from a dangerous discussion with the mayor. He could talk it out with a watchman, but he’d most likely have put the mayor’s head though a wall, no matter the consequences… The big man rubbed his neck uncomfortably. He’d seen the evil machine they had in that courtyard for shortening those who had offended the city. Luckily there had been no mention of his Bear changing trick that he could remember, and Braint had arrived too late to involve herself in the discussion, or blood might have been spilled. The three of them had left Tharbad in a hurry.

On the road they met Krystell, the young lass from the South, whose support of the trader had nearly got them covered in chains. Krystell was young and of such a light heart it had been hard to begrudge her ill-spoken and foolish words. They travelled together to Bree, since the lass was insistent she should repay Huer with a drink…

“Yes that’s all very well Little Brother, but what possessed you to go to that stinking Man place? You’re a fool! Risking your neck like that, I can’t leave you for a day without you…” Shadowborn snarled with worry.
“But, look at my axe!” He laid the axe-head beneath the bear’s nose, watching the way fire and moonlight mixed and gleamed on the shining metal with a fascinated grin.
“Yes, yes, and next you’ll be telling me she looked really pretty with her little paws and snout covered in soot…” Shadowborn jumped on him, batting him across the face with a heavy paw. Huer grabbed his neck and started rolling him down the hill. The trees emptied of birds as the night air rang with the sound of bears fighting…

It was not till morning that Huer remembered that the spirit he and Braint had first met in the Foothills of the Misty Mountains had returned to them in Bree, beseeching them for aid. A screaming hobbit had run past their table. And Barliman had gratefully accepted their offer to investigate, as long as Krystell stopped talking about rats. Cold had filled the small room where the skulled spectre wrung his hands desperately, and visions of snow-capped mountains had filled their minds. A frost bitten journal they found on the wooden floor seemed to offer some explanation. Perhaps the apothecary mentioned in its’ yellowed pages might offer some greater understanding of the mystery. It seemed the road was taking them back to Tharbad after all…

//Bit of a 'how much of what has happened to Huer in the last two weeks can I cram into a post' but I hope it reads ok ;)

[Eggwood Woodward]

It had been raining for five days non-stop. It was impossible to keep everything dry. Kix sat under the makeshift shelter with her pale wrinkled feet facing the campfire. The skin covering her toes resembled prunes, having been exposed to the wet for so long now. Her tiny boots sat besides her looking dirty and pathetic, their furry trim, grey and matted. Father had made her very sturdy boots and comfortable, they had been lovingly crafted by his own hand. They had been a snug fit when they were new, but children’s feet grow quickly. The boots had started to grow uncomfortable. It also didn’t help that the leather was now soaked due to the constant rain.

Kix watched her father. He was busy cutting wood, and so didn’t pay her any attention. Her father was broad and strong, like an oversized dwarf, she thought with amusement. His balding head was covered in a mixture of sweat and rain, his kind eyes focusing on the swing of his axe.

She had done nothing but complain when they first arrived here: A distant memory now. She remembers mother scolding her for her complaints as they wandered destitute along the twisted wooded paths.

“I’m afraid it’s a fact of life and you are going to have to put up with it!” Mother had snapped.

“But its cold and wet here mother, is their nowhere else we can go?”

“That’s enough now Kix! You must be strong! The Orcs may be only one day behind us now. We have no choice but to keep moving.”

But she was too young and too scared to know any different. How much things had changed since then. When mother had died that winter, Kix felt her childhood vanish almost over night. She had a new role to fulfil. She had to learn quickly the skills that she needed to survive in the forest. Her father was no woodsman, having been a shoemaker in his former life, but his craft skills had proved very useful and he learned to adapt his skills quickly to the surroundings. Father hunted, crafted tools and made shelter, whilst Kix gathered wood for fires, and prepared the food. Together they learned the ways of the forest. During the bountiful seasons, they had lived quite comfortably, but they were always busy and there was never any time to complain.

During the winter season when there was much to complain about, there was even less time to do so. Food was scarce and the weather worsened. They had to keep working so just so they could keep warm. And throughout their time living in the deep forest, danger was a constantly looming. Trolls came hunting once the sun had fallen, and other shadowy beasts passed through the forest. At nights Kix and her father would creep off away from their camp and up into lofty heights of a hefty ancient tree. This was where father had made a secret haven for them above the forest. Here Kix and her father could sleep safely away from the dangers below. She felt at peace here as the swaying of the tree rocked her to sleep. She felt cradled and protected as the broad branches held her. Strange noises grumbled in the trees below, but they rarely disturbed her, whilst father slept lightly with his bow and sword close by his side.

[The Frenchman]

Huer crept back into the forest, leaving Tharbad behind him. He had crept in under cover of darkness with Kix, the young woman he had met at the Ranger's camp, and Krystell. It angered him to use No-Face's form to get into the city, but he could find no other solution. They had scouted out the sewers as a possible option for a more discreet entry, but if anything that fruitless effort had left him angrier and in need of a long bath in a river's clear waters. Something was rotten in the city of tharbad, but he could not put his finger on it. Kix had seemed to know something, but Krystell's presence made her hold her tongue. Huer's trust in the Southron girl was fading rapidly, her show of wide-eyed foolishness and innocent beauty smelt wrong to the big man. He was used to being looked at with fear or pity by women, and it was rare that they sought to charm him... but he knew what an ambush felt like, and that was the feeling in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps the elves, or Kix if free to speak, would cast more light on the darkness in Tharbad's heart...

