The Coming Together of Friends


Here we are lads, let’s get down to business. I’ve got things to do, but there’s not much I like more than swapping tales by the fire.

Now, about five years ago I happened through Lake Town. Not the new Lake Town, the old one that got incinerated by that old wurm Smaug. In fact, I was IN Lake Town when a peculiar group of dwarves happened through…yes, I’ve told that story before, that’s probably why you’ve heard of me…but that’s not the story I’m telling this time. This time I’m telling MY story, and that of my friends.

Who am I, some of you may be wondering.

I am Eboric. Some know me as “the jolly”, others may speak of me as “the hound of Galion” (spits), and I’d very much like to point out that that does NOT refer to me being his hound, rather it refers to my hounding of him…but that comes later. The truly lucky among you know me to be a cook extraordinaire…but tonight? My might spear has laid low the foulest of trolls (stabbing motion)…and the fairest of maidens (thrusting motion)...Oh sit down, ma’am, this is not a bawdy tale, I apologize if I wounded your sensibilities. Stop interrupting Leudast! The only troll I ever bedded was your mother!

I am Eboric of Beorn, and will be your storyteller tonight.

I am also thirsty. Dwarven mead? No thank you, too sour for my taste. How about a nice stout? Thank you.

Where was I? Oh yes. There was I time I was without purpose. Now, it wasn’t that I wasted my time or was a lay-about. Oh, no. I kept myself busy. Too busy; always moving on to the next place, never spending two nights in front to the same hearth, dedicating my life to what you see me doing right now.

For years I wandered the villages under Smaug’s shadow. Some of you I recognize, Hullo Kent!...someone get Kent one of those dwarven meads…from my travels. No Leudast, you’ve had enough.

So as I was saying, I wandered about, ending up in Lake Town about five years ago, and, as you know, things really went to hell there for a couple of weeks. Raging dragons, clashing armies…very exciting stuff…if I’m still in town tomorrow I’ll happily tell it again, but we don’t have time for it tonight.

So, the town bursts into flame and good King Bard drops ol’ flameshanks into the river with a splash of steam. I, along with just about everybody else who survived that night, ended up in the river paddling about. Damn cold, damn cold it was, even with the dragon’s heat. My berries climbed up into my stomach and my spear was but a toothpick, I’ll tell you!...sorry ma’am.

I spent the next few weeks around campfires, listening to the people of Lake Town’s stories and telling them a few tales of my own. It amazing how much people realize they had once it’s gone…and Lake Town was GONE.

Well, those dwarves? Everybody figured…correctly I might add…that it was those dwarves who raised ol’ Smaug’s ire. And they went to the Lonely Mountain to see what was about. I just knew a good story was in the making, so I signed on. No, I wasn’t planning on fighting anybody; I didn’t have a dog in this hunt…that’s an expression from the Woodmen of the Wilderlands…for those not in the know. Hell, I didn’t know there was going to be any sort of a fight at all. No. I was going along so I could keep folk’s bellies full and spirits light, and maybe make a little coin along the way.

Well, as I said, I wasn’t planning on fighting, but there ended up being five armies full of folk who didn’t agree with me. No, that’s a story for another time.

It was during the battle that I first saw the people who changed my life. That battle was the fulcrum that shifted what I was into what I am.

I saw her first. (swoons and staggers…gives a glance at Miriel)

Plucked out of sweetest dreams by Lórien himself and dropped, full of fury, in front of a horde of slavering goblins. Oh, it was from a distance I first saw her, but so great was the impact that were it a thousand yards it would be as just a few inches.

She was there with her two brothers Orophin and Oropher, and father Lindir, soldiers of the noble elven king, Thranduil. His band had come to recapture the dwarves…yes the same dwarves who roused the dragon… who had escaped their imprisonment for trespass. They had escaped from Galion (spits) the Treacherous, who was lost in the bottom of a bottle of wine when he should have been minding his duty, but such is his character…the soul of a drunken goblin trapped in the fair form of an elf…a wretched putrescent betrayer who disguises himself and strikes in the night…

Sorry, where was I?

Fair Miriel…for that is her name, and a fair name it is…believed the affair would be a great adventure. Such was not to be. She lost her family, and many friends in the Battle of Five armies. Never before had such a fair creature encountered the foulness that was the orcs.

The horde surged…and I lost her…but not for long.

It was not long after that I saw a young warrior, standing valiantly like a stone against the crashing waves of the sea. Cut and bloodied, bludgeoned and torn; yet steadfast and resolute, unyielding unto certain death, the young man stood, defending those who lay wounded behind him. That man? My dearest friend, Gylf, son of Gunnar Njalson. Yes, I have told the heroic tale of the final stand of Gunnar and his kin before…that’s Gylf right there; see near his hand? That’s the spear Fischadler, given him by the hand of King Bard himself! Say hello to everybody Gylf!

The battle was as horrific as only those who have experienced such things can comprehend. Just when all seemed lost, the tide was turned; the great eagles rained vengeance down from the heavens and the great Beorn himself came down from his mountain and tore through the orcs as the wind through the fallen leaves.

A part of me I had not known awakened then…I felt Beorn’s rage…it echoed within me. I, and several others, became echoes of Beorn’s wrath. We follow in his path for the rest of the battle…we follow his path now.

When it was finished, the goodly people stood triumphant. That day, that glorious, tragic day, Gylf became the headman of his family. Though Gylf did not yield an inch of ground, the wounds suffered by his father were too great.
My fair Miriel lost her father as well, also her brothers. Lindir, Orophin, and Oropher sacrificed their immortality for the free people of Middle-Earth.

(moment of silence)

Many were lost that day, many good men, dwarves, and elves. We would do well to remember the sacrifices of those who fought under the shadow under the Lonely Mountain…but those are stories for another time.

(moment of silence)

But we should not mourn them, we should celebrate them!

Cheers! To the valiant dead! To the heroes named and remembered! To the heroes lost and forgotten! To all who fought and died that day so we may enjoy this warm fire, this good food, and the company of all our friends gathered here!

(cheers and drinking)

After the death of Smaug and the defeat of the orcs, the rebuilding began.

Before, I had but seen my dearest friends. But now, I came to know them in Esgaroth and Dale.

Gylf, honored by his future king, continued to serve in the militia. He was able to build a fine new home for his mother, the marvelous matron Mairwen, younger brother Benedikt, and two sisters, Alvit, and Idnn, in the re-founded kingdom of Dale. It was in his house that our band came together and Mairwen nursed the wounded back to health.

Gylf’s injuries were great, and slow to heal, but in the comfort of his home he became strong again.

While Fair Miriel’s loss of her family and friends was horrible, it was not the real terror Miriel faced at the battle. That battle was her first exposure to actual wickedness, what with her being a child of the fair folk, long protected from such horrid things, and she had not yet really recovered. In ignorance, she had thought that the Dwarves were creatures of true wickedness for trespassing in the Mirkwood…never having seen creatures of the darkness before… but watching goblins spit and curse her as they died on her sword made her feel a kinship with all the good races of the north.

After the battle, Miriel stayed in Esgaroth, then in Dale for some time, helping the men to rebuild. Her injuries were also great…her view of the world had been shattered…something that I can understand all too well. I found her recovering there in the house of Mairwen. It was not the care of a chirurgeon she needed, for it was not her body what was injured.

I saw the shadow in her eyes and the pain in her heart; there were many survivors who bore such wounds. I did not yet follow the call of Beorn. I stayed to lighten the hearts of the people of Dale. I stayed with her until the light returned to her eyes. I stayed later because of the warmth I found there.

We all stayed while the cities were rebuilt.

Our friend, Thomas the Tailor…what a misnomer that is, far more than a simple tailor is he…became a companion through meetings such as this. He came to sell his wares to the people of Lake Town and Dale, following on the, excuse the expression, coat-tails of his countryman Bilbo Baggins...though to hear Thomas say it, he never planned to come this far, or stay as long as he has!

