Osdolen - Rangers of the North RP

[Tharmáras]

"Little do they know of our long labour for the
safe-keeping of their borders. Yet, I grudge it not."
- Halbarad, from The Lord of the Rings:
The Return of the King - The Passing of the Grey Company

"Many evil things there are that your strong walls and bright swords do not stay.
You know little of the lands beyond your bounds. Peace and freedom, do you say?
The North would have known them little but for us. Fear would have destroyed them.
But when dark things come from the houseless hills, or creep from sunless woods,
they fly from us. What roads would any dare to tread, what safety would there be
in quiet lands, or in the homes of simple men at night, if the Dúnedain were asleep, or were
all gone into the grave? And yet less thanks have we than you. Travellers scowl at us, and
countrymen give us scornful names. "Strider" I am to one fat man who lives within a day's march
of foes that would freeze his heart, or lay his little town in ruin, if he were not guarded ceaselessly.
Yet we would not have it otherwise. If simple folk are free from care and fear, simple they will be,
and we must be secret to keep them so. That has been the task of my
kindred, while the years have legthened and the grass has grown."
- Aragorn, from The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring - The Council of Elrond

"Elrond will send out a fair number...Elrond is sending Elves, and they
will get in touch with the Rangers...we shall have to scour the lands
all round for many long leagues." - Gandalf, from
The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring - The Ring Goes South

In the craggen heights of the North Downs there is a large cavern that leads
deep under a cliff, to a natural earthen and stone stairwell that rises through
a narrow cleft in the rock to a high and hidden ledge, overlooking the lowlands.
In this place of sanctuary, secreted away from prying eyes,
stands an outpost named Osdolen, a refuge of the Rangers of the North,
and captained by Khallador Galerida (Tharmáras).



The ancient adamant gates of Osdolen lead through the outer stone walls into
the aged stone streets where Mortals and Elves frequently walk.
There are many Dúnedain residents here including their Rangers, wardens
who protect the lands and of the northern Dúnedain from
ravaging hordes of Orcs, bands of hungry trolls, packs of ravenous werewolves,
brutal Hillmen of Rhudaur, and dangerous bandits out of the South.
Rangers crowd the taproom of the Four Winds, eager to be appointed missions,
exchanging tales and gossip. Warnings of grave peril are given and heeded here.



These hardy Dúnedain guardians known as the Rangers of the North
protect the territories belonging to their lost kingdom of Arnor.
For over a thousand years they have been
led by the Chieftans, heirs of Isildur and rightful claimants
to the throne of the coming Reunited Realm. The current
Chieftan of the Dúnedain is Aragorn (Tharmáras) son of Arathorn, who
travels Eriador in the guise of a Ranger named Strider.
Second only to Aragorn is Halbarad, trusted Captain of the Grey Company
(who will be given to one RP'er for missions involving this band,
the holder changing with each Osdolen thread).



Members may play Rangers and their Dúnedain families here. Rangers returning from Bree
or other settlements of Eriador with supplies or news is allowed.
Rangers visiting from the South, bringing rumors, their friendship,
or their sword is permissable. Adventures in Eriador
run by teams of Rangers or solo RP'ing may be hosted here or in the Paths of Eriador thread viewtopic.php?f=10&t=74.
Players can announce and form their own band in character here with a unique name;
players may also join with an existing band.
The leader, or chief, of each band is expected to GM stories
for their band in Osdolen or in the Paths of Eriador thread.



Elven characters are allowed here. As we see from the quote above and from
our knowledge of The Silmarillion, Elves and Dúnedain often developed strong
bonds of fellowship and aided each other in battle. You may play an Elf scout from
my upcoming Host of the Eldar which will be hosted for Rivendell and Lindon,
Mirkwood and Lothlórien for the present. Have fun and be good to each other.



Locations



The Streets and the Courtyard

Pace the grounds of Osdolen at your leisure and visit the homes of your family and friends.
In the courtyard there are the stables and a tannery.
There are kennels, too where you may take a trained hound for hunt or battle.
There is also an archery range and a place for sparring to hone your skill with a blade.



The Wall

Prowl the walls of Osdolen, maintaining a watch watch on the lands to the east and south.



The Library of Osdolen

Among the buildings still intact within the ancient city, the Library of Osdolen
is a stately domed stone building
surrounded by a copse of oak trees at the
heart of this ancient sanctuary of Osdolen; it houses catalogued information regarding
Eriador, Gondor, and Wilderland & Tomes of wilderness lore.
Its caretaker is a Dúnedan senior, Eriston (Tharmáras) who had once been a storied Ranger of the North in his youth.



The Tavern of Four Winds and the Ranger Council



Rangers may visit Abrazân's (Moriel's) pub to exchange greetings and share tales over brimming tankards of Tubeng, a fearsomely strong cider supplied by Combe Valley brewers. It's a stately windowed stone tavern with long wooden tables and is well-lighted with long-hanging chandelier lanterns lit for evening business. Its pantry and kitchen are provided for by the food & ingredients out of Bree and local Dúnedain farms. Pipeweed from the Shire and Bree are for sale. The bar is fully stocked with ales, liquors, and wines from the Bree-land; the tavernkeep has a well outside for Rangers who need water for their journeys and there's Staddle coffee to wake Rangers in the morning. If you would like to be cooks or servers of Dúnedain race in the Four Winds let Tharmáras know in the OOC thread and he will list your name in the OP.

Rules:

1.) Rangers interact in the city however, missions led by captains be run here or played in the Paths of Eriador thread. viewtopic.php?f=10&t=74 or elsewhere in the forum. Include your location at the top of each post. Any Out-Of-Character renarks or plotting can be made in the Imladris OOC thread. viewtopic.php?f=10&t=34 . Membership of the Rangers of the North is available to all members, regardless of area and region. Minions are welcome to play Orcs, Trolls, werewolves, or bandits in this thread but outside of Osdolen where they will fight Rangers and Elves. The time of this RP is the waning spring of the Third Age, the year 3014.

2.) Please review the Roleplaying Code of Conduct before posting https://lotrfanaticsplaza.com/forum/rol ... of-conduct . No spamming or godmoding please. To preserve the sanctity of the Tolkienesque atmosphere, no sexual allusions/content/jokes are allowed and fandom/franchise crossovers are forbidden. If I see or am notified you have crossed lines or incur OOC complaints, you will be asked to edit your post. Thanks for understanding.

[Rochindil Eltoran]

The Streets and the Courtyard

Standing 6,1" Deorwine of the Dunedain swiftly and confidently made his way to the ancient gates of Osdolen and onto the old cobbled streets. It was night, which was his favourite time of the day and would explain his paleness as would him being a redhead . A gas lit lamp illuminated the figures features, His face was round with a softly shaped jaw, small nose with full lips and dark blue eyes. His medium long red hair and impressive beard was worn in a way to hide a distinctive cut to his right cheek which he received when he was ambushed by a raiding party of Orcs. Deorwine was fast approaching the Four Winds Tavern and he was eager to get inside as he hated being alone, and alone he had been for many a month.