//been posted elswhere, but thought I would keep the IC stuff together as well, please throw stuff at Huer if this is bad... He is rather partial to boar but dislikes tomatoes...

[AIKI-KEN]

It was a source of amazement to Harry that he could ever miss any factor of his adventures; he certainly did not miss the confrontations. He was however, secretly impressed with his improvement with his bow, he had thought himself adept before but now his skill was beyond his ability to measure.

It was a warm day and the smell of spring was strong in the air as Harry cleared the last rise and came into view of the river. It had never been a glad sight in Harry’s eyes, moving to Buckland when he was in his early teens it had been a constant source of fear in the young hobbits heart, one of many, but now the evening sunlight glanced of the rippling surface of the water he was filled with a strong sense of well being; this was where he belonged, he was not an adventurer and was certainly no soldier.

He strolled along the riverbank humming a simple tune, sword swinging gently by his side, as if an extension of his hip. There was no awkwardness in his step.

Harry had never been good at making friends. His early childhood had been a solitary one; with no kin and only his mother to keep him company, His father, a hunter, spent most of his time away, he had never developed the outgoing nature that can be found in most hobbits. Living a half-day’s walk from the nearest village Harry seldom spoke with other children and it was only when they had moved to buckland, after that terrible day, that Harry began to spend time with other young hobbits of his age.

Much to Harry’s distress the youths had been almost obsessed with adventures, their heads filled with strange tales of a hobbit named Bilbo. It was not long before Harry’s peers discovered their new companions timid nature and began to taunt him. The game of “frighten Harry” was never a hard one to win and the more they played it the more Harry withdrew. Through his isolation Harry had come to believe that people were cruel and harsh, that he would never feel comfortable around anyone but his mother. Yet again his thoughts strayed to his companions of the last month.

Lost in his thoughts Harry followed his feet over familiar paths and as the sun set behind the distant hills Harry arrived at his aunt’s small dwelling. The small round doors and windows seemed somehow unusual to Harry. Having spent the best part of the last month abiding in the bustling town of Tharbad, Harry had become quite accustomed to the many-floored stone buildings.

As the days passed Harry began to find himself overcome with boredom. It was a delight for him to be in the company of his mother, whom he loved deeply, but the lack of things to occupy his mind began to frustrate him. Harry tried to practise his archery, spending hours at a time in the garden shooting at the worn target that had occupied him for so many years, but it could not satisfy him. Shooting the target was just too easy for him now. There was for Harry an aching in the gut, one that no amount of food would get rid of.

The boredom increased rapidly each day until Harry had finally had enough. On the advice of his cousin (his aunts husbands brothers son, a close family tie as hobbits go) who was a minor hobbit sheriff, Harry took a job delivering letters around the shire. The job, to Harry’s surprise, quite suited him. Never in the past would he have been willing to venture away from home on his own, now he found it quite relaxing.

It was on one of these long journeys across the shire, west to Hobbiton, that things all started to go wrong for him.

[AIKI-KEN]

One evening, preparing to make camp, Harry came across a pair of elves. Strange to look at and queer without a doubt, the creatures put a strange foreboding feeling in Harry’s stomach, one that even the most gargantuan of meals will not put right. It was not that they looked dangerous, although they most certainly were, or even smelt foul, it was simply a feeling, and Harry was never one to disregard those. Carefully, as only hobbits can manage, Harry edged off of the road and made his way round the strange creatures, giving as wide birth as he could and making sure to keep his footsteps silent. This was another skill that Harry had almost perfected through his childhood as one of his many methods of making the game “frighten Harry” that little bit harder for the other children.

“Hello there” said one of the pair, slightly shorter than the other and looking directly at Harry. Upon hearing his companions voice the taller elf looked up from what appeared to be a map and smiled at Harry.

Startled, Harry acted as though he had not heard the elf and continued to make his way slowly from the pair. This however was useless, as the tall elf had begun to walk towards the apprehensive young hobbit, leaving the option of avoiding a meeting out of the question.

“Greetings friend” said the tall elf as he approached, the shorter companion followed behind, now looking fairly disinterested.

“Hello sir,” said Harry, trying desperately not to show his astonishment that he had been noticed, “Can I help you?”

“In fact you can young master,” said the tall elf, “we were just in the process of making our way to a place called Buckland.” he gestured towards the map, “It appears to be by a river, but we’ve not seen a river for days”

“It’s not far sir, I can take you there if you’d like” said Harry, his good manners taking effect before he had time to stop himself.

A strange man, clad in green, armed with a great bow and a long sword rode slowly towards the group, dismounting unnoticed by Harry to the greeting of the short elf.

“That would be greatly appreciated young master,” said the tall elf “please, lead the way”

Holding back from kicking himself for his stupidity Harry turned round to make a move and walked straight into the side of the newcomer. Stumbling backwards and tripping Harry fell, only to be caught by the scruff of the neck by the newcomer and lifted back to a standing position.

“I’m ever so sorry sir!” exclaimed Harry, failing to keep the redness from his cheeks, “thank you.”

“That’s perfectly alright master hobbit,” said the man, “and who might I have the honour of sharing in this collision?”