When he walked the streets, people, not ever having seen a hobbit before, assumed him to be the hero of my tales. Eventually, Thomas made his way to my kitchen and, having told the story of the Burglar Baggins time and time again, I found I had something of a soft spot for the small folk. I immediately took a shining to Thomas and always try to make the little fellow as comfortable as possible.

(puts Thomas’ feet up, hands him a beer)

The fact that the little man so knows good food when he tastes it, he is very fond of my cooking and stories…I must say he is a man of fine taste, that taste is apparent in his companions, and especially his wares.

On the subject of Tomas’s tailoring! All the splendid clothing you see on me, Fair Miriel, Noble Gylf, and young Otbert are his craft. Truly only the finest silks does he use! If the cost of fine silk overwhelms the ability of your purse to pay, he has many other fine fabrics available to you! If you have tailoring needs, please consider patronizing Thomas the Tailor, most excellent clothier of Hobbiton, Esgaroth, and Dale.

For three years, Miriel and I passed between the lands of Beorn and the Bardings, doing what we could to help during the formative years of these nations. Thomas traveled the lands too, sometimes with us, sometimes on his own.

During our travels, we met Otbert the Thrifty, an orphaned young man from the tribes of the Wilderlands, and the final member of our fellowship, and sent him to the embrace of Mairwen’s estate. Never will you meet a man who cares less about the value of a coin.

She took him in as a son…another person who had lost all to the foul orc. He became as brother to Gylf. His skill in the woods has served us well in our travels…

Despite our travels Dale was our home and Mairwen’s our house, though we did not always sleep there.

This is how we all came together, this band of companions. Our journeys though, they are a tale for another time.

Leaving Lake Town, parties and ruffians

When I was last before you, we spoke about how my companions and I came to know each other.
I traveled the lands between Beorn’s House and Dale with Fair Miriel for several years.

Gylf traveled with us from time to time, but his duties to Bard and his family kept him in Dale more often than not.

Good Thomas, once he arrived at Dale, found himself mostly trapped by its comforts. Certainly, he traveled to Lake Town and Erebor, making a name for himself and selling his wares.

Otbert split his time between serving Gylf and assisting us in the wilds.

We traveled the area around Dale together for a while, but there is not much to tell about the early journeys. Sufficed to say, we came to know, and trust, one another as any fellowship should.

Our first significant adventure together followed a party with a most famous individual.

You may recall that pebble tossed into the pond which rippled and roiled into the Battle of Five Armies was thirteen dwarves and one, lone hobbit.

One of these distinguished 13, Gloin, had taken up residence in Lake Town. He was, as probably needn’t be told, a close personal friend of the lone hobbit, Bilbo Baggins.

Bilbo, whose adventures almost everyone knows, had a very favorite tailor back in Hobbiton.

You see where this is going, don’t you?

It just so happened that Bilbo corresponded with Gloin about my friend Thomas and suggested that they make an acquaintance. Now, Master Thomas was not in any position to just come calling on Gloin, so it was up to Gloin to suggest a meeting.

And so he did.

And that is where our adventure began. Thomas and Otbert had been staying with Gylf for quite some time and Miriel and I had taken advantage of the hospitality of Gylf’s house for the winter.

The sky rumbled with the coming of spring, and Miriel and I were about to set out again when Thomas received a most distinguished invitation.

Gloin was hosting a grand celebration for his birthday at his house in Lake Town; and Thomas and his companions, well, we just had to go.

Obviously, as you can all well tell just by looking at me, fine dwarven society parties are not my usual venue. But! The incredible skill with silk and thread so commonly displayed by Thomas the Tailor was on full display that evening let me tell you! In just under two days, the industrious hobbit had outfitted all of us in the finest of regalia.

HA! Like a rustic king of old did I look!

Even young Otbert looked…distinguished…not thrifty at all!

Miriel…Fair Miriel…a vision in lavender and white, prettier than a spring flower, the gown subtly pushing forth her bosom, the dress clinging gently to her hips before...ahh, never mind.

Though he won’t admit it, even Grim Gylf had a smile on his face about his fine new clothes. He’d be angry if I said he looked kingly…so I won’t say it.

All of this, done on a budget achievable by any free man! Thomas the Tailor, purveyor of the finest silks and linens, and esteemed clothier of Hobbiton, see him at his shop in Dale!

While we were in Esgaroth, yes ma’am, that’s Lake Town, we took the evening to take in the town. There are many fine shops and taverns in Esgaroth, though no tailors as fine as Thomas!

Eventually we went to the house of Gloin, but the lord was not to be found. Thomas would later confide that Gloin was attending in disguise, so he could see the enjoyment of his guests without pretence.

To pass the time, I drank fine ales and regaled them with the ballad I had written about the Battle of Five Armies, which I will not be sharing tonight…so sorry. Maybe tomorrow.

Unbeknownst to us, Thomas was invited to a private meeting with Gloin.

Gloin, who should have been enjoying his birthday, was pining for what he had lost…and asked Thomas for help…well known is the industriousness of the hobbit!

What had he lost? Gloin had lost his brother Oin and nephew Balin somewhere on the way to the eyrie of the great and noble Lord of the Eagles. Gloin had sent them on an errand of great import…they were bearing an invitation to the reunion of the four good armies and a kingly gift for the Lord of the Eagles…though he neglected to tell Thomas the full circumstances of the message at that time, or that they were even carrying a gift…he told Thomas they were bearing a invitation to his birthday party, though cunning Thomas knew there was more to be told.

While Thomas was at his secret meeting, I was invited to meet with Alwis, the Master of Lake Town.

Gylf, and I went to the meeting. Alwis, impressed by my tale of the Battle of Five Armies, asked me to come to the very same celebration Gloin was inviting the eagles to and retell it. No, I said I’m not going to tell that story tonight.

Of course I accepted! A party?! An opportunity to tell a tale?! Wonderful! How could I refuse?!

How could I refuse?...

Why, with just one look at Alwis’ aid Agumnd…a sallow and sickly looking man, the head of Esgaroth’s shipping guild, that’s how I could refuse.

Why, because of a horrid insult directed towards my dearest friend, that’s how I could refuse.

“Thomas the Small” Alwis called him; slandered him, saying he was a servant of the shadow.

I just smiled at the man and laughed at his obvious joke. “Of course! Thomas the Goblin! The Terror of Tapestries! The Lyncher of Linens! The Flayer of Fabrics!”

Gylf, he thanked the master of Lake Town and bid him good evening…letting him know that we would be keeping an eye on Thomas for any peculiarities, and wisely shuffled me out the door.

Miriel was at the meeting too…a butterfly on the wall, if you will. She saw all of us, but none of us saw her.

She was far more concerned with sallow Agmund than Gylf or I. She said he bore the taint of the shadow and that he put her ill at ease. Perhaps he was the source of the lies about Thomas, perhaps he’s been bewitched, perhaps he’s not a true man at all…you’ll have to come back for a tale at another time, for there will be no answers about Agmund tonight. But I will leave you with those questions.

So, the meetings were done and we headed home, but we were followed back to Dale.

Ruffians crept behind us in the shadows. What was their purpose? We did not know.

So we leapt upon them and laid them low! In their stupor, the admitted they had been hired by a man named Vandil to collect a bounty on Thomas…”the Small”.

Gylf called his brothers in the watch and the ruffians were taken away.

Who is this Vandil? Why is he after Thomas? That too, good people, is a tale for another time.

When we got back to Gylf’s house, Thomas filled us in on Gloin’s errand. There were things we realized which were a bit fishy about the whole affair…Gloiin sent them with an invitation to his birthday party? They wouldn’t have had the time to make it…let alone there and back again…but we quickly decided that we wouldn’t worry about such trivialities. It wasn’t our place to demand a full accounting from one of the greatest heroes of the Battle of Five Armies and leading men of Lake Town.