[Moriel]

Abrazân
The Four Winds

The tavernkeeper of the Four Winds was a grizzled old Dúnadan, a retired ranger who had decided to eke out a more comfortable existence, out of the weather and close to a warm fire, but still close to the action. After all, where would groups of rangers and others passing through Osdolen go to plan, plot, and exchange news and gossip but the local tavern? Abrazân might seem rough and unlettered to the casual observer, but there was a whip-sharp mind behind his untidy visage. Today he stood behind the rough hewn bar as usual, eyes flicking lazily back and forth over the tavern's occupants. There weren't many of them yet, but that was liable to change as the evening grew older, and the Tubeng barrels were ready, and so was Abrazân. He wiped the last of the clean damp mugs with a clean dry cloth, and set its handle to one of a long row of hooks behind the bar, awaiting a patron. And, speak (or thought) of the devil, one entered. "Welcome!" Abrazân called to the newcomer (Deorwine), raising his cloth-filled hand in salute. "What can I get you this fine evening?"

[Baphởmet]

The Tavern of Four Winds
NPC Beranwine

Beranwine stumbled more than walked into the tavern. His breath, ragged from exhaustion, fogged the air around him. When it dissipated, a small smile played over his lips. This was a place of comfort, even if he hadn't been here in nearly six years. It felt good to be back. The scents were all the same, day old baked bread, apples, apples and more apples, sawdust and pine. He inhaled deeply and let the aroma wash over him. It was dark inside, or his eye hadn't adjusted to the light inside yet. That was something new he brought with him, or rather didn't, leaving his right eye somewhere in the wastes beyond the Grey Mountains, in its place was a makeshift eye patch cut out of boot leather and a scar in the shape of a lichtenburg figure that branched out from his eye down his cheek and up his scalp in angry red.
He blinked out of his reverie, realizing he was still standing in the doorway. He moved inside, making his way as nonchalantly to the bar as he could. He eased himself against the wooden frame, his muscles screaming at him from exhaustion and age. He rubbed his thigh, wincing as a sharp pain shivered down his back.
"These missions are starting to get to you, old man," he said to himself in a mumble. He chucked and exhaled. "You don't have it in you to chase down Angmar cultists on a bloody whim anymore."
Suddenly, he became conscious that he was not alone in the tavern. He coughed his embarrassment, trying not to look directly at the bartender, who must have heard him talking to himself.
"Sorry," he said, his volume barely louder now than when he was talking to himself. "Sometimes the only way to stave off the lonely is to talk to yourself. I got used to having myself as company."
He took another look around the bar. It was emptier than it should have been, or at least from what he remembered. Maybe this mission had addled his brain more than he thought.
"You wouldn't happen to have some cider would you? Or maybe some mulled beer?" His grin, sincere and apologetic, crinkled his brow.

[Dimcairien Luiniel]

Four Winds Tavern
Brandor

With a long sigh, Brandor slowly dismounted from his horse, Narful, wincing slightly as his left foot touched the ground. A few weeks ago his leg had taken a nasty injury in the form of a sword to the back of his knee. By some miracle he was still able to ride his horse and walk, but both took great effort, especially horseback riding as he could no longer control Narful with his knees. The steed had belonged to him for years, and thankfully could respond to the slightest word or movement of the reigns, but Brandor could no longer ride a horse and wield a weapon at the same time, an evil twist of fate for a young man of the Dúnadien.

It was for that reason he found himself at the Four Winds Tavern. The tavern had long been a place of rest for the Rangers and Brandor hoped that the hospitality continued towards those who could no longer actively pursue the role of Ranger and perhaps there was some way he could continue to help the Rangers. And if the growing darkness continued, they would need all help they could get. He stabled Narful in the stable adjacent to the inn and slowly pushed open the door.

Memories of his childhood flew in to greet him as he took in the woodsey smells of fire, ale, and pipeweed. He had never had a proper home before, but this tavern had been a place he had visited many a time. It was strange to be back after many years away, but welcoming just the same.

Brandor made his way towards the tavern keeper (Abrazân). "Good evening," he said, "shelter and food for a weary traveller?"

[Moriel]

Abrazân
The Four Winds

“Take your time then.” Abrazân nodded to the first man (Deorwine) and turned to the second, a familiar if not recently seen face (Beranwine). The tavernkeeper laughed his low, barking laugh, and grinned. “No harm in talking to yourself, as long as you don’t expect yourself to talk back from somewhere else. Cider? Of course. Mulled beer? Well… we might be able to make do.” Abrazân gave Beranwine a slow wink and turned away. First he thrust the fire poker into the coals, before rummaging under the bar. It wasn’t the season for mulling per se, but the spices were never far away. Tapping a fair measure of his own secret blend into the bottom of a tankard. Abrazân filled it with a rich dark ale, causing the spices to swirl about in the beer. Judging the poker to be hot enough, he thrust it into the tankard with a hiss, instantly heating the liquid within. “There y’are, and my complements.” Another man (Brandor) approached the bar, heavily favoring one leg, and Abrazân nodded to Beranwine to excuse himself. “Now then,” he said to Brandor, “You look as though you could use some fortifying. Stew? Ale?” The tavernkeeper produced both items without waiting for a response. Sometimes it was his job to give people what they needed, whether they knew what it was or not. A rich, hearty, beefy stew filled the bowl, thick with potatoes and carrots and all manner of goodness, and stout brown ale the tankard, both of which he set on the bartop before Brandor. “Have a seat, and we’ll see about shelter when you’ve done.”

[Rochindil Eltoran]

Four Winds Tavern

Deorwine was greeted by a grizzled but still strikingly handsome bar keep (Abrazan) as he entered The Four Winds Tavern. "One Pale Ale for me to start my kind sir" he flashed his winning smile at Abrazan as he spoke, two others also entered the Tavern (Beranwine and Brandor) and to his delight he noticed they were also good looking men especially the one with they eye patch "Ha, looks like I got here just in the nick of time". Deorwine took off his mustard coloured cloak to reveal tight fitting earth coloured clothes that showed off his muscled physique that he had honed over the years in the wilderness. Deorwine pulled up a chair and sat on the arm, fumbling with his belt he took of a simple scabbard made of iron with bronze trimmings and place it atop the bar. "Its nice to take this thing of especially when with friends" He said to nobody in particular."

[Dimcairien Luiniel]

Four Winds Tavern

Brandor had hardly gotten his request for food out of his mouth when Abrazân produced a hearty bowl of beef stew and a tankard of strong ale and set them down atop to bar in front of him and a promise to discuss shelter after he had consumed his meal. With slow, deep breaths, Brandor took in the smell of the food. "Thank you," he said, taking the offered food and limping to a nearby chair and table. He placed the stew and ale sank into the chair in relief. He massaged his stiff leg for a few moments as he looked around the tavern, wondering who else had chosen this place for the evening. He noticed one individual, Beranwine, who was also sporting an injury, and Deorwine, who after ordering an ale, removed his scabbard and laid in atop the bar.

That simple act reminded Brandor that he too still had his sword on his belt. For a Ranger, the sword practically became a fifth appendage, but here, in this tavern, it was actually safe to remove it. Brandor nodded in the general direction of Deorwine as he too removed his scabbard form his belt and leaned it against the table leg.

He lifted the tankard of ale to his lips and drank, relishing in the feel of the strong drink going down his throat. Setting down the ale, he slowly began to eat the stew. It had been far too long since he had enjoyed a hot meal.