While he was speaking the short elf muttered something in elvish to his companion and began gesturing towards the west, from where they had just come.

Harry smiled politely at the man, glancing occasionally at the elves for a moment, a blank look in his eyes

“Your name, master hobbit. What is your name?” said the man; an amused smile flickered across his face.

The elves now turned towards the west and began to run, lightly across the dry dirt road, kicking up no dust. As an afterthought the short elf called out a farewell as the two rounded a bend and went out of sight.

“You’re going the wrong way,” cried Harry in a strangled voice, too late to be heard. Letting his head drop momentarily he groaned, Harry turned back to the minstrel, “o-dear.”

“I’m sure they know of some secret short cut,” said the man reassuringly, “the actions of elves are oft beyond the rest of us, but please master hobbit, your name if you will”

“Oh… yes, my name is Harold sir, Harold Bracegirdle, from buckland” he answered, bowing clumsily

“Well met master Harold, I am Malweth Erdil”

“People normally call me Harry sir, it’s a little less of a mouthful”

“Then Harry you shall be”

“If you don’t mind my asking sir, what might you be doing in the shire,” Harry said, relaxing after the man’s polite manner “it’s not often that we have big folk in the shire, that is, men sir”

It transpired that the man was a minstrel, from Gondor, travelling to the grey havens, west of the shire, and then onwards to visit a friend in the mountains near that area and the pair agreed to travel together as far as they followed the same path. Dusk was beginning to settle at this time and the man lifted Harry into the saddle in front of him and sped their way to the nearby village of Frogmorton where they spent the night in the inn, ready to travel fresh the next morning.

In the inn a strange tension was about. The barman looked fearful and the noise in the place was more of a quiet murmur than the usual loudness found in the inns of the shire. Harry himself was content to sit quietly while he ate his morning meal and was unaffected by the strange atmosphere. Harry’s new companion however was not.

Getting up he said to Harry “I’m just going to have a word with the barman”

Harry groaned audibly at the minstrel’s insistence to become involved and tried to make the most of eating his breakfast.

“A monster you say” the sound of the minstrel’s voice travelled to Harry, putting him off of the remainder of his meal.

As the pair left the inn to continue their journey the minstrel began to ask more questions about the marsh that bordered the north side of the village. Much to Harry’s distaste there were many mentions of adventuring and excitement, two things that Harry was almost certain he wouldn’t like.

Sitting down outside the stables waiting for the minstrel’s horse to be readied the subject of the “monster” came up.

“Young master Harold, I think there is an adventure here waiting for us,” said the minstrel with an excited glint in his eye that was quite beyond the understanding of the hobbit.

“If its all the same sir, I’d much rather just continue travelling, I’ve got an important letter to deliver sir” said Harry, knowing very well that the letter in question had been waiting for delivery for several months and would probably not be missed if it was another week or two late.

“Come on Harry,” said the minstrel, his eyes now alight with energy, his hands twitching with the thought of the adventure, “surely there must be some adventure in you?”

“None at all sir,” said Harry stubbornly, “I’ve had my fill with adventure.”

“That my friend is an impossibility,” said the minstrel, now pacing in front of Harry, “surely you’ve felt it”

“Felt what sir?” Harry was now completely confused.

“The aching,” said the man, “it’s like a burning in the gut that cannot be quenched. It is caused by adventure and only the excitement of an adventure can get rid of it. It is like an addiction. Surely you’ve felt it Harry?”

A glint of understanding came to Harry, a shocking revelation that he could not bring himself to accept. “What you need sir is a good meal, when I get a rumbling in my tummy that always sends it packing.”

“Come on Harry, time to go” said Malweth exasperated.

The minstrel collected his horse from the stables and began to lead it away. “Come on Harry,” the man paused, “here, Harry, I believe I know a short cut.”

Satisfied that the risk of adventure was almost completely gone, his judgment somewhat affected by the aching in his stomach that had still not subsided in spite of the enormous breakfast that he had just devoured, Harry got up and walked after his companion.

[AIKI-KEN]

Taking his horse by the reins, Malweth lead towards the north. The pair travelled at a gentle pace happily talking until they reached a small stream that bordered an area of lightly wooded marshland.

“Are you sure this is a shortcut?” asked Harry, a little uncertain.

“Calm down my friend,” replied the minstrel, a mischievous smile crossing his lips “the elves aren’t the only ones who know secret ways”

Entirely out of character Harry accepted this and continued to make his way behind the minstrel through the swampland. They walked for another hour before Harry began to regret his decision not to contest this longer.

“Best arm you lad,” said the minstrel, stringing and arrow and loosening his sword in its sheath.

“You never mentioned any fighting sir,” said Harry, preparing his bow nonetheless.

“It’s to be expected in an adventure my lad” said the man, loosing his arrow and drawing his sword, “you’d best know how to use that thing!”

Before Harry could protest he saw something that chilled his blood. Speeding towards the pair where seven creatures, each half as big as a man and green in colour, one of the seven had an arrow protruding from it’s shoulder and began to lag behind the group. The creatures brought to Harry’s mind the toads that used to inhabit the pond at the bottom of his garden and as they drew nearer Harry saw that apart from their size the only difference between these creatures and those were the enormous claws that scraped the ground as the creatures leapt towards them.