So we packed. Boats, ponies, gear. Boring stuff I won’t get into. Suffice to say, Gloin footed the bill for our travel gear and we were off within a day; but not before we told him about our suspicions about Alwis and Agmund. Thomas sent him a missive written in a secret script…some sort of dwarven runes I’d imagine. We just wanted to let him know to keep his eyes open and watch our backs. For all we knew, they were involved in Oin and Balin’s disappearance.

This is bloody great!

I just hope that, when Eboric's not performing, the other guys can actually sometimes get a word in edgewise.

Sadly, both the minstrel and the Song 3 Beorning in my Company are played by RL-challenged people, so the writeups of the game all have to take my own phrasing. How I wish I had a player who'd step up and write stuff like this.

Can't wait for the next installments.
Cheers,
--Os.

Glad you enjoyed it. I live for the positive feedback . There's a bit more coming as I get caught up. The game started in January has been ongoing pretty much weekly untill today. I'm about...four months behind in real time, but each of my installments covers at least two weeks of game play. Generally I keep it for my friends in our game, but I hadn't been doing a good job keeping up.

Maybe with a few strangers reading along I'll feel more inclined to put pen to paper, so to speak.

The sad thing is, Eboric is pretty much the Middle-earth equivalent of a rock star. I am very much not. I write it a hell of a lot better than I play it.

Grab your hip-boots, we're going into the swamp!

Wet Socks and Hammocks, fair elves and foul trolls

We followed the path taken by Oin an Balin, heading due south on the River Running, through the Long Marshes.

We passed through the Stair of Girion, an impressive sight if you’ve not seen it. A trackway built by masons of both dwarves and men to roll ships down the falls at the end of the lake. Entire boats are put on wheeled carriages and rolled down…or pulled up!...the bank of the river.

There are men living there, simple folk who serve as porters for the small amount of traffic that comes to the falls. I swapped stories with them and made us all a dinner to share…similar to what we’re doing right now. They told us it hadn’t been that long since the dwarves had passed through…not nearly long enough for them to have delivered a message inviting the Lord of Eagles to Gloin’s birthday. We spent the eve enjoying each other’s company and the following morning one old fellow, Nerulf, shared with us a bit of parting wisdom as we set off:

If you go south in the marshes take heed:
tread lightly and fear the gallows-weed…

They were good folk, and Nerulf’s warning would serve us well. Let’s all toast Ol’ Nerulf, without whose warning, my companions and I may not have made it to share this drink with you at all!

After climbing the stair, we floated lazily down the river, until we reached the fetid morass that is the Long Marshes. Mosquitoes the size of sparrows! Toads the size of pumpkins! Globes of corpse-light floating like spirits of the damned! A harrowing place I tell you!

We knew which way that Oin and Balin had come; so we set to tracing their steps. It was not easy; tracking someone in a marsh. But we had the eyes of the elves and the nose of Beorn on the trail, and the dwarves weren’t trying to hide themselves…at least not at first.

The mosquitoes sucked out our blood, Mirkwood sucked out our spirit. The smell of decay, the darkness under the canopy of the forest…it was marvelous in its ability to depress! A true wonder of dankness and stench! The ground is so like a sponge that we took to making hammocks out of whatever we could, so our backs did not have to become wet while we slept!

On our second day, we encountered the foulest creature ever to stalk the Mirkwood…and a troll.

Fair Miriel noted that we were being followed by her kin as we searched for signs of the dwarves and she, Thomas, and Otbert went to meet with them. And by “meet with them”, I mean she set to ambushing them in the most friendly way possible…but more on that later…that part of our story is not yet at an end…Gylf and I had something interesting happen to us while we minded the camp.

Two orbs of corpse-light floated together near our camp and Gylf noted that they seemed to stick very close together and move in tandem.

Eyes. A swamp troll!

From the depths of darkness eyes glow, we can see you now as well
We see your eyes upon us, from the muck in which you dwell!
Eyes round and bright! You don't know that we can see you.
Eyes so round and bright! So right to put a spear through!

We did not let on that we had any suspicions and let the eyes drift closer. We heard its rumbling breath…like one who’s suffered too long from too much phlegm…and we struck like serpents. Gylf hurled Fischadler, which buried itself deep into the ribs of the beast, and charged whilst drawing his sword!

I was on his heels with my great-spear in hand; we leapt across the water, striking as we came down! The beast raised its massive arm to swat aside Gylf’s sword and as it did I drove my spear into one of the creature’s eye and through the potato sized organ it called a brain. Its corpse-light eyes faded, and with a final wheeze, the troll rolled over and sank into the swamp.

Pfft. Trolls. Overrated. But the elves…they would be impressed.

Miriel was just beginning to make her surprise introductions to (spits) Galion the goblin-hearted, when they heard Gylf and mine’s battle cry. They came running to help, unfortunately just a little too late to help us drag the great beastie onto a small island so we could survey our kill…that thing was as heavy as a bull and the soft ground didn’t help!

As I said, the elves were impressed. They had been avoiding this area of the swamp specifically because the troll was making its lair there.

We saw that the troll bore wounds that were not caused by us, axe wounds by the looks of them. That was both a good sign and a bad sign. It was a good sign that we were on the right path; it was bad sign because the dwarves may have once again found themselves in the sack of a troll.

On to the elves. Fair creatures all…but not this one…the leader of this poor band…the thrice accursed (spits) Galion. Yes, the same Galion from my story about Bilbo and the 13 dwarves who failed in his duty due to drunkenness. I knew him by name, and his story. I did not let on though. I was polite. I should have skewered him then and there to save Middle-Earth from his predations, the filthy black-blooded..sorry…where was I?

Miriel was introducing us to her people. (spits) Galion’s band was tasked with watching the borders of the Long Marshes and the Mirkwood. We shared a fire with them. We shared tales with them. I gave them some of my twice-baked honey cakes, we drank of their wine. We became friends, or so I thought, so treacherous is Galion!

We told them we were tracking a pair of dwarves, thought lost. The elves told us they had been tracking our dwarves through the swamp only a short time ago, but had lost them nearby. They believed the dwarves were curriers carrying a call to war against the elves. They did not tell us why they had this suspicion.

When day broke we moved quickly. We tracked the troll back to its lair. The dwarves were not there, nor was there any sign of them. They must have driven the troll away when it attacked them like it had intended to do to us.

Fair Miriel’s kin had given us detailed directions to where the dwarves “disappeared”. Their directions were good. The dwarves had made a camp, but had not stayed there. They likely had noticed the failing attempts of (spits) Galion to remain hidden whilst following them and set up the camp to confuse their pursuers while they moved on.

We searched the area and found a nest of vile spiders in the canopy, and a dwarf sized silk cocoon. We lit our torches and began to burn away the spider’s silk when they fell from the forest’s roof! The fight was swiftly over and Thomas recorded his first kill…of a dead spider!

Oh Thomas! It was already dead my friend! It’s alright! You’ve proved your mettle a thousand times over! But you were so proud! So proud to have stabbed a dead spider!

What?! No, Thomas! Arrgh! Don’t bring that up! Yes, yes, it is true. I was laid low by the bite of one of those beasties. Took a nice nap for what was it? The better part of a day?

You know what? It was the best sleep I had during my time in that dank swamp…so I guess I should thank that creepy-crawly attercop!

While I was sleeping, they cut down the poor dwarf who was hanging there. And, as it was told to me, he had been hanging there for a looong time. He was not one of our missing dwarves. He was still clad in a fine, unweathered hauberk. There was a bright gold and silver amulet on his chest which was warm to the touch, and he bore a single ring of the purest gold. We thought he might have been an important dwarf from Thror’s kingdom of old. We took the items to return to his descendants.

After I awoke we began our search again. We had the fasle camp to track from and soon…well it really wasn’t that soon, but let’s continue shall we…we found their real camp.