[Moriel]

Abrazân
The Four Winds

"Most welcome." Abrazân replied with a crinkle of the eyes to the man (Brandor) as he took his meal and moved to a table for the eating of it. The first customer (Deorwine) appeared to have come to himself, and came to the bar, whipping off his gaudy cloak. "A pale ale it is then!" Abrazân lifted a tankard from one of the hooks behind the bar and turned to the barrels behind him, dispensing the straw colored liquid swiftly and allowing it to come to a foamy head, rounding perfectly over the top of the vessel. He returned to the man and set the drink before him, avoiding the sword his customer had set upon the bar. "Hmm indeed, as you no doubt know this is one of the few safe places hereabouts to do so," Abrazân nodded to Deorwine's remark about removing his sword, "though you may want to take caution with where you set it, I'll not be to blame if you have to clean ale from your blade. And what might you be called?"

[Baphởmet]

Beranwine
The Four Winds Tavern

The mulled beer tasted good. It spread warmth into Beranwine’s extremities and slowly, gulp by gulp, he began to feel more himself. His back relaxed, muscles releasing their tension until he felt as though he were about to melt. He slipped into a reverie, recalling with the precision only an old man can, all the years he spent running around this town as a young man, chasing women, hunting monsters, retelling tales of daring do that had been so exaggerated that no one in their right minds would have believed him. He recalled a winter night he had gathered all his fellows in this very tavern to tell them a story of his scaling one of the great peaks of the Grew Mountains with naught but a bit of rope. He used to be quite a storyteller back in the day. He suddenly wondered if that were true. Had he been a good story teller? He had been in the Northern Wastes so long that he was unsure what part of his memory was just dreams and what part was real. A wave of despair hit him and the grizzled old man had to cough lest tears come unbidden to his eyes.

That brought him out of his reverie though. Suddenly, as it seemed to Beranwine, the tavern was coming to life. Sounds of life were a welcome balm to his troubled mind. He had spent too much time in silence. The despair melted away. He took a last gulp of the mulled beer and sighed contentedly. “I was tried to make mulled beer with herbs I found in the forest and a burning brand,” he turned toward Abrazân with a self-deprecating smile, “this turned out much better. My thanks to you.”

He scratched the Lichtenburg scar on his cheek and looked back at the men filling the tavern. They all looked relatively young, but of course that could be deceptive up north with Dúnedain blood running in nearly everyone’s veins. They were a ragged assortment, well worn, but strong and hale.

“Say,” he said to the man at the end of the bar with the bowl of stew (Brandor), “You have a familiar face. I don’t mean to intrude upon your meal, good sir, but I’ve been up north on a mission for a few years now. This place, the faces, has changed quite a bit since I was here last. I’m afraid nearly everyone here is a mystery to me. Might I trouble you for a story? I’d for your meal in turn.”

[Dimcairien Luiniel]

Four Winds Tavern

Brandor looked up from his stew as an older man (Beranwine) addressed him. Setting down his spoon, he took in the man's grizzled countenance, with a long scar across his cheek and the eyepatch across his right eye. Despite the natural sternness that many men of the Dúnedain had, there was also a gentleness is the man's expression. The man asked about stories, saying that he had been up north for several years. Before answering, Brandor looked around the room, wondering how many of the slowly growing group men seated throughout the tavern had recently returned from journeys. Many, he assumed. Four Winds was a place to relax and recuperate, but rarely did it seem that a Ranger would stay for more than a week or so, unless he had particular business throughout Osdolen.

Brandor chuckled slightly, the sound strange in his throat. "I'm afraid I don't have much in the way of stories, at least from these parts. I too have just returned from the Rhudar regions where … it was a bit more dangerous than expected. As for the familiarity of my face, the last time I was here I was a young lad, but perhaps you're thinking of my father, Bramben? He was a Ranger of high repute and frequented this tavern many times. I often was with him when he came."

He paused, wondering if he should say anymore. Brandor had never been one for sharing his inward thoughts, at least with anyone but his father. He briefly wondered if word of his father's death had reached Osdolen yet or it it would fall to him to bring the news.

"It appears I am not the only one to return to Osdolen physically changed," he said at last.

[Baphởmet]

Four Winds Tavern
Beranwine

Bramben… was that name familiar to him? Beranwine wracked his brain, trying to recall memories of a simpler time, or at least a time before he stared into the infinite blackness of insanity. Hints, whispers, vague dream recollections were all that came to him, outlines of a face but any distinguishing feature was obscured by shadows. There were holes in his memories, he realized. There was a good chance he had knew this Bramben, he might have even gone out on missions with him, but now he couldn’t even see the man’s face in his mind.
“I’m so sorry to hear of your loss,” he took a sip of the mulled beer and let the liquid sit in his mouth a moment before swallowing it. “It’s a hard thing to lose a father, especially one that’s as well known as your father was. I think he’d be proud of you though, from all that I can tell, you’re following in his footsteps but forging your own identity.”
Beranwine raised his mug in salute and took another sip of the velvety warm liquid. He felt the liquid move through him, the sensation splintering out so he could feel it in all his fingers and toes. He took a deep, satisfied breath.
“My story is…” he paused, searching for the right words as he looked the young man over. “There are missions that can seem to change the very fabric of your being. Missions that can haunt you long after you’ve completed them.
“I was hunting a group of cultists, men and women that were trying to break into the old stronghold of Angmar. They called themselves The Children of the Iron Light, I never did figure out why they called themselves that. Anyway, I was able to stop most of them from entering, but the last one was able to distract me with a bit of…” he paused again, searching for words, he wiggled his fingers, “a lightning bolt from his finger sear my eye and gave me this scar. I chased him north, after learning what it was he stole from inside that haunted pit, I was too far behind him though. I came on a village of Snowmen, just north of the Grey Mountains, every man, woman, child, and animal in that place had been killed, ripped apart as if by some monstrous beast.”
Beranwine took another deep breath, his hands shaking suddenly. He could recall all of these things in perfect detail, the faces of the dead permanently etched into his mind.
“I’ve seen the butchery orcs and goblins can bring to bear, I’ve seen what a barrow-wight can do. Men, that’s something else. We are a unique race, we have the greatest potential for light and love and joy but also the great capacity for cruelty, devilry, and malice. I buried them all as best I could.
“I finally caught him on top of a frozen lake, nigh a hundred leagues north of the most northerly Grey Mountain peak. If any had seen it, I’m sure a song or two might have been sung. I managed to break the ice beneath him, he fell in. I pray that killed him.”
He coughed, realizing he might have darkened the room a little too much.

The Grimoire
Locked Away in Beranwine’s Pack

Hunger. She was so hungry. She managed to get out of the old castle and moved north. She had called her minions to her, flexing her tendrils of power over the many leagues that separated her from her beloved. She could feel them, a distant star upon the horizon, strong and inevitable. She hungered for them again.
The cultists had failed. They had not reunited her. Now she was in the possession of an old ranger, a fool who had no idea the magnitude that he carried with him. She had already weaved her way into his mind, eradicating parts of him bit by inexorable bit. She fed off of his memories, devouring what had been his.
She could feel power here, in this room, she spread her tendrils, wisps of air into the room and searched. She was hungry. She must feed before she was reunited with her beloved. She must be strong once again.
Hunger.