Harry, calmed by the sudden absence of aching in his gut, took careful aim and released, taking the foremost in the side of the head as it cleared a rotten tree trunk and hurtled towards his companion. The creature died in mid flight and plummeted to the ground at the feet of the minstrel, only to be followed by a second who’s head was cleanly removed by the minstrel’s gleaming sword.

As the group of creatures reached their goal the remaining five split, three heading towards Malweth and two for Harry who only had time to shoot one more arrow as the creatures closed on him. His arrow took one of the three high in the chest and it collapsed, knocking the minstrel to the floor.

The two other creatures reached Harry, coming from either side. Dropping his bow Harry drew his short sword and plunged it towards the closest of the attackers. The strike missed its mark and the creature swung its great claw at Harry’s head. Diving out of the way of the blow Harry rolled along the floor and regained his feet. As he rose he pulled his small shield from his back and took the wide stance that the dwarf Nalnain in Tharbad had taught him. The two creatures, now side by side, approached more slowly. Jumping forward to his right keeping, Harry made a slashing cut at the one of the pair, keeping his shield raised against an attack from the other beast. Harry’s blade glanced off of the creature leaving only a small scratch on the creature’s chest.

“Cut through the universe” muttered Harry, recounting the dwarfs words he cut again and watched as his short sword cleaved through flesh and bone, slicing through the creatures chest and killing it instantly. At this moment the second beast leaped at him. Forcing up his shield arm again, Harry threw all of his weight towards the second creature, thrusting his sword through the monster’s throat, as it’s great claw slammed into Harry’s shield knocking him from his feet and on to the corpse of the first dead beast.

“You’ve had your fill of adventures have you?” said Malweth, grinning he pulled Harry to his feet, “I’d say your better at dealing with danger than you think. You certainly know how to use that bow”

Calmness had settled over Harry, the shaking that he associated with the end of conflict was lessened considerably. Harry was happy. The fear that had held Harry all of his life had cleared for the first time, it had left his body with the aching and he had stood his ground. Pride filled the young hobbit. Speechless Harry collected his bow from the ground where he had dropped it and returned his sword to its sheath. There was the barely perceptible beginning of a grin on Harry’s face.

“Come on Harry” said the minstrel, turning away from Harry and beginning to walk, “the adventure’s not quite over yet.”

Harry, fingering his bow eagerly, took little heed of the minstrel’s words, following him with a look of excitement in his eye.

The pair faced many dangers that day. As evening settled the pair stood by the corpse of a creature much like those that attacked them upon their entry to the swamps, different only in size. The beast, it’s corpse littered with arrows and its head lying several feet from it’s body, was twice the size of a man in every dimension and truly horrible to behold.

Crouching by the body, Harry began to pull his arrows from the brutalised corpse. Upon removing the last arrow from the beast Harry stood, picked up his bow, and looked at his companion.

“This wasn’t shortcut, was it sir?” said Harry a wry smile on his face.

Chuckling the minstrel replied, “Not as such Harry, come, let us return to the inn and get some rest. I still have a journey west to continue.”

Grinning broadly now Harry set off behind the minstrel, both fear and the aching were absent now and Harry felt truly at peace.

The pair came across Malweth’s tethered horse and sharing the saddle, they rode together the remaining miles to the frogmorten.

Harry walked alone into the inn, the minstrel busy tending to his horse in the stables. A small pang of hunger ached in Harry’s stomach as he sat down at the table nearest the fire, he realised suddenly that it had been almost a full day since he had last eaten a good sized meal. Shocked at himself Harry ordered from the barman an enormous meal of roast boar and all the fixings, this, he thought, would satisfy his gradually increasing hunger.

As Harry finished the last morsels of his meal, as fine a meal as he could have desired, the minstrel entered the inn. Strange to Harry was the realisation that the feeling of hunger had not disappeared, he was certainly full and had even refused a third course, forgetting entirely the possibility of pudding. The dull aching in Harry’s stomach was stronger now, and with it came a sudden awareness of the people all around him in the small inn, Harry let his shoulders drop and made himself appear small.

“There you are!” called out the minstrel, heading towards Harry from the bar with a jug of ale in one hand and a two pitchers in he other, “I couldn’t see you!”

Looking up at his companion of the last day Harry gave his old self-conscious smile and sat quietly staring at the burning embers.

Malweth gave a knowing smile and poured out the ale.

“In time it will slow,” said the minstrel, moving closer to Harry, “each time you fight it will return more slowly”

Looking up at the minstrel Harry smiled, “will it ever go completely?”

“Now that is something I do not know,” replied the minstrel, returning Harry’s smile, “for myself it does not return now for some weeks and I have, to some extent, learnt to delay the ache, but it’s coming is inevitable. I am fortunate in that I am strong and brave, compared to some at least, so I am able to face that which will end the feeling readily and without fear.”

“Is battle the only way to get rid of it again?” asked Harry; it was beginning to dawn on him the significance of this on his lifestyle, among other things.

“I’m afraid so Harry, battle and adventure, as far as I know are the only things that will take from you the aching. We are like the drunk with his bottle, the urge to drink is only satisfied by the drink itself, and yet it is the drink that causes it all I the first place.”

“How can I face battle if I am afraid of it as I always am?” asked Harry, recalling the pinning fear that had struck him before every encounter leading up to this day.