And Thomas? Dear Thomas…curious like a cat. He stuck his little furry toes into an old stump and found the most amazing treasure beneath a dwarvish rune.

A fine ivory (that’s Oliphant tooth) box, marked with the image of great eagles in flight. Surely something that had been hidden by our missing dwarves! Perhaps we shouldn’t have opened it…but we did, hoping it might contain information which would help us find our dwarves. We were looking for a clue as to why they abandoned such an obvious treasure.

It was not a letter from Gloin; it was a letter from King Dain. It was not an invitation to a birthday party (though we did already suspect that); it was an invitation to come to the reunion of the Battle of Five Armies. But even more spectacular than the box or the illuminated message was the jewel: The size of a woman’s fist and wrapped in fine strands of golden thread; a multifaceted orb of snowy-white luminescence, not sickly like the corpse-lights of the swamp…a glow that was soothing…and stimulating…all at once. A fitting gift from one great king to another.

Gylf was very protective of that jewel and took it into his protection. That jewel has its own story, but now is not the time for it.

This story is about our finding of two lost dwarves...and we would be finding our dwarves...and finding them soon.

Swamp-beard, swamp dwellers, hidden dwarves locked in cellars

We continued through the swamp, finding traces of the paths of our missing dwarves here and there.

Where were they going? I had no idea. Perhaps they were lost; perhaps they were trying to lose their pursuers. Whatever their reasons, their path meandered through the dank, moist, forest.

Our only companions were birds. Unwholesome ravens or crows of some sort. Their healthy violet sheen replaced by an oily green one. I have heard of the kinship of dwarves and ravens and when we first saw them, at a distance, we had hopes they had come to aid us…these birds had no such intentions.

They attacked Gylf once, though I did not know why at the time. We drove them off and Gylf was uninjured. But they watched us always after that and hounded Gylf at every opportunity.

Why had they attacked? Oh, you’ll have to wait for that. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next.

Over and over again those wretched birds harassed us, like giant croaking gnats. Have you heard the sounds that vomit forth from ‘ol Dimwiddle over there when he’s had too much ale? It sounded just like that, but from a hundred different places.

Otbert and Miriel decided to climb to the top highest tree to see if we could get our bearings, as they did so Otbert was reminded of the rhyme taught to us by Old Nerulf,

If you go south in the marshes take heed:
tread lightly and fear the gallows-weed…

and looked up as he climbed. He saw the vines in the tree begin to quiver and reach towards him.

With a quick hop, they both came down. We noted what the gallows-weed vine looked like, so recognized they were no longer any kind of threat to us as we could avoid them in the future.

We continued to search, painstakingly combing through the muck for any sign of two dwarves and eventually, after the sog had claimed our boots, we were rewarded.

Half submerged was a little boat of dwarven make; its sides rent and clawed.

We righted and drained it. The boat was sound. An axe fit for a dwarven prince was within along with the ruined supplies carried by those going on a long journey.

We were getting close…and the carrion-birds were getting angry. Their cries were growing louder and my annoyance with them was growing greater.

If there was something hiding in that swamp, the birds made sure whatever it was knew we were there. I decided there was no point in trying to proceed in secrecy.

I stood before them and roared at the foul creatures with all my might

(roars)

Dimwiddle! Dimwiddle! It’s alright Dimwiddle; you can get back up on your stool. That’s a good lad. No, I won’t be yelling like that again.

Where was I? Oh yes…The birds, they fled to the southwest.

We followed the birds to the best of our ability, into the remains of a fallen civilization. Men of a previous age had established a small settlement there, near where the mountain, marsh, and forest met.

Old broken walls and foundations greeted us; we could see a great arch across a fetid pond.

The crows were there too, barking at us with their twisted throats, no doubt warning their masters of our presence.

Who were their masters? I get to that in just a second.

From beneath the earth in that foul marsh rang a gentle bell, peaceful and soothing. It was not a natural sound, and while it comforted me it also frightened me, like gentle words spoken by one you know to mean you grievous harm.

Gylf was ensnared by the bell’s enchantment and began to walk into the pond. I grabbed him and spun him around. He turned away from me and again walked, in a stupor, directly into the marsh.

This time I picked him up and shook him until his teeth chattered in his skull.

He looked at me like I was insane and wanted to know what I was doing.

Enchantment…broken.

We dragged our boat across some high ground and put it in the pond and Gylf, of Laketown and no stranger to the ways of the water, removed his gear and swam across the pond.

Very, very foolish, if you ask me.

The rest of us paddled over to the archway, which still had an old door attached.

The archway led to an ancient tunnel, which was partially submerged. It looked to be the only way “in” to anything.

We had to go further, and Gylf swam under the black water. He returned a short time later, he found that the corridor ended in some sort of chamber, one above the water level.

Miriel treated some torches with oil and wrapped them tightly.

Unfortunately, in order to get there, that meant we too had to go under. Holding our breaths we swam into the sunken corridor. My beard stank of swamp for a week. Disgusting! Every breath a reminder of the rot of that foul place!

We climbed the stairs, out of the water. Fair Miriel lit the torches and we looked and into a large chamber. Six ancient stone archways led into the darkness and a rope dangled from an old chimney at the end of the chamber.

As we slunk around the chamber, we heard something skittering down the first passageway to the west. Again, knowing that “they”, whoever “they” were, already knew we were there, I bellowed down the corridor and we heard something running away.

We gave chase through a hall lined with cells and ran it down, its way blocked. I say “it” because I do not know what it was. It was shaped like a man, but one who had been twisted and rotted by the marsh. Its skin was a grayish green, its eyes shone like those of the swamp troll, and its hands and feet webbed like that of a frog…with dark talons erupting from their fingertips and pointed teeth flaring from its slavering maw! The loathsome beast turned, hissed at us, and lashed out. We cut it down.

As we retraced our steps, we noted that many of the cells, while vacant, could not be said to be unused. Many creatures, probably like that which we had killed, nested there. When we returned to the great chamber we quickly began to check the other corridors. The one nearest to the chimney on the right held a great old door within its frame, slashed and gnawed by foul claws…a door barred from behind.

So we knocked and said hello.

A strong voice answered us weakly and confusedly from behind the door. “Oin and Balin! We have been sent by Gloin to bring you home! Unbar the door and let us fly!”

We heard the door unlatch and two dwarves greeted us. Disheveled, exhausted, wet, miserable, and starving, our lost dwarves were found.

Otbert had been carrying Balin’s axe and presented it to him. As his eyes looked upon the mighty weapon, I saw a small part of Balin’s might return. I gave my axe to Oin, so that he could protect himself. He took it with gratitude, but remained diminished.

But they were coming. The masters of this vile place. The brothers of the creeper from the cells.

Pale eyes began to shine from the edges of our torches; first just a few…then a dozen…backing us towards the chimney, chittering and hissing, their claws clacking together, steeling their will.

Fair Miriel scampered up the chimney and cut the bell down.

As it clanged down the flu, the creatures finally were ready. They surged towards us like a putrescent wave. Oin slowly climbed up the chimney, assisted by Miriel who pulled up on the rope.

Again and again they came, impaling themselves on Gylf and my spears. I roared, they ran, but came right back. Thomas watched our flanks, striking at those who came near and Otbert remained behind on the hearth, firing shots into the darkness.

There were just too many. Even though we slaughtered more than a score of them, they just kept coming.

Gylf fell. Balin stepped into his place. I roused Gylf, but then I was struck and was laid low. It was Gylf’s turn to assist me. He urged me on and got me back into the fight.

We reengaged and I bellowed again for them to come to us. After another flurry of blows, the creatures fell back to the entrance of the chamber, looking over the bodies of all of their slain kin.

Balin went up, then Otbert. The muck dwellers rallied and fell on us again. Gylf and I pushed them back. Gylf again made a great stand to protect those he loved. He stood alone until he was able to follow me up to the surface.