[Dimcairien Luiniel]

Four Winds Tavern

"Thank you," murmured Brandor in response to Beranwine's condolences. He didn't know how else to respond. "And yes, being a Ranger is in my blood, but I am not my father."

He continued to eat his meal while the older man shared his story. When Beranwine was finished with his story and it was far darker than he had expected, Brandor gasped in surprise, "Angmar? That vile place? I've heard only the bravest of the Rangers dare to go within five leagues of it." He nodded in understanding as the older man explained some of the horrors he had seen and when he discussed the complexities of man, Brandor let out a long sigh and drained the rest of his ale, looking a bit forlorn when it was gone. It had been far too long since he had enjoyed this beverage in like company.

While he hadn't seen all the horrors that Beranwine mentioned, he had seen his fair share of orcs and evil men. "Man is strange," he said at last. "It was men near Rhudar who attacked me and my father. He succumbed to his wounds shortly after but I …" He paused, looking down at the empty tankard and wishing desperately that it was full again. "I survived. And it's only thanks to the healing skills of the elves at Adab Nestad that I'm alive and mobile." He began to massage his knee, remembering bits of those fever ridden, painful days. Days when he wished he had died alongside his father. He shook his head. It was not good to dwell on such thoughts. He was here, in the sanctuary of Osdolen and that was a good place to be.

[Moriel]

Approaching Osdolen -> The Four Winds

“Aaah, gwador vell.” A hand patted the neck of the large, black horse firmly. “Avo vosto! Beron, we will be there soon.” The horse snorted and stamped his opinion, finely drawn legs pummeling the ground, and tossed his head irritably. The woman seated atop his back tossed her head back in a throaty laugh, and tangled her fingers in his thick mane. Though a surcingle allowed for the carrying of baggage, not a strap bound Beron, and the pair moved together in harmony. A daughter Anadûnê, Moriel rose tall and lithe, pale as Ithil’s face in winter, and waving coal-black locks nearly brushed Beron’s back behind her. She surveyed the darkening landscape through keen cobalt eyes and sniffed the air; her destination was drawing near. Those odd eyes shone with a brightness that harked to her mother’s people, though Moriel had never known the light of Aman, and it was her father’s that provided the shine. It was difficult to know what to make of this woman on first sight: she was tall for a Man, but many of Dúnedain blood were tall; her eyes shone, but some descendants of Númenor still retained the vestiges of their ancestors’ eyes; when her hair was drawn back however and revealed the sharply pointed ears, it was easy to assume in combination with the eyes that she was a Calaqueni Noldo. But Moriel was peredhel, and she preferred to let others speculate as they would.

The cavern rose as though from nowhere, swallowing Moriel away from the light of the moon. She urged Beron onward, and they picked their way through the cavern, whose ground was worn by the passage of feet, until they reached the far edge, where the natural structure of the rock that led upwards had been cunningly concealed. They proceeded upwards, the earth-and-stone staircase growing lighter and lighter as they neared its peak, until finally Moriel again felt direct light on her face and beheld the gates of Osdolen. She passed into the city leading Beron: the less attention she could attract at this moment, the better. Long had she wandered the shadowed lands, and though it had been years since her return to the north and was doubtful she would run afoul of anyone here, it were always better to observe her surroundings. The streets of Osdolen were quiet, and not a soul was to be seen until she entered the courtyard, where a group of men trained in the dusk. Glints of moon and torchlight flickered alternately off their swords and faces, the clash of steel singing in Moriel’s ears as she crossed to the stables. Several of them glanced in her direction, but seemed to decide to stay at their swordplay. She was not an unknown figure in the ranger outpost; indeed, its captain was a long-standing friend and ally, but neither was she a beloved comrade to many.

An exchange of words and coins saw Beron settled in the stables and safekeeping for the few items Moriel chose to leave behind in his stall. This did not include her blades: twin falchions, secured crossed on her back in a dual baldric, each silver pommel peeping over her shoulders figured like the head of a wolf, sapphires bringing a gleam to their cold eyes. The black leather-wrapped hilts were just slightly larger than a handspan, allowing for an additional grip if necessary, though the short, heavy blades were intended to be wielded each with a single hand. She wore no cloak, but the soft, black leathern tunic extended to her knees, slitted front and back, nearly met by her boot-tops. The mossy under-tunic, whose sleeves covered Moriel’s arms where the tunic left off at the shoulder was also of the same length, and the intervening area revealed her legs to be trouser-clad. Long experience had taught this woman that though when she ventured thus into the more cultured realms scandal may follow, it were always best for a traveler to be practical. Moriel took a deep breath of the sharp northern air, casting her eyes about the courtyard, and moved onward, towards the Four Winds.

The man she had been tailing was within. She could feel him, even from this distance- though not precisely him, but the object he was carrying. She had come upon him accidentally: even in the wild, it was possible to run across people you didn’t mean to. Moriel had been encamped when the old man had passed her by, quite unaware of her presence. But the thing in his pack had reached out to her long before the grizzled ranger came in sight, and she had watched him pass by from behind a ridge, seemingly unaware of the maleficence he bore. Decamping with haste, she followed him with the silence and concealment only a she-wolf could muster. When she reached the place where she had left Beron, Moriel had resumed her course ahorse, on a clear line to Osdolen.

The sense of the thing grew stronger and stronger as she approached the tavern, and it was a wonder to her that the entire fort did not rise at once and proclaim it… but of course, they did not feel. Her spine alight, Moriel entered the Four Winds. She strode to the bar, where the tavernkeeper was in conversation with a muscular man (Deorwine), and tapped her a coin gently on its surface. “Tubeng,” she requested softly, and Abrazân obliged with a nod, drawing a tankard full of the potent cider. “Moriel, it has been some time.” “Aye! And your hospitality is always appreciated.” She took the mug, lifted it to the tavernkeeper in salute and made for a table in one corner of the warm tavern, where she seated herself with a clear view of the space. Unbuckling the baldric, she hooked its straps over the back of her chair to allow it to bear the weight of the falchions, and she settled back into the chair. Her eyes scanned the room, settling briefly upon the scarred man (Beranwine) before moving on.

[Baphởmet]