“I did not see fear in you today, Harry, you may be braver than you think”

It astounded Harry that people kept telling him that he was brave when he himself knew that he could not be brave, the fear that was on him was too strong, no one as afraid as him could be brave. “The fear went away when the battle started sir, along with the aching, but I was still scared sir, before that, I was scared to the core. What should I do Mr Malweth, how can I live with this constant ache and too much fear to do what I need to get rid of it? ”

Smiling sadly, the minstrel looked at Harry “I am sorry Harry for I believe this is something that I cannot council you on. Bear in mind what I have told you when you decide how you live from now on but do not look to me for advice for only you can know yourself well enough to make the decision.”

A wave of understanding flowed across Harry, deep down he had known that he would have to make a decision, that something would have to change, but only now did he understand. Standing Harry excused himself and made his way to the toilet his short sword still strapped to his hip. On the table remained a small bundle of letters tied together with a piece of string.

A small dark silhouette climbed from the round window on the back of the inn and headed east at a slow jog, a short sword swinging at it’s side and a clear purpose in it’s step.

[the-small-print]

Braint shouldered open the heavy door to the Pony, her hands laden with the hares she had caught, and two plump pheasants hanging over her shoulder, their necks dangling against the stained sky-blue of her sodden cloak.

She was met by a variety of sullen stares and the guttering light of a dozen oil lamps. Bertram Appledore sat huddled in a corner with his brother and three friends, each of whom wore the special look of resentment that they kept just for her. Braint smiled a humourless smile under her dripping hood and kicked the door shut behind her, wiping her feet on the muddy rushes and straightening up.

Bertram had not been able to walk easily since last week - a fact he owed to an ill-judged attempt to woo Braint, given courage by no less than seven flagons of ale. This had not made Braint overly popular within Bree; Bertram and his brother Rowlie were well known and liked through the town, and she was a grim-faced outsider with little humour and strange mystical marks upon her arms and legs. In fact, the only face inside the Pony who seemed pleased to see her was that of Barliman Butterbur, the balding innkeeper, who bustled over and admired Braint's catch happily.

"Well, you've done me a favour and no mistake Miss Braint! We're fresh out of hares, and those pheasants'll go down a treat once they've been hung for a week or two. I'll just get Rugni to make you up something now...."

He took the game from her and bustled off towards the kitchen, breathing heavily through his mouth and looking furrow-browed at a small slate in his hand, scratching tally marks upon it.

Braint quietly moved to an unobtrusive corner with a brightly burning reed lamp and huddled close to it, allowing the warm fug of the room into her bones. The burning rushes....

The fire-sprites hugging close to the Urk, making their skins crack and pour smoke... the Great-house burning, the air shimmering with blue. Braint nic Gwyddhien, leading a charge of five hundred horse against the attackers, cutting them down like corn to the hook. Standing victorious, Warrior-queen.....

"Here you go miss. I'm afraid you'll have to move to the ground floor for tonight, we're all full up upstairs."

There was a warm thud as a bowl of steaming soup and a flagon of ale were set upon the table before her, with a small loaf of crusted bread.

Eagle-dreamer, Warrior-queen....

Braint nodded her thanks to Barliman.

Her neck still stung where she had ripped off the plaited golden torc, and her hair was matted and tangled, bearing no braids.

The red-faced portly innkeeper gave her an encouraging grin before turning away and calling out for his assistant in a loud voice. He was a good man.

Braint tore off a chunk of bread and dipped it into the soup, letting the smell of it fill her nose and steal her attention. Chewing slowly, she savoured the mouthful, swallowed and took a swig of ale. Concentrating on the flavours and guessing the ingredients helped. It meant her mind was occupied and not free to wander.

".... all orcs and goblins, said he!" Braint looked up sharply. The speaker was Rowlie Appledore, brother to the unfortunate Bertram.

"On my honour, last week it was, took that ole Missus who lives out past Bromley's place. House cleaned out and burned to the ground, an' her an' her son visitin' her, all taken away and eaten up!"

The Great-house burning, the air shimmering with blue. The screams of the children and elders ringing in her ears. Lanis upon a pike, raised high in the air, still mouthing her shock as her lifeblood drained away.....

There was a growing whistle in Braint's ears.

"Well I never!" interjected Bram Oakley in an angry grumble. "I 'ad the young man muckin' out the pigs fer me last week! Baril were 'is name. Cheery young chap and a good worker to boot. What's the world comin' to, I ask you...."

Coward. Runaway.

Braint turned quickly in her seat and cleared her throat, causing him to jump and spill his drink. He gave her an unhappy grumble and looked away. The others glanced at her with mixed looks of suspicion and derision, muttering into their drinks.

Braint's pulse was racing, and her expression fierce.

"Where? Where are these goblin? These orcs?"

Braint felt her tongue stumble on the harsh-sounding language. She had been being tutored in it until her bleeding came, but the time after that had been filled with numerous ceremonies and rites, and so she had had little chance to practice.

"What business is it of yours, eh Miss?" asked Bram, giving her a suspicious leer.

"You want them dead? Tell me where they are."

Rowlie laughed.

"You mean ter say that you're going to go and kill 'em all, Miss? Just you by yourself? You'se mad I say. No girl's a match for a band o' goblins, true as it rains in spring!"