I do not know why, but there was no pursuit. They did not follow. All we heard were their mournful and angry cries for their dead…and perhaps their stolen dwarves.

I tell you, what felt like weeks was actually only five days…five days in that miserable, dank, swamp. But we were victorious. We had our dwarves, and we were taking them home.

Of the journey home, there is not much to tell, except for the revelation of one of the greatest villains of Middle-Earth…but that is a tale for another time.

Dry Lands, Black souls

So where did we leave off? We had the dwarves…now we just had to get them back to Gloin.

The journey home was long and slow. Our dwarves were exhausted from their trials…and we were too. We floated west in the swamp as far as we could and then across the river, desperately trying to get to the eastern side of the marshes. When we did, we trudged north, slowly walking, slowly drying out. I daresay that the drying felt as if it would take longer than the walking! But still, we were far from the marshes and the marsh dwellers. We never saw any sign of pursuit. We thought we were safe.

The first evening, one day’s journey from that miserable swamp, Fair Miriel was standing watch over us when black arrows rained down upon us!

Yes…we all know what twisted, black fletched arrows mean: orcs.

But not this time.

Though we did not yet know it, it was not orcs.

It was something viler, more putrescent than all the rot in the Long Marshes. Blacker in heart than the uruk-hai, more twisted in soul than one of the fallen…(spits)Galion. He has many names. Galion the Black Blooded, Galion the Goblin Cloak, Galion: Soul of Taint…Galion the Most Vile.

But as we said, we didn’t know it at the time, not that the knowledge would have saved us from the arrows loosed upon us.

Thomas, a hobbit and tailor by trade, asleep on the ground, was cut deep by an arrow. As was Balin. Fair Miriel herself, saved only by her armor, was bowled over by the impact of one of the arrows fired by her own kin…by (spits) Galion.

Fast creatures, wearing the black feathered cloaks of orcs ran into our camp while their conspirators continued to fire arrows into us.

Thomas scampered for cover, Fair Miriel returned fire, slaying one of the “orcs.” Gylf skewered another with Fischadler…that one turned and ran.

Oin stood his ground, and was stabbed by one of the “orcs”, after stabbing Oin, the "orc" fled into the brush, likely because he saw Gylf running his way.

Thomas too hid himself in the brush, hoping to avoid another puncture wound!

Balin’s wound from “orc’s” cruel barbed arrow was great and he fell to his knees, and then lay still upon the ground. Though I could not believe what I was seeing one of the orcs picked him up and tried to run off with him!

There was no way any "orc" was going to outrun a son of Beorn…especially while carrying a dwarf!

I easily ran him down and tackled him from behind. I knew it wasn’t an orc. Why would the orcs be taking our dwarves captive? My initially belief as I began to grapple with one of our assailants was that they were highway-men; scum hired by Alwis who had been awaiting us on our return (if we were successful). I grabbed the man by his head and slammed it into the ground until he went limp. I knew it wasn’t right. The feel, the smell…It wasn’t a him; and it wasn’t a man.

It was an elf, a lass named Lorwen; one of those who had shared camp with us just days before. A fair maiden wearing the cloak of an orc, and armed with their twisted knives…lay broken at my feet.

My rage knew no bounds. How could an elf, one of the chosen people, do that? It was a betrayal against everything I understood the elven people to be.

I knew who lead her. I knew who had brought here there. Galion (spits). I railed at him! I screamed his name! I wanted him to come back to me. I needed him to come back to me…thusly I railed against him:

Galion!

Don’t run away you coward! You scampering rat! Face me, damn you!

Galion!

May the justice of the Valar rain upon you! I pray they gift you with a wretched form to match that of your black heart and twisted soul! You, a child of the stars, dare to bear goblin weapons and hide in their garb? To strike the sleeping in the night?! Damn you to wear their flesh! You deceiver! Coward! May you sweat their stink and bleed black so all know what lies within!

You partook in our hospitality! You offered your protection! You ate from my table! You shared with us your wine! May none ever give you solace or succor! May Yavanna’s bounty turn to ash and dung in your mouth! May all sustenance rage through you as a white river!

Galion!

Curse you!

You slept by our side beneath the canopy of Mirkwood! Throughout your days, may you never know the peace of Lorien again! May your guilt haunt you, may my rage find you!

Forevermore may the name Galion be spat by all people as a curse most vile! Your name, Galion! Your name!

Damn you, Galion! You are lower than a worm! A maggot! A vile, worm eating maggot that dwells in the muck of this fetid swamp!

May your maggot eyes be blind to Vana’s beauty! I pray you lose your birthright as one of the Valar’s favored, you filthy marsh dweller! You poisonous elf!

Galion!

Maggot!

Curse YOU!

Orome will guide my anger and fuel the song of my vengeance! No! My anger will need no guide! I will bellow my song of vengeance louder than the greatest thunderstorm! This though I swear! In Orome’s name, I will hunt you down. I will hound you to the end of my days Galion!

Galion!

Hear me!

You are a twice damned failure!

A failure yet again! I know your story! I know it well! We have your dwarves! The ones you lost before! Come to me you coward! Come and try to take them again Galion! Are you too great of a worm to return and face me?!

Galion!

Come back!

You coward!

You shot a sleeping hobbit! A tailor! A sleeping hobbit tailor! What kind of a man are you?! You are no kind of man! You are snake! NO! Less than a snake, you are a limp thread! A loose and frayed thread from the glorious tapestry that is the elven people! I will pluck you from that weave!

Hear me Galion as I plead with Lady Vaire to wind our paths so that you cannot escape me! May you become entangled in your own misdeeds! Wrapped up in your impotence and failure! I will cut you from the tapestry, your thread leads nowhere!

You leave your dead behind! Those you are sworn to, you leave to rot in the swamp? You are a disgrace! You already were a disgrace! You are lower than a disgrace! I have no words for what you are now!

CURSE YOU GALION!

I AM AT A LOSS FOR WORDS!

You shot my love! Your own kin! She who bid me to not recognize you when we first met out of courtesy! You met her open arms with a black arrow!

I will find you! I will kill you for what you have done! Mandos is waiting for you! He knows you heart! He will know me as your doom! He will bless the righteousness of my wrath! Only in the blackness of his embrace will you find sanctuary from me! Mandos will judge you! May Mandos name me your doom and judge you from the tip of my spear you scabrous bastard!
From this day may my wrath follow you wherever you go!

From this day, when I stub my toe, burn my hand, or lose my purse I will curse, “Galion!”

I will share your story! All will know your name! All the free people of the west will meet you with the scorn you have earned and speak the name “Galion” with derision and disgust!

I screamed into the darkness for what seemed like an eternity…willing him to return and face me.

But he never did.

But I would find him…one day.

[Sighs]

We continued on, though I did not trust her, Lorwen was forgiven by the other members of our fellowship. Gylf and I spoke to her at length while Miriel, Otbert, and Thomas attempted to locate Galion’s camp in the woods. I could not look upon her or speak to her without feeling the echoes of my rage towards Galion. Gylf saw she had been duped by him and the darkness in his heart.

She explained that Galion and his band were a group of…misfits. They had all shamed themselves before their kinsman in one way or another. Her personal sin was an overindulgence in wine. “A likely story.” I thought. She continued that Galion told them they were on a secretive mission for their king, and that we, along with the dwarves, were carrying calls for an alliance in war against the elves. She believed in her leader and her king, so followed to help her people.

I am ashamed to say I could not see past my own hate. I looked upon her with scorn and prepared for her sudden and inevitable betrayal.

Miriel and the others found Galion’s camp, lit with fey lights. Thomas crept forward, and fell into an enchanted slumber when he entered their clearing. Otbert and Miriel watched as Amras and Orophin, two elves we had met before, climbed out of the trees, patted Thomas on the head, and left for him a bundle of elven way-bread. They vanished into the forest. I hope they returned to their king, to tell him what had occurred.