Beranwine
Four Winds Tavern

He could see that the lad was distracted, had more things on his mind that catching up some old ranger no one would remember at this point. Beranwine nodded and brought up his mug of mulled beer. “I’ll let you get back to musings, lad. My apologies for interrupting.”
Suddenly he felt cold. It shouldn’t be so cold in here. There was a fire in the hearth but it was doing nothing for him. The ranger’s fingers barely moved. Sharp pains slithered up his arms and into his neck when he tried. They felt like they were on fire but he was powerless to make the pain go away. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the pain. But something else rushed to him then, if it had had any physical force, it would have knocked him out of his seat.
He was standing atop the lake of ice, winds swirled around him biting at him, yanking at his cloak, seeking for the weak points in his defense. The cold was a living breathing thing here, and it was a monster. It would brook no intrusion into its domain. Everything that was not it was an enemy. The ice cracked underneath him. Beranwine tried to run, tried to escape but the cold would have him. The ice beneath him shattered and he plunged into the black, inky depths.
“No!” he shouted, coming out of his reverie.
“No, that’s not what happened…” he said more softly, barely above a whisper
You know that’s what happened.
The voice nearly flung him across the room. It was not a physical voice. No one at the tavern had heard that but him. He looked at his pack instinctively. He covered his mouth, trying to suppress a shriek of utter terror as he say tendrils of inky, greasy smoke reaching out of it. Wisps of smoke curled around the patrons, almost in a lover’s caress. But there was something putrescently wrong. There was no tenderness, there was only hunger.
You remember what happened to you, beneath the ice.
“I… I didn’t fall in the ice… I escaped before… before it broke,” he whimpered.
You remember what I allow you to remember, and you will remember this.
“No.” his voice was so small it would swallowed up by the gentle din of the tavern.
He watched, helplessly, as the tendrils of power sifted around the room, unseen by all but him. He watched as the hungry serpentine things skulked about the room. His missing eye throbbed with pain, like a knife was being thrust into it. His knuckles were clenched so tightly that his fingernails began ripping holes in his flesh.
Then, his good eye fell on her (Moriel). She had just entered and seemed completely at ease here. She walked with a sort of grace and confidence that spoke of many years of training. She bore to wide, impressive blades on her back. In any normal circumstances, he would have noted her arrival and gone back to whatever he was doing but… but there was something zemblanitous about her arrival. It was not that alone though. While no other patron here had tendrils of inky smoke billowing off of them, she did. They wrapped around her like a cloak, obscuring much of her features. Beranwine went pale.
Yes. We hunger.

[Moriel]

The Four Winds

Moriel watched the man (Beranwine) rise from his chair at the younger man’s table, as if to make his way back to the bar, or elsewhere. But something had gone wrong as he attempted to move away; he froze, and then he shouted, “No!” There were other words whispered after that, but they were unimportant compared to everything else: Moriel focused sharply on the man as he struggled with some internal force. The fiery prickles in her spine grew stronger then, and the malice hovering about him strengthened, pulsing like radiant heat against her skin. The peredhel came to her feet, striding purposefully across to the old man (Beranwine). “Friend, are you alright?” she asked with concern, laying a hand on his shoulder. It was cold, but seemed to burn her fingers. Something was wrong with this man, much less with what he carried. With a nod to the old man’s former companion (Brandon) relieved the ranger of his mug of mulled beer, and shifted her hand to his opposite shoulder, guiding him with her arm across his back as she spoke, “Come, come, sit and I’ll see what I can do for you.” With practiced ease, she steered him to her table, set his mug upon it, and with firm suggestion on his shoulder, pressed him down into the chair opposite hers. She regained her seat, crinkling her brows in the brief moment she turned away from the man, and facing him again with a small smile as she sat. “Now friend, will you tell me your name, and what troubles you? I am called Moriel.”

[Baphởmet]

Beranwine
The Four Winds Tavern

This was bad. Beranwine wanted to scream, wanted to shout to get everyone away from him but his voice was gone, stolen. He gasped for breath. His lungs seemed to fill with water. He coughed hard, pain wrapped him in a cloak. The woman was next to him now. How had she gotten there so fast? His hands were shaking. There was something more happening here. Something he couldn’t quite see. She was beautiful, whoever she was. Even an old man could see that, but that darkness swirling around her gave him more than a pause. The thing in his pack had taken note of her too. All of its tendrils and waves of hunger, searching power were coming to her. Whoever she was, she must be a powerful individual. Beranwine tried to look at her, tried to gauge what she was, but the majority of her features seemed shrouded, either by her hair and cloak, or by the shadows that threatened to swallow him up.
“Who…?” He finally managed when he sat down. Suddenly, anger burned inside him. He was not a drunken old fool! He was not some senile grandfather who had wandered out into to streets. He was a Ranger! Strength crackled his hands, he made fists that cracked his knuckles. Whatever cloud that fogged his mind was starting to clear, whatever that thing had done was losing its effectiveness. He felt warm again; the air, though, was sharp with potential energy. He felt this way when a storm was on the way and he could only wait for that first crack of thunder. He waited now.
The smoke vanished from his vision, shadows retreated back to their normal haunts. The smell of baking bread, beer, and cider filled the air again. Sounds of laughter and bone dice against wooden tables echoed. His scar throbbed.
“I know you don’t I?” He looked at the woman, still garbed in shadow. “Or you know me. You’re not here by chance are you? Moriel? That sounds… sounds familiar, but I can’t tell from where.”

[Moriel]

The Four Winds

He was unsettled, that was certain. Whether it was because of something that had happened to him, or because of the thing he carried Moriel could not be certain. Considering what of many unlikely things he must have had to go through to get the thing he carried, she rather suspected it was both. Her eyes narrowed infinitesimally, but her face otherwise remained a mask of kind concern. “I don’t think we’ve met, good sir, but anything is possible. I’ve been ranging in these parts for a very long time.” Moriel studied the man, her mind racing. She had spoken the truth, and yet something did seem strangely familiar about him. Or again, was it the thing he carried? The sense of it seemed to… not exactly cloud her senses, but distract, pull, call. Summon. The way smoke follows a person around a campfire, it seemed to crowd her when she tried to pull her attention away, lurking at the edges of her awareness, tickling her sides with dark feather fingers. The peredhel smiled. “But friend, you still haven’t told me your name! And what has you in such a state. Are you well?”

[Baphởmet]

Beranwine
The Four Winds Tavern

“I’m…” he paused a second, the air wasn’t quite right, there was an odor, something he couldn’t place. It was faint, something lying underneath. Was… was it the smell of cold? The smell was empty, it bite hard at his nose.

“It’s about time you were awake, I feared I had been sold a faulty spell.” The voice was gravelly and tired, with a hint of amusement. It was a man’s voice. Beranwine couldn’t tell where it was coming from, Everything was dark and foggy. “Up here.”
He looked up, and winced. The sun was out, but he could barely see it, shrouded behind whatever was fogging his mind.
“Yes, yes, you’ll do.”
“What? What’s going on?” Beranwine’s voice was harsh, his throat felt like knives. “Who are you?”
“So many questions,” the voice said, “I will answer your questions, I promise you. But you must do something for me.”
He rubbed his eyes, desperately trying to see. Where was he? It was cold here, bitterly so. Was he still in the north? He must have passed out as soon as he got off the ice.
“What do you want?”
“Want I want,” the voice said, “is for you to deliver something for me, something of great importance and magnitude.”
“I’m not… I’m not a messenger, I’m a Ranger of the North. I’m –“
“You are what I say you are,” the voice cut him off.
Shapes started coming in to focus, there was a great roaring fire beside him, but the heat didn’t touch him. There was someone sitting across the fire, a man, tall with long dark hair. The rest of his features were still blurry. Beranwine sat up and tried taking a deep breath. It hurt. He coughed hard.
“Don’t try to come back to life all at once now. Your body can’t handle too much.”
“Come back to life? What does that mean?”
“You’ve been dead for nearly five years, Beranwine the Ranger.”
What? No that wasn’t possible. His mind reeled and he toppled over.
“Get up!” all softness and cruel amusement was gone, replaced by something more feral and angry. “I didn’t spend half a fortune to rip you back into the world of Arda just for you to die as soon as I bring you back. Get. Up.”
Against his will, Beranwine could feel his legs moving, obeying the man before him. He stood, wobbling on tired, undead limbs.
“Good,” the man danced around the fire, light on his feet despite the snow that began blowing in waves. “It’s good to see that the spell is working as promised. Now, that book you have in your pack. No, don’t take it out, there’s no need here.” He placed a hand on Beranwine’s shoulder, it was missing two fingers. “You are going to deliver that book for me to someone very special.”
“Who?” Beranwine sobbed, cold seeping deep into him.
“You’ll know when you see them. I can’t risk saying too much.” Beranwine could see an easy, reassuring smile in the man’s face. He wanted to trust it, but there was something malignant behind it. His eyes were swirling vortices of hatred.
“Now, kneel!”
Beranwine felt his knees give way, he sank to the ground, his head turned down. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes and froze. When he looked up, he was alone.