Braint's mouth twisted as she bit back an angry retort.

"I did not ask for your opinion, sir. I asked where they are," said Braint, narrowing her eyes at him.

...not a coward, not a coward...

Bertram gave a measured sneer and leaned back in his seat airily, adopting a businesslike, mocking tone.

"Well now, gents, it seems what we have here is a genuine firebrand. I say we should tell the young lady where these disreputable characters might be found, so that she can save us from them!" He gave a pompous smile, which Braint returned mockingly. "And I think a wager is in order!"

"Hrrr, aye! A wager!" growled Bram appreciatively. Braint gave him a venomous look.

"Well, my dear, how sounds this: if'n you return to this place bearing the head of the chief of this meddlesome band" - he gave a disbelieving wink - "then I shall give you twenty silver pennies and a round of ale, eh? And if you, say, return battered and bruised, or without the prize, then you shall give me - ah - the... pleasure of your company, for one night. Eh? What say you?"

The flare of anger that might have left Bertram headless was stayed by a gruff look from Barliman as he shook his head disapprovingly at the man.

"Now now, Mr. Appledore, let's not be making no silly wagers that'll get the young lass killed! I thought better o' you..."

"Sixty pennies," Braint cut in.

Fool. 'The pleasure of your company'. I could agree to that and spend a night throwing rocks at you.

Barliman gave an unhappy groan and bustled over to Braint, meaning to discourage her, but before he reached her, Braint had grabbed Bertram's hand and shook it hard.

And so she found herself, two nights later, creeping through the dripping forest, her bare feet padding silently across the wet leaves and mosses. Her skin tingled under the woad-lines she had painted upon herself, the writhing form of the dragon grappling its talons with the sky-blue eagle. The gods were watching her, but whether there was approval in their gaze, she could not tell.

Her palms tingled. There was light over the next rise. Gripping the tangled roots with her toes, she climbed the slope silently. She could feel the cold wind raising goose-pimples upon the skin of her bare legs, and sending the loose leather of her tunic flapping. This day she was acting out the plans of the gods, for good or ill. No armour would stop the killing blow if she was meant to die, and her minimal dress showed faith and acceptance of their will.

An ugly chattering and rasping laughter rode on the wind, and as Braint grew nearer to the flicker of firelight, she could see the huddled, swarthy figures of a dozen goblins biting strips of meat from chunks of stewed bone.

A sentry fiddled with the strap of his crossbow, thinking himself concealed in a tangle of holly. He was not looking in Braint's direction, and she pressed a thumb to her forehead in thanks for it. She changed her course and drew her skinning knife from her belt.

Twenty paces... ten... five...

Braint's heart beat so hard in her chest that she was amazed the sentry had not not heard its clatter. Two paces behind, she stopped, adjusting her grip on her knife and feeling cold sweat roll down her back. Her eyes were wide and her tongue moistened her lips nervously.

Coward! Coward! Coward!

Achingly long seconds passed, and she did not move. The sentry sneezed and wiped his nose on his arm, leering into the darkness.

Her arms were paralysed by fear, and there was no way out. No way back now. A shivering terror and heart-rending sorrow welled up inside her, so that she was almost ready to drop to her knees and beg the goblin's forgiveness for her intent. An unbearable longing swept through her chest for strong, warm arms to close on her and lead her away; loving hands to give her spiced warm milk; a cheerful, rumbling voice to sing her to sleep by the last embers of the fire and keep her in peace. A tear rolled down her face, stingingly cold in the night air, and a tiny, shaking gasp escaped her. The goblin stiffened....

Never again. All dead.

... and the gods intervened. As the goblin began to turn, a decisive rush of rage took her and her arm darted out like a striking snake, the knife's blade pushing its way fully through the sentry's neck, and trapping the wind in its gullet, so that it could not make its death-cry. Warm, black blood welled up out of the wound and soaked her hand as she twisted the blade and followed the goblin to the ground, ensuring that it did not clatter.

She straddled its chest on the ground and pushed her blade slowly into its heart, allowing no darting scrape that might be heard at the camp. The goblin's beady black eyes fixed on her own, wide with panic and hatred as it clutched at its throat, mouthing wordlessly as a bubbling flow of black blood flooded its mouth and spilled over onto its face. She stared into those eyes as the squirming ceased, cursing it with all her soul and reveling in the creature's bowel-voiding terror and shock.

All dead....

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The forest seemed to turn blistering red and she stood, breathing levelly, and looked up at the fire. starting at a silent stride, she moved towards it, breathing harshly, light-headed with wrath and grief, but as she grew closer caution left her, and she drew her father's notched testing-blade with both hands and let out a wordless roar, her war-cry not finding the names that it so longed to give voice to, but nevertheless seeming to shake the trees to their roots and make the goblins cringe and cower, and sending one of them diving headlong into the fire in shock.

Nothing could stop her. The gritty long blades of the goblins shook in their hands as they madly swung at her, and the pommel of her sword crashed down onto the skull of one, sending it tumbling blank-eyed to the ground with a muffled 'crock'. Her blade whipped around and hissed through the air, barely slowing as it met the stomach of another, unseaming him and spraying his lifeblood over his bewildered and enraged fellows.

Another fell, and another. The slippery woad on her leg turned aside a long knife and her flapping cloak few in the eyes of its wielder, allowing Braint to bring about her blade and behead him.