Lorwen told us that Amras and Orophin were left behind to guard the camp because Galion did not trust them to follow his orders. He did not trust them to attack our camp.

Eventually, we reached a homestead south of Dale. The family there was good to us, and gave us full use of their barn. Once we were settled, Miriel mentioned that even though we were no longer on the roads, we should post guards, as she had seen Galion just two days prior.

Balin was going blind, slowly, the elf’s orc poison affecting him. We had little time, and I had little time for vengeance, and we needed to get Balin off of his feet for the rest of the journey.

Thomas went to secure some ponies for us, and crossed the path of one of Galion’s scum. More feeling them than seeing them as he led a pony back to our barn, Thomas disappeared into the woods like a squirrel on a dark night. There he waited. His patience was rewarded and two of the goblin-blooded elves crept past him.

Thomas called to them from the shadows, “What is it you hope to accomplish?”

Naruiel, for that was the name of Galion’s loyal stooge, responded, “Who is there?”

“Your conscience…or perhaps your doom.” Was my friend’s reply!

She laughed at him and told him, “You have what our master desires!”

Thomas challenged her, believing that she answered to King Thranduil, “I doubt your good lord would approve of your methods!”

And this is what should chill your blood, as it chilled mine my friends. She knew what Galion was…she was one too…a filthy tainted witch who laughed and said, “You mistake my master for someone more Fair…”

Thomas knew that her companion was tracing him by the sound of his voice….growing ever closer. He distracted them with a thrown twig and cut the legs from under her friend before withdrawing to us back at the barn.

“Come and face your doom foul ones!” We heard from outside the barn.

Not normally the way Master Thomas usually announces his return.

We burst forth! Our prey had come! I challenged them! And two of Galion’s brood ran towards us.

As I closed two arrows ended one…and the other, Naruiel, disappeared into the forest. Slain was an elf lad, another we had shared bread with, though none of us could recall his name. I know not what led him astray, if it was not the fiend Galion.

After we secured ponies and horses we left, making haste to Lake Town. Miriel saw that we were still being followed, but she did not share the information. No doubt because she knew the betrayal was too raw to me…I would have run off, howling like a madman.

She mentioned it when were just south of Dale, two days later. When I began to storm off, she added that she had seen nothing for two days. We continued into Dale and saw no further signs of pursuit.

We returned Balin and Oin to Gloin and were welcomed as heroes. We explained our trials and commented on the involvement of Agumnd and our concerns about him and his relationship with Galion and his band.

Gloin provided an honor guard of 10 stout dwarves to guard the house of Gunnarson as we rested.

His healers tending to his kin, Gloin left us with an invitation to dine with the King Under the Mountain in a few short days; an honor we were pleased to accept.

It seemed a happy ending to a chapter of our chronicle…but it was not to be. There in the house of Gunnarson, Galion’s wickedness claimed another victim. Neither he nor his own turned the blade, but blood was drawn and a true person lay dead.

Her blade in her heart, a rune which wept repentance, sobbed with shame, and begged forgiveness nearby…Lorwen of Mirkwood ended her eternity rather than deal with her grief. Such things should not be.

Truly, the source of such wickedness, Galion the Black, must be watched for. It must be ended. Pass on my words about him, let no good person be ignorant of the cancer of the elven people. He must be excised.

Errands and Eyes.

So…we were resting in Gylf’s house. Back in Dale. Gylf, his family, and Miriel were wracking themselves over the suicide.

I was feeling guilty for having misjudged Lorwen while plying the inns and taverns, spreading the tale of Galion the goblin blooded.

I can’t say I recall what Otbert was up to…probably fixing the roof of an orphanage or something.

But preparations had to be made and Thomas was sewing us all some clothes fit to be worn to dinner with King Dain.

Anyway, after a few days of rest we went to see the King. We sat with him in the great hall of Erebor! It’s cavernous ceiling lost in the darkness above! The fine stone was still marred by the talons of Smaug, the rock itself seared by his heart’s fire! Oh, the craft of the dwarven people was on full display there, much of the damage repaired, new words wrought. But, I daresay, some of the damage will always be there. It reminds them of what transpired in the that hall. The stones themselves telling the story of the beast which nested there!

But, enough about stones. This story is about us!

As I said, King Dain received us as heroes, I told the story of our travels and warned him again about the games of Alwis. It was Alwis who suggested the route to their kin. It was Alwis who slandered Thomas. It could not be a coincidence that Galion the black crossed our paths...Alwis’ path.

King Dain told a tale of his own. Balin and Oin had gone on their journey at his behest. Carrying one of the greatest treasures of Smaug’s hoard, a gift meant for Gwaihir, the King of the Eagles…the Eye of Thorondor!

Given to the eagles’ first king, Thorondor, for whom it was named, in the First Age by the Noldor, the Eye of Thorondor was a seeing stone, but not one of the fabled palintir. Through it, Thorondor was able to see through the eyes of his kin, and the lesser birds of the world. His eyes seeing almost all that could be seen. It was a blessing, and Thorondor used it well until the War of Wrath, when it was lost.

Until King Dain found it in the hoard of Smaug the Golden.

King Dain told us at first he was delighted to have found it, but as he came to know it, it came to know him. Visions of fire, smoke, riches lost, and riches to be gained filled his mind. Premonitions…or memories…of the doom of Dain’s kin haunted him. King Dain did not know what he held, but his scholars did. They identified it and with that knowledge King Dain sent the Eye back to its rightful owners as a gift. And to ask them what the visions given to him by the stone concerned.

Gylf knew well what King Dain spoke, for he had looked deeply into the Eye of Thorondor when we found it, but he kept his dreams and visions to himself…for now.

King Dain then asked another boon of our fellowship. His kin had been unable to complete their task and due to their injuries would be unable to do so.

But their errand still needed to be done: The Eye of Thorondor had to be taken to the eagles, returned to its home in the Misty Mountains. The King still wanted to know the reason for his troubled dreams and sleepless nights.

King Dain asked us to journey to the Eyrie and present the Eye to Gwaihir, the King of the Eagles, as a gift. To ask him to come to the celebration of our victory at the Battle of Five Armies… and inquire about the visions bestowed upon him by Thorondor’s Eye.

Of course we accepted! It’s what heroes do! How could we not answer the call of a good king?

As we prepared to leave, in gratitude for returning his kin Dain lavished with riches from the hoard of Smaug the Golden! All the treasure we could carry! Literally!

Erebor and Dale were open to us as we prepared, in some haste, to leave for the Eyrie.

Thomas conferred with the historians of Erebor. The dwarf slain by the attercops was likely one of the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm, an emissary or runner who was sent north during the War of the Dwarves and Orcs within the last century. Sadly, he could say no more than that the fallen dwarf was of Durin's line, but not directly related to Thorin or Gloin. We presented his belongings to Dain, as a token of respect.

There was word of Galion [spits]…or who I assumed to be Galion, [spits] haunting the Mirkwood. “The Shades of Mirkwood”, as they were called, were stalking the Old Forest Road and striking at the travelers they came across. Interestingly enough…these villains were not striking at river traffic…

From the dwarves of Erebor we learned the orcs were experiencing a resurgence; pushing back into the territories of Erebor. Dain was marshalling forces to expel them once again.

From the men of Dale we learned that orcs were also stirring in King Bard’s lands...King Bard seemed to share Dain’s feelings towards them and set out to raise an army to crush them like he had five years ago.

Answering the summons of the two good kings was a small band from the Wilderlands. Otbert spent much time with them, when he wasn’t repairing the roof of that orphanage…for some reason he thought it would be a good idea to take one of their hounds…and it was a good idea…have you ever seen one of the woodman’s hounds? Great hairy beasts they are! Big as a wolf and twice as mean…rip your arm off at the socket they can! Why, they’re so grim even Gylf was impressed enough to buy TWO! If that’s not testament enough to their stalwart ferocity, I don’t know what is. I still think we need to put a saddle on him for Thomas to ride. The dogs. I’m talking about the dogs, not Gylf. Gylf! The lass at the 3rd table…the one with the chestnut hair. You might want to speak to her about going for a ride…and you need it…anyway, she certainly looked intrigued!