“I’m Beranwine,” he said after a moment’s reflection. “I heard once, of a Moriel, but that was years ago. She would be at last in her sixties by now. You don’t look like your more than thirty.” A smile came to his lips, but no breath came out.

The Grimoire
Locked Away in Beranwine’s Pack

Yes. Yes this was very good. The old man had brought her to one of those she sought. She could feel the power coming from the half-elf. She was pleased. Her tendrils wove around the girl. There was no way she could resist the power around her.
I could give you such strength, such power that you could not imagine.
Her powers dove into the Peredhel’s mind, probing, searching. She found an image, one woven and hidden away in so much sorrow. If she could have smiled, she would have.
She unwrapped the image, an Elven woman, strong and powerful, a voice like thunder, old too, ancient as the stars themselves.
You could see her again. The old man has taken me as far as he can. His mind is so wrapped in shadows and dreams he hardly knows where he is but by my grace. We have need of each other, Moriel. I would offer you such rewards for your aid. Let us satisfy our hunger together.

[Moriel]

The Four Winds

His eyes had gone oddly blank, and the strange chill she had felt when she grasped his shoulder seemed to be creeping out from the man toward Moriel now. What was happening behind those eyes? She stared openly and hard, sure that he was not aware of anything before him at this moment. Then her face relaxed as his eyes came back to the present and he spoke his name at last. “Beranwine?” she repeated, frowning slightly. The name rang a small bell of danger somewhere in her memory. It was a name she had heard before in Osdolen, but… “Tell me, Beranwine-“ Before she could complete the sentence, another voice interrupted Moriel, in the silence of her mind. It too was familiar, all too familiar, a whispering, wheedling voice, its honeyed charms concealing the harsh rasp beneath. I could give you such strength, such power that you could not imagine. Unbidden, the image of the Nelya appeared before Moriel, the ancient nís with her sweeping silver hair, her soft laugh, her gentle voice calling “Vanyamórë,” and her eyes of Cuiviénen, those same odd cobalt eyes that stood so distinctly in Moriel’s own face. Mother. You could see her again. No! Moriel took in the rest of the whispered words, leeching into her consciousness through a force she could not stop, but her gaze was back on the man before her. It was time to drop some of the pretense. The peredhel leaned forward across the table towards him. “Tell me, Beranwine, how did you come by that book you carry? Who gave it to you?”

[Baphởmet]

Beranwine
The Four Winds Tavern

The mood, as it had already done several times tonight, shifted. Beranwine was just beginning to relax, just starting to come to terms with the fact that he needed help for… whatever was going on inside his head. He was just beginning to feel the warm of this place once more when the woman’s whole demeanor shifted. Where she had been welcoming before, now her eyes were hard and suspicious. What had happened? Beranwine licked his lips nervously. He glanced about his surroundings, doing his best to be inconspicuous, and became reacquainted with the twin falchions she had come in with. He could see the wolf’s head pommels peaking out menacingly from behind her chair. There was a sinister glint in their eyes. He was in a bad spot, defensively speaking. He might be able to get a few steps from her before her swords were out, she would have the advantage. After his display of senility in the middle of the tavern, none of the patrons were going to move too quickly to help him. The room was large, though, she might not be able to crowd him into submission too quickly. Still though, he had seen how she moved. She was a wolf, stalking her prey, and he was an old, half blind badger. He still had his tricks, but this was not a fight he could win. Not in here. The door was close, maybe a dozen or so steps from the table. He might able to—
What had she just said? A chill ran down the ranger’s spine. She knew. How did she know? Suddenly the room felt much more claustrophobic. Beranwine’s skin prickled. All thoughts of a battle, no matter how unbalanced, fled his mind. His muscles were frozen in place.
Should he feign ignorance here? Or would that lead him into an early grave.
It wouldn’t be your first grave.
The voice in the back of his head laughed maliciously.
Don’t give me to her. You and I have a ways to go yet.
Beranwine swallowed hard. “Unless you are a follower of her, I don’t see why that… is something that concerns you, Moriel. As to who gave it to me…” his voice lowered to a raspy, throaty whisper. “They don’t like their name mentioned unless you plan on killing everyone here.”
He leaned back and crossed his arms but moved his legs to a pouncing position. He looked at the door again. Perhaps he could make it.

The Grimoire
Hidden Away in Beranwine’s Pack

Playing these two was almost too easy. Once she had her hooks in the memories of both of them, she would not be shaken out. Power emanated from both of them. Power of life, and power of death. She wanted it all, needed it all. Her beloved was still far away, but she could sense them. A great pulsing star at the outer rim of the horizon.
Take me she said to the half-elf, pressing the image of her mother deep into her psyche. The beautiful pale hair and bright, sharp eyes. We can find her again, bring her back. We could give her the join that was denied her in the end. She needs you Moriel. She still cries out for you when the light wanes in Valinor. I have heard her tears. Have you, in the dark hours before the light? Have you seen the stars tremble?
The man, though she had travelled with him for months already and siphoned off much already through emotional torture, was still brimming with power. His power was not his own though, his power came from the resurrection spell used to bring him back, to bring her back to the surface.
Don’t let her take me. Who can say the dark things she has planned. Balance must be set right, that’s what you were told.
A battle between the two would be swift and it would end predictably, but in those precious moments, the feast of power coming from them would be vast. Pain unlocked power, and there was going to be pain aplenty here. In fact… She reached a tendril out, wrapping it around the man’s heart, and squeezed.

[Dimcairien Luiniel]

Brandor

It was evident that the older man (Beranwine) had found someone that was perhaps more familiar, Brandor mused as he watched the man head across the room to where a lone woman was seated. Something clearly seemed off with the older man, but it appeared that the woman could help whatever it was. The world was full of strange things that could affect one in a myriad of ways. His food was gone and he was exhausted. It had been a long journey from Rivendell. He picked up the now empty plate and tankard and limped to the barkeep (Abrazân). "Thank you," he said again. "That was much needed." He glanced around the room, which had filled up a bit more during his meal, but it was still fairly quiet and filled with the hazy, smokey light from the fire.

He took a deep breath, and leaned against the bartop. The food had given him the energy he needed to think and he thought the tavernkeeper might be familiar. "You don't happen to be Abrazân?" he asked at last. "He was the barkeep here when I was a lad and would come in with my father, Bramben. I am Brandor." He paused, waiting for the tavernkeeper to respond.

[Yávië]

Sirya
Kennelmaster

There was a paw in her mouth.