She was vaguely aware of one of them roaring orders, its voice becoming more and more shrill as its audience was made into a bloody tangle, writhing in the mud of the campsite, and when none remained but it alone, she saw it turn tail and run towards the distant rocks, madly throwing its knife at her face.

Dragon-fire burned at her chest as she gave chase, ducking the blade and charging down the goblin with the speed of a wild horse. The goblin's many bangles and heavy helm were making him trip and stumble in the knotted mud and leaves, and a fearful glance over his shoulder caused him to run directly into a blackthorn bush, whose sharp embrace made him squeal and jump back into his pursuer.

Braint rammed him into a tree and knocked him to the ground, where he squirmed, hissing and squealing as she brought the dragon-headed pommel of her sword down into nose, and then again, and again, and again until the squirming gave way to twitching, and black blood stung in her eyes.

She stood, and brought her sword down once, decisively, removing his head. She stooped to pick it up, but as her heartbeat began to slow and she saw what she was reaching for, the battle-rage left her, and an uncontainable wave of nausea took her, followed by a choking sob and an unquenchable feeling of loneliness.

_________________________________

The door to the pony barged open once more, causing everyone within to jump and turn their heads. One or two reached for their weapons as the bedraggled figure pushed her way inside, soaked in black blood and reeking, her war paint smudged and blended until her skin looked blue-black and scratched, and her hair hanging in a dripping mess about her head.

The Pony's patrons gasped as one, and Bertram Appledore virtually cowered in his corner, his friends and brother visibly edging away from him as it became clear what they were looking at.

Braint walked over to his table and Bram Oakley fell from his stool in an effort to remove himself from the nightmare apparition. She dropped the mangled, pulverised, sodden thing onto the table by its hair and said, in a voice so much stronger than the one they had come to know as to be almost unrecognisable:

"There. Sixty pennies. Spare the drink, I don't think I could stand the company."

Bertram's mouth flapped, and a brief hint of argument crossed his face. Braint was impressed. She did not think he would have the nerve to argue.

"I... I - I mean to say, how do I know this is..?"

"Because I do not lie," She said flatly, her hand moving almost imperceptibly towards the hilt of her sword.

Bertram hastily looked down and gathered his purse, emptying its contents and looking imploringly at his friends to make up the remainder. They grudgingly did so, and Braint took ten coins directly to the bar and put them down in front of Barliman.

"For the upset, and the mess. Thank you, Barliman, for all of your kindness. I shall take my leave of you now. Keep well."

Not waiting for a response from the stunned barman, she strode briefly outside and disappeared into the rain, where old Vallan the beggar would awake the next day to find himself, unexplainably, fifty coins richer.

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///since Elenuial's thread (and this one actually) seem to have vanished through lack of use... I'll put El's story here




There stood a low hill, and upon it were five beech trees, greater in height and girth than all others in the sunlit glade. One was in the centre and the four were set about it in a ring. High in their branches hung a great hall; fair beautiful it was, with wooden arches and lofty balconies, and set upon one wall was a black banner, bearing the device of a white bird set against a dark tree, with a winding path at its foot.

The leaves rustled softly in the wind, and the forest stream gurgled sparkled its way through the trees, bright flowers growing upon its grassy banks. Perhaps only the very keenest of eyes would have noticed a small figure, cloaked and hooded, that was stealthily lowering itself through the branches of the most westerly of the hall-trees.

She would get into trouble for this, she knew, but Nana had said, had she not, that so long as the Tirinmen watched over her, she could come to no harm, and the Tirinmen could find her anywhere. Eleri would know where she was. No one was wiser than 'leri. Except for Ada, maybe. And Nana.

The watcher's head was turned.... Hastily brushing aside all other thought, the girl darted forwards, towards the deeper, dark shadows among the trees.

Once she was well clear of the glade, the little figure removed the hood that had been muffling her senses, and slowly panned her head around, listening for the slightest giveaway noise. As she did, she revealed a curtain of soft, straight, and braided golden hair the colour of a misty winter's sunrise, that framed a light-skinned and delicately beautiful face. Her eyes were a shocking emerald green, and seemed to sparkle brilliantly in the gloom cast by the cathedral-like silent canopy far above. Her slight, pointed ears were p ricked sharp and alert.

She had to go deeper into the woods. The Gaurohim lived where there was true dark, even on the highest summer day. She journeyed on for what might have been two or three hours, though she could not see the sun to tell, and she had not been counting, being too taken up with her own thoughts. Suddenly, a smell hit her nose that made her stop dead.

Wolf...

Her heartbeat quickened. The Gaurohim were wolf-people, had that not been what Ëarhith, the old scholar had told her? Wolf-men that lived in Greenwood's darkest depths. The girl wondered why they lived alone, without any wolf-women. How did they have cubs? Perhaps they didn't like cubs, and that was why they hid in the dark; so the wolf-women wouldn't give them any to look after.

Something caught her eye. High above in the canopy there was a flash of white and a flurry of wings. A ringing 'Craaaauk!' broke the deep, muffled silence of the woods.. Elenuial smiled, and her silky, lyrical voice piped high into the trees:

"Mae govannen, Hir Craban. Le tiria-or enni sen aur?"

The raven did not respond. Instead, it stared at her for a moment, cocked its head and then fluttered away back in the direction form which she had come.