Speaking of Thomas, and forgetting all about riding Gylf, as Master Thomas moved about in Dale after dusk, he felt ill-at-ease…as if he was being watched. Most likely related to Alwis and Vandil…but we were unable to catch anyone. Our attempts to locate Vandil were also unsuccessful, though we did learn a new name: Odell, the Boat Lord; one of the leading shipwrights of Esgaroth. We unfortunately did not have any time to track down the dogs.

As we went about our business, Gylf was noticed by his king as a noble and forthright man and offered an oath of fealty! A true King’s Man of Dale did he become that summer! Drilling, and marching, and drilling, and marching! I’m sure a grand time was had by all!

My love left for the halls of the Elvenking; she went to warn them of the cancer that was growing…that was spreading from the fiend Galion and his ilk. I wished she would have stayed, I would have liked to ease the pain in her heart. But she left, and I could not.

So I…stayed around Dale…and…uh…well…I stayed in Dale. And baked…cakes and such.

But, eventually she returned and a song filled my heart:

She returns from the east, bringing light to my day,
My glorious love, my child of the fey.
She returns from the forest, the wood’s sweetest flower,
Her radiance the song of dawn’s golden hour.
The fairest child of all, forever may she be,
Smiling, singing, and dancing with me!

For too long had she been gone, and like the return of the sun did she bring light back from the darkness…her time with her kin had eased the turmoil roiling in her soul due to the actions of Galion the Foul and his kin…but I could tell it troubled her still.

With her return I was…uh...we, we were whole again and we set to making plans to run King Dain’s errand. North through the northern Dalelands , then west through the Grey Mountain Narrows, back south through the East Upper Vales and finally southwest through East Middle vales to the peaks wherein we would find the King of the Eagles.

Our planned path set, we purchased horses, ponies, and the necessary gear for our journey, but the tale of the journey itself will have to wait for another time…

The Blackest Cloak

Our journey began simply enough. The country of the northern Dalelands is tame. Hunting was good and the weather was fair; those we met were generous and kind. If only the remainder of our trip to Gwaihir’s eyrie had been so pleasant. Of course, if it had been entirely pleasant the story would be entirely dull!

Nary a soul did we see until we reached the foothills of the Grey Mountains, then things became…worthy of a short tale or two.

As we traveled the road on the eastern edge of the foothills, Fair Miriel heard something: A faint cry, a tiny voice, begging for help. We followed the voice to small cave, the mouth no bigger than a quarter of a horse’s trough. The voice of a little girl told us she lost her parents on the road…that she had been taken by something and trapped in the cave. Of course, the child was too frightened to give any real answers about where she was from, where her parents might have gone to, and she even had to think about what her parent’s names were. It had to be the worst sort of lie ever concocted by the most foolish of monster.

What Gylf? It was the voice of a woman? So? How does that change the story? It makes you look sillier for going in there, that's how it makes you look!

Girl, woman...some sort of damsel...the kind that always gets into distress in these tales.

Anyway.

“Don’t go in there,” I said. “It’s a trap. Something vile wants us to crawl into that little hole.”

Of course, nobody listened to me. Oh, no. It might have been a monster…but how would we ever live with ourselves if we were wrong?

I would have lived with myself just fine. I knew I wasn’t wrong. There was no way a child was lost this far off of the beaten trail, no way her “weak” voice traveled as far as it had…let me tell you, whatever it was needed to work on its storytelling. Cliched old damsel in distress story...

But, like I said…nobody listened to me…and into the cave Thomas led.

Everyone followed but me. Not because I thought it was a terrible idea…though I did…no, I couldn’t fit into the damn hole.

I stood outside and heroically watched the horses.

You’ll have to forgive this portion of the tale…I didn’t actually see any of this. I trust my friends telling of it, but the fact that I had to wait outside while everyone else had fun…well, anyway, on with the story.

Who wants to guess what was hiding in that dark cave? Anyone?

No, not trolls. It was a tiny hole in the ground!

Wights? Good guess, but I’m not familiar with wights changing their voices.

Dumbledors? I don’t even know what a Dumbledor is.

Oh, I’ll just tell you.

Spiders, huge vicious beasts not seen in this age. Not like the tiny attercops…oh no…the size of horses these three were. A mother and her children.

There was some sneaking (by everybody) and some stabbing (by my friends) and some fleeing (by the spiders) and some withdrawing (by my friends) when the spiders went deep into their lair and refused to come back out.

What? You want details? I don’t know the details, I wasn’t there. Imagine something.

Anyway, the spiders hid in their webs…which wouldn’t burn mind you, they tried that, and my friends came back out alive and unharmed. Just like me and the horses.

We marked the cave in every language we knew, and drew pictures for people speaking languages we didn’t, with dire warnings about the beasts hiding below.

Why didn’t they just come out and stop us from marking up their cave? They couldn’t fit, remember? They had to beg us to come in. I couldn’t even fit and they were…if the stories are to be believed…much larger than I.

So, we left the spiders in their den and continued on. While hunting I crossed paths with three warg and slew them, but that’s not really all that impressive. I’ve got a much better warg slaying story to tell.

Yes, it’s the one about the Werewolf of Mirkwood. Yes, my cloak is made from the hide of one his bitches. No, I don’t want to go into now. That’s a tale for another time.

We met with a fine family from Bree, traveling to Lake Town to begin anew, and shared camp with them. Bree is a pleasant place should you ever have the desire to see it. For a place as remote as it is, Bree is quite egalitarian…men, dwarves, elves, and hobbits all call it home.

But then, there was a black day, an infamous day. A day which I’m sure will echo throughout the life of one of my dearest friends. The 7th of May, 2946. It was near dawn, like they say…it is always darkest before the dawn, but oh, those darkest hours can be so long…minutes before the sun arose, and was on watch when I saw something black slinking though the darkness in the woods nearby.

I thought it was Galion and his kin…unfortunately it was not so. It was something darker…something from the tales of old.

I awoke my companions and a dull, cold, unnatural fog began to flow into the campsite.

We saw it again, an ink stain across the blackness of the pre-dawn forest.

Perhaps it was unwise, but we took to following it. I thought it was Galion leading us into a trap. I welcomed it, I would bring an end to him; I will bring an end to him.

But, as I said, it was not Galion.

As we slunk into the forest, our horse let out a scream the likes of which I have never heard. We had been drawn away from our camp for a purpose.

It only took us seconds to get there, and as we ran back to the clearing we saw him…standing over one over Gylf’s horse; with all but one of our horses and ponies dead nearby…all hewn, hacked and mangled. A black horse stood among them, eating the entrails of one of our pack ponies.

About my height, wearing a weather-beaten black cloak, he was casually looking down into Gylf’s saddlebags. What I believed to be one of Galion’s elves looked up at us.

It had no face.

It had no body, but had the form of a man.

There was nothing there to hold the cloak. Just blackness.

You there! Have you ever felt you skin crawl? Do you know the expression? Have you even had the misfortune to experience that horror?

This was worse. My soul crawled.

It was then I knew what it was. I dared to hope I was wrong, but I have traveled too many miles and heard too many tales to not know what it was. We faced one of the ancient kings of old: One of the Nine, a Ring-Wraith; a Nazgul.

It dropped the bag and drew a pair of blacked blades from the inky nothingness that supported its cloak, it spoke something I did not understand in a voice which washed over us like a frozen river; we felt its voice more than we heard it. It chilled us all.

We were as statues as it began to walk towards us, muttering in its black tongue. There was...some sort of joy in its voice…not joy like you or I know, but the kind of joy the lost feel when they know they are about to cause suffering, misery, and a slow, sorrowful descent into nothingness.