Sirya came awake spitting dirt and fur and Valar knew what else. "Gerrof me, you overstuffed ferret!" she snapped, waving her arm ineffectually at the lump weighing down her chest. She managed to wriggle onto her side and closed her eyes hopefully. There had been a stranger in her dreams, and flowers growing in a barren field. She had very much wanted to learn who the stranger was.

Small, sharp teeth nipped at her nose. Something tickled at her ear. Sirya groaned and hid her face. "You are all the very worst," she muttered into her pillow. "Horrible, thankless monsters." But she sat up reluctantly and was met with the doleful eyes of two of her youngest pups. Babble and Brook, she had named this pair of litter mates, in honor of their incessant squeaking. Moonlight reflected off the latter's snowy fur.

"Blast it!" The latest round of training had smashed Sirya's internal sense of time to pieces. Midnight runs, pre-dawn tracking exercises, morning naps--she would have guessed it was around mid-afternoon, if it wasn't so dark. She forced herself to stand before she dozed off again against her headboard and unceremoniously stuffed herself into the closest tunic and breeches she could find. The puppies wound around her legs like cats and yipped mournfully until she offered them the remains of last night's stewed rabbit. She rolled her eyes, but let them nuzzle at her face before she left.

***

The Four Winds

The dozen or so hounds curled up in their kennels and tussling in their wide enclosure may have been well-provided for, but Sirya's own food stores were distinctly low, and missing certain key ingredients.

"Coffee," she said without pre-amble, squinting at Abrazân and slumping into a seat. "Strong, black, floating horseshoes, so on." It took her a few more moments to register the other man leaning against the bar (Brandor).

"Oh! Er, we know each other? Sorry to interrupt, I'm just..." she trailed off with a vague gesture and turned slightly red as she suddenly noticed how much fur was visible on the sleeves of her shirt.

[Tharmáras]

A summer breeze stirred Khallador Galerida's cloak from where he stood, the slender pinnacle of a tower belonging once to the city's long-dead lord. The brawny Ranger lieutenant pressed firmly against the peaked crown of the green felt slouch hat when a stronger gust threatened to rob him of it. The strong, soft-spoken somber man came here to Mindon Gorn, the hill-tower of Gaulharn, most nights to enjoy the panoramic view of the ancient Dúnedain town. He often imagined what it had looked like in the olden days of the Arthedain monarchy.

"It will be rebuilt when I am king and home to hundreds."

Khallador smiled, turning around to face his chieftain who stood smoking his long-stemmed pipe in the moonlight. He stood cross-legged, leaning against one of the tall and sturdy ironbound oaken doors of the balcony, poised between the light of Tilion and the shadows of the keep. "It might need a new name then," Khallador supposed.

"I leave that to you, my friend," Aragorn promised him. He stepped closer to the balustrade uncowled, letting the windy air toss his shaggy greying dark hair. "I need you to speak with the Rangers tonight at the tavern," Aragorn ordered. He took a few moments with his pipe then then breathed out heart-shaped smoke-rings of Old Toby. "Halbarad told me he needs more Rangers in the Grey Company if we're meant to destroy the Orcs in the southern hills."

"There's Orcs near Bree??" Khallador asked, widening his dark brown smoldering eyes in consternation and drove his gloved fingers down his scarred unshaven face as his startlement coldly grew.

Aragorn barked out a humorless laugh. "Barliman's heart would freeze if he knew the kinds of enemies there were near the Bree-land. There's fouller things than Blackwolds and Greenway brigands troubling his turf."

*

Khallador entered the Four Winds and approached the bar, giving Abrazân a wan smile. "A fortifying tankard of Tubeng, old friend," he spoke and waited to collect his drink before moving closer to the present group of Rangers. "Moriel is a dear friend of mine but the lot of you are just meeting me for the first time so let me introduce myself as Khallador Galerida, Aragorn's chief lieutenant of the city," he spoke, giving each Ranger strong handshakes, including the peredhel who was tough herself. "There's some news we must discuss." He took a seat and took a deep drink of his cider, allowing the strong apple taste quell his nerves though he seemed outwardly serene. "Strider met me with me this hour before leaving the city and told me we need to form more bands to counter the rise of troubles in the territory. The Bree-land has suffered a strange string of unexplained disappearances within the Chetwood, its great forest near Archet and west of the Midgewater Marshes. The woodcutters of Combe Valley's lumber mill have vanished and no one knows why. I've spoken with the destraught villagers, assuring them that the Rangers will discover the reasoning of this."

Khallador took a longer pull of his cider and sat gravely in silence for a few moments before continuing. "Trestlebridge has been attacked by Orcs for quite a while now. Since the Rangers help the Mordagnirs successfully prevent the Orcs from penetrating Eriador no further than the Weather Hills, Aragorn and I have reason to expect they must be raiding from Angmar, specifically the ruins of Carn Dûm." Khallador let that sink in, leaning his broad sinewy back against the chair, finishing his cider. "Aragorn gave me this..." The captain set his carved birch burr tankard aside and removed an iron helmet from the satchel he carried. It was distinguished by crude red claw marks. He gave it to Moriel to pass amongst the other Rangers. "This was found by Helchon, a Ranger, who beheaded an Orc he battled at Deadman's Dike while searching for Helwen Grimsteel, a bandit queen who's been giving us some trouble recently. Deadman's Dike, a name Bree-landers have given the ruins of Fornost, is an hour south of Trestlebridge. We cannot allow the Orcs to run rampant this far west close to Bree, the Shire, and Lindon. We must hunt the vermin and determine where it is they're striking from in the Weather Hills and purge this region of their filth," he decided, his soft tone roughening as his anger mounted.

"Many innocents have perished and we owe it to their memory and the lives still living to eradicate Eriador of the Orc scourge has come upon us here in the North." He reached back for Abrazân to refill his cup and gave more electrum Bree coins than was necessary. He always tipped the veteran well. "Who would like to lead a band to Esteldín? It is there you will meet Halbarad, commander of the Grey Company, and he will lead the team to Trestlebridge where you will establish a base and begin your pursuit your of the Orcs. We need a captain to command another band to orchestrate Rangers in the Chetwood in cooperation of the Hill Watch to find the source of the missing woodcutters. Go to Belvedere, their headquarters in Bree-town, and say I've sent you. Your night is yours. You may leave in the morning if that's your wish." Khallador grinned at Sirya. "I suppose you're staying here with the hounds?" he asked the kennelmaster. "You must tell me which ones are available for purchase. I'll pay you handsomely for the best, a dog that's fearless and affectionate. My wife and stepson will need one for hunting."

[Moriel]

The Four Winds

”Don’t.” She said it quietly, but with the hard edge of iron. “If you run, I will be forced to follow. Don’t make me hunt you, Beranwine.” The light in her eyes turned feral, and behind it she fought to shut out the voice that echoed within her mind, silent, and threatening to overwhelm. But it had chosen the wrong image to attempt a torment of the peredhel. Have you seen the stars tremble? Yes. Moriel blinked, and in the instant that her eyes were closed the image of much, much older eyes filled her vision, glittering with the light of those very stars, and their strength and power. A different voice filled her consciousness; wordless, ancient, and utterly incorruptible. It shunted the honeyed whisper to one side and, clear headed, Moriel turned and rose to greet Khallador as he approached, gripping his arm firmly in return. The whispers firmly suppressed, she listened to her friend’s account of the troubles at Trestlebridge, the orcs raiding south from Angmar, and the directive to root out their hiding place. She took the helm he handed her, and the sight of the three red claw marks sent a thrum of recognition through her bones. She showed it round to the others, before turning back to Beranwine as Khallador concluded his speech. Moriel turned the helm to face the old man, and held it out, close to his face. “What do you think, friend? Does this mark mean anything to you?”