The girl closed her eyes and let her nose impart to her all it could find in the still air. It was definitely a wolf. She recognised the rich, musty smell - like moss, yet more alive and animal - from her father's hall. The wine-keeper would sometimes wear his wolfskin cloak when there were important guests to stay, like Hir Thranduil, or Hir Elladan, Or Balin, that kindly little man with so much curly hair growing from his face, who had given her her pendant. She fondled it affectionately as she thought of him. A twisted knot pattern of bright, shining white silver shaped like the wings of a bird, mantling a little sparkling stone. It was much prettier than that odd man had been, but he had made her laugh and said kind things of her to Ada when he left.

She smiled warmly in the quiet darkness and wand wandered forward, following the smell. Perhaps she would learn all about the Gaurohim, and write songs of lore about them, so she could sing in front of the court and they would applaud her and call her wise, like they did when Eleri or Nana sang.

She was getting close now... the smell was thick in her nostrils and she could hear a feint rustling of decades-dead leaves and a slow, heavy pant a little way before her. She sped up, still making no sound, until she could see the massive shadowy shape, loping along in the darkness ahead.

Suddenly the shape stopped, and so did the girl. Its ears were p ricked up, and its nose was in the air, jerking up and down as it searched for the elusive smell.

There was a short pause, and the creature wheeled around and fixed its burning yellow eyes on the girl's . Its head bowed low to the ground and it looked her up and down. She smiled and bowed in return, with all the grace and respect she could muster.

"Suilad, Hir Gaura! Im Elenuíal, sell uin Hir Doronras ned Craban Nim! Treneri nin o Gaurohim?"

Elenuíal looked up expectantly into the creature's eyes, which were still locked solemnly on her own. She took a few steps closer and the beast let out a deep, rumbling growl that shook the air in Elenuíal's chest and made her ears tickle. She giggled.

"Tur Gaura! Dae Gaura! Bain Gaura! Im iest ista ned le, le alpedo anim?"

The wolf stopped growling and looked at the little elven girl in sheer bewilderment.

Here stood one of the arrow-people, a little cub. It was barely worth eating, and he was not hungry, but what was it doing? Standing there without bent string-wood or long-claw, it did not smell afraid, nor look it. It was showing its teeth, but it did not stand in threat. What did it want?

The wolf growled again, and Elenuíal stepped forward, laughing at the tingle in her stomach. One swift movement, and she had wrapped her arms around the wolf's neck and felt its powerful muscles bunch as the it jerked back and snapped its jaws at her.

The poor thing is afraid of me!

"Algosta! Tol-aphad!"

With a reassuring smile, Elenuíal turned her back on the great wolf and began to walk away. She heard no steps following, so she turned and beckoned to it.

"Apahad, Daegaura..."

The wolf turned its head to one side and made an unmistakably inquisitive noise.

"Hrmmm?"

Elenuíal laughed richly, turned and began to skip away into the shadow of the trees and, back in the darkness, the great, shaggy-haired beast watched, paused for a moment and then padded after her.




Note: I decided to stick to Sindarin for her speech, becuase as a young elf (something that I've never heard Tolkien discuss), it was the language that came easiest to her. And it sounds nice. What she says is not, for the most part, essential to the story. And just so you know, the wolf's name is now Taygara.

P.S.: Apologies for having to write 'p ricked'. If I removed the space, the forum seemed to think it was too offensive a word for your delicate eyes to see.

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Just in case anyone was desparate to know exactly what Elenuíal is saying:

"Mae govannen, Hir Craban. Le tiria-or enni sen aur?"
"Well met, master Raven. Are you watching over me this day?"

"Suilad, Hir Gaura! Im Elenuíal, sell uin Hir Doronras ned Craban Nim! Treneri nin o Gaurohim?"
"Greetings, Lord Werewolf! (She does not know it means werewolf) I am Elenuíal, daughter of Master Doronras of the White Crow! Will you teach me of your people?"

"Tur Gaura! Dae Gaura! Bain Gaura! Im iest ista ned le, le alpedo anim?"
"Strong Wolf! Shadowed Wolf! Beautiful Wolf! I wish to learn of you, will you not teach me?"

"Algosta! Tol-aphad!"
"Do not fear! Come, follow!"

"Aphad, Daegaura..."
"Follow, Shadow-wolf..."

Just realised the story might not have quite the same feel to it if you completely didn't get the monologue.... :)

[Uinen.]

*bumpety bump.*

[the-small-print]

Rain clattered down through the leaves in great, heavy drops and spattered onto the tired shingle roof, already sodden with years of weather and moss. Merren squinted up at it in consternation as he hobbled up the path, which was quickly becoming a muddy torrent. The bundle of haphazard sticks and split logs jangled dully and thumped against the heavy plank door as he stepped inside and kicked his feet against the rushes laid down by the doorway.

The sweet, earthy smell of vegetable broth hung heavily in the warm, muggy air and he smacked his lips appreciatively together, dropping his bundle next to the fire-pit in a jumble, and wiping his nose on the sleeve of his tunic.

The fading leaden twilight from outside was shunted away as the door closed, and with a clucking noise like an irritated hen, Mara set about sorting the mess of firewood into neat piles.

"I've told you more'n once, husband. It's not safe to be out at even'; shadows aren't