The fog billowed from the forest and surrounded us.

All I could do was think. All I could think, was, “No!”

I charged. Gylf and Thomas followed. As I neared the Lost King, I sang out,

Arien, return from the east, bring light to our day!
With fair light and warm breeze chase this darkness away!

The combat had begun. My fellowship, my friends. We stood against one of the greatest servants of the shadow. As I stood before the wraith, the sun crested the horizon!

Anor has returned from the east now to cheer us!
May its rays will push you and burn you and cause you to fear us!

Gylf and I traded blows with the Lost King, and I continued singing. Thomas darted this way and that around its feet, distracting its blows!

Shadow and mist have no place in this dawn!
Hear me now shade! Run now and be gone!

As the sun continued to rise, far faster than it ever should have, I believe…Anor be praised…the fog and mist began to burn away in the light. Still I sang!

Look east will you now, foul creature of night!
Flee from the sun! Be cowed by its light!

Here it struck me a mighty blow, driving me to my knees; but my friends were with me and allowed me to be here before you to tell this tale. I may have been bowed, but I was unbroken! I stood again and moved so the sun was at my back, so the vile thing would have to look at it to look at me!

Go back to the shadow, be gone creeping gloom!
With Anor behind me I shall be your doom!

We continued to try to lay it low, but nothing we did slowed it, our blades touched nothing. Miriel and Otbert, having finally prepared, began to fire flaming arrows at it. That it did not like.

Your power is broken, I know no fear!
The sun, my friends, and my love stand near!

Gylf struck the Lost King with a torch and was batted away, leaving Thomas and I. “Kill the horse!” cried wise Thomas, “It will be diminished by the loss of the horse!”

We come for you now, foul rider and steed
We come for you now, Mordor’s black seed

Gylf answered the Lost King’s assault on our horses with one of his own, striking the head of off the beast. The King snarled and drove his blade into Thomas’ chest!

Whatever you seek, you will not find this day
I strike at you now, oh hider in grey

As Thomas fell beside me, I roared in fury and landed that king a blow the likes of which he’d never felt! My spear struck…something. Some armored heart at the core of its being. I lifted it off of its feet and pushed it away….but its armor held. I had not killed it, but I believe I hurt it. I laughed at his faceless form!

Mighty blows have been landed, but I will not yield!
Arien looks down on this battle’s field!

Gylf returned to my side and we strode towards the rider in black, Otbert was tending to Thomas, who still lived, and would continue to do so. That knowledge brought joy to my heart. The kind of joy known by we free people! I would not diminish! My friends would not diminish! We free people will not diminish! I sang to the king a final stanza, a last verse!

My strength too shall rise in the light of the sun!
While you, foul shadow, are slowly undone!

I knew it could not win! Now, it knew it could not win! Its power of despair was broken, shattered by sun, song, friendship and hope. It was nothing before us…it flowed into a remaining shadow and simply disappeared. What did it want? We did not know. Perhaps it looked for The Eye of Thorondor, perhaps it thought we had something else.

We had done it. We had driven off one of the Nine.

But the cost was heavy, Thomas had been poisoned somehow by his blade and Otbert, as skilled a healer as any man I’ve ever known, said that any cure was beyond his abilities.

We still had one horse, and the house of Beorn was two days away.

Carrying on Thomas and my spear, I took the poor beast and rode it until it died. I put Thomas on my back and ran the rest of the way.

I made it to Beorn’s house in one and a half-days.

What happened there will have to wait for another time my friends, it is a tale for another day.

I'm enjoying your tales immensely JBuck. Thank you so much for taking the time to share your storytelling.
The tales indicate that your group enjoy a high level of characterisation in their role-playing, something I too strive for. I also can see the revealing of sub-plot hooks for later development by the LM - which gives a campaign more texture.

I love campaigns that incorporate/encourage moments of humour, tragedy, romance, ribaldry, bardic performance, chivalry, heroic sacrifice, references to character backgrounds, swashbuckling, etc. It makes for a much richer & rewarding gaming experience, especially when portrayed in character.

It's a great boon to have player/s willing & able to keep a log/chronicle of adventures, from the perspective of the Player-Heroes. It adds an extra dimension to the game, and often serves as a useful resource for the Loremaster - perhaps altering campaign plotlines in response to Heroes' perceptions.

I've been blessed to DM for friends who enjoy vividly characterising their game personae. One of the players is also a brilliant fantasy artist who kept a detailed sketch book of strange creatures, wondrous items and interesting places they encountered.
Along with the group's Adventure Log, this greatly enhanced our gaming enjoyment.

I hope you keep up with Eboric's tales, and look forward to reading them. They serve to inspire other Loremasters & players, not just with adventure ideas & campaign background but via insights into a rewarding gaming-style.

May Eboric's tongue remain well-greased,
for spirits would sink if it ever ceased!

And if in a tavern we hear his tale fair,
"A tankard of black stout to that bearded man there!

Hibernation with the Great Bear

As I stumbled, exhausted beyond that which I have experienced before or since towards Beorn’s house I was met by his scouts who attempted to slow my pace.

Even though they acted with proper authority to my lord I refused all orders to stop. I did them the proper respect by telling them my name and purpose, but they knew who I was anyway. What I was doing, barging towards Beorn’s house with a hobbit strapped to my back, was most peculiar, so I will not begrudge them their caution.

When I reached his house, well, I found I had caused a bit of an uproar.

The great Beorn was unhappy with my boldness, shall we say?

Of course, he was gracious enough to let me tell him my tale…and so I had him...or so I thought.

Oh, he didn’t really believe me. He enjoyed my fanciful tale so much that he was not angry with me for lying about a ring wraith skulking about within his lands. He was angry with me for bringing “the shadow” into his lands on my back.

I will tell you, good people…I may tell a good tale…I may liven them up from time to time…but I do not speak lies. I was not happy that my lord called me untrue. I was not happy he criticized me for bringing him a friend in need of aid. I was less respectful than I should have been, and perhaps a bit rougher than I needed to be with poor Thomas, but I held him up in before the great bear and ripped his shirt and bandages from him.

“You do not believe my words? Then see with your eyes! This is no creature of the shadow! This is my friend and companion Thomas the Tailor, Hobbit of Hobbiton. He traveled our lands, with me, from the east. We were beset by one of the fallen kings of old, who pierced his breast with a black blade, made of shadow and dust. For one day and one night I rode with him to your house for aid. When my horse could go no farther, I ran to you. Look at that wound! Is that from a blade crafted by the hands of men? Is the rot there from lack of care or cleanliness? If you cannot fix what lingers there, my friend is lost.”

The great bear saw the truth with his eyes, and in those eyes I saw regret for his disbelief. With his skill, Thomas would be made whole again…scarred, but whole.

I slept much the next few days, recovering from my journey. Thomas slept more, his physical and spiritual wounds being tended by Beorn himself.

My friends arrived a few days later, surrounded by a pack of noble wolves…yes, there are noble wolves in the woods…not warg, vile beasts those are…who had been sent by Beorn to see them safely to his home.

There are many tales which could be told about Beorn’s home, and I have told some before, but what we ate, who (or what!) served us, and how we dressed are not part of this tale.

Suffice to say, we rested in the village surrounding Beorn’s house for several weeks, enjoying the food and companionship of my people while Thomas recovered. Over those weeks, I spent more time at Beorn’s side than would befit one of my station, most likely his way of apologizing to me for his distrust without actually apologizing, and shared with him our trials and plans.

He wished us luck and told me his hearth would always welcome my tales, but was very disinterested in the Eye of Thorondor…the great bear cares not for “trinkets”, which was unfortunate. I would have liked some guidance from him.

But it was not to be had.

We provisioned ourselves and set out again for the eagle’s eyrie. A treacherous climb through orc infested mountains! A harrowing tale…for another time.