Abrazân
The Four Winds

Abrazân set down the mug he had been wiping as the man (Brandor) approached the bar again, and nodded enthusiastically in response to the question. “Aye, I am Abrazân! A fair few years older than when you were a lad, but I remember your father. Good to see you following in his footsteps. Sirya!” the taverneeper’s attention was diverted by the kennelmaster as she arrived, exhausted as usual. He laughed and returned with a mug full of steaming, deep, dark, liquid. “The way you like it, strong enough to take the roof off a warg’s mouth.” Before he could enquire as to which canine was the cause of Sirya’s troubles today, Khallador appeared. He handed over a mug of tubeng to the captain, and settled in to listen with the rest. Abrazân shook his head at the tale- orcs running wild that close to decent folk was nothing to take lightly, and it was a good thing there were still plenty of rangers young and spry enough to take on the task of dealing with them. For his part, the tavernkeeper refilled Khallador’s mug, swept the coins into his pocket with a grateful nod, and turned back to Brandor. “It’s too much for the likes of me these days, to go traipsing off into the Wild after marauding orcs. What about you?”

[Dimcairien Luiniel]

Brandor
The Four Winds

As he leaned against the bar, the tavern-keeper turned and answered that he was indeed Abrazân. Brandor smiled, thankful that there was at least one familiar face in this place and wondering if any more would arrive. There was something soothing about the familiarity of this place and in so many ways, it was one of the few safe places in the area.

A moment later, Brandor glanced over his shoulder at the arrival of the newcomer (Sirya), who looked vaguely familiar. The woman had a fair amount of dog hair, but looked very much at home in the tavern. "Perhaps," he answered in response to the woman, "I grew up coming into this tavern from time to time. I am called Brandor. I take it you work with animals?"

Before anyone could respond, Khallador appeared. Brandor started a bit, recognizing the man: from earlier adventures or colourful descriptions from his father, he wasn't quite certain. He sighed when Khallador announced the news that had brought him to Four Winds. Orcs had been spotted close to Bree and in other areas close to folks just trying to make an ordinary living. Those creatures were fouler than foul. Despite his youth, he had seen far too much destruction caused by them. His thoughts were suddenly broken by Abrazân's voice asking if he was up for traipsing in the Wild after bands of orcs. Only a few short months ago, Brandor would have answered that question with a resounding "yes", but now, he wasn't as sure. "I would if I could," he answered, with a false sense of lightness in his voice, his hand going down to his knee. "I'm afraid my riding skills aren't what they used to.

"Five months ago, my father and I were waylaid by a band of Wild Men in the barren lands of Rhudar. My father lost his life in the fight and I…" (he massaged his knee, before continuing), "I took a sharp object, most likely an axe, to the back of my knee. Somehow it was not cut off and I managed to make it to Rivendell, where I've been since. I'm only alive and somewhat walking because of the skills of the elven healers." He paused, wondering what the grizzled tavern-keeper would say. Brandor couldn't recall any younger Rangers who were injured to the extent that their life as a Ranger was most likely over and he wondered if he would still be accepted in this area, despite his obvious shortcomings.

[Baphởmet]

Beranwine
The Four Winds Tavern

His heart seized with pain. A ripping, shredding, pulsing pain. His heart felt as though it were on the verge of being torn asunder. The pain was unimaginable. His body was on fire from the inside out. Then, as suddenly as it had come, it was gone. His heart, what was left of it, fluttered a moment then steadied back into whatever could pass as a rhythm.

Before Beranwine and Moriel could continue whatever it was they were doing, a man (Khallador) burst into the tavern. A grizzled man, scars telling as many stories as his eyes. Beranwine felt like he should know who this was. Perhaps in the deep well of memory that had been denied him there was a recollection of that face, of who this man was. Clearly, judging from his cat like movements around the tavern, he was a man used to being in charge, and being listened to. Beranwine strained, trying to dig out anything of the man, but the book seemed to think it was delightful to make him suffer.

Without preamble or introduction, the ranger sat himself at the table, placing himself in between Beranwine and Moriel and completely ignored the old man. This would be the best chance he’d have. While she was distracted talking to this man, he could slip out and escape. She’d hunt him down, but he’d have a head start. That’s all he needed right now.

His hopes were instantly dashed, however, when the ranger leader dropped a helmet on the table and moved off again. There was a tense moment of silence between them. In that moment, Beranwine realized the voice in the back of his head, the silky, sinister voice of the grimoire was no longer there. The tendrils it unleashed in search of sustenance and shrunk back into the cursed pages. Was it scared of the ranger? He did not think that likely, this book could literally eat a person, no man was going to make it fear. Another twisted game.

Moriel’s voice brought him back. That helmet. Those markings. He knew them. By the powers did he know them! Every night when he closed his eyes, he could see the cultists in various states of rot and decay. Flesh oozing off bone and lips splitting and peeling away. But the helms they all wore, the cloaks they had fashioned for themselves, those were still all in perfect condition. The three red claw marks blazed like a furnace fire.

“Aye, and I think you do too.”

[Ercassie]

The Blind Man, and The Boy,
at The Four Winds Inn

Whether Jowan were truly a blind man was a tale to amuse minds upon long and restless nights of watch. He was without doubt a Dúnadan, and as familiar to most who passed through Osdolen as any piece of the furniture. As a result he was awarded about as much attention as any piece of the furniture. Newcomers might dare to offer hands and assistance to their brother in arms, but would only be soundly shaken off for their trouble. Those who knew better, knew better, and did not waste their time. Some but shook their heads as he went about his routine, unloading the supplies from Bree and other reliable resources.

He would have been about this business all the long day and night, were it not for the willing hands of the boy to make short work of their delivery. Noone knew the child’s name, not even Jowan, who simply called him ‘Boy’ and was never instructed not to. It was the old Man’s duty to sit about the streets of Bree and frequent pubs, both the Prancing Pony and the Forsaken Inn, listening to news, picking up what pieces of integral information others carelessly put down. Noone ever suspected the fine tool that the old man’s ear was, not when they were more focused on what disadvantage his lost sight might be. Some were cruel, some tripped him, and some thought themselves amusing as they took his food clear off his plate. He never gave them cause to believe that he noticed, or that he cared. He was not there for the food, and he had lived through far worse than a few kicks and a few coarse names.

Jowan had found the boy during one of his ventures, starving in the street like an abandoned pup. One good meal paid for at the inn, and the child had followed him about ever since. That was all there ever had been to it and the veteran Ranger had taken such a clear fondness to the young urchin that no one had the heart to tear them asunder. Questions made of the Boy led him to flee, and cower beneath tables, and behind barrels, flinching as though in some expectation of a blow. So the questions had stopped. And the Boy sometimes now smiled. And the Old Man got about his business twice as well and twice as fast.

They entered the Four Winds in the middle of Khallador’s speech and Jowan needed no guide to locate a seat. He could have done so in the dark, and did so. The boy left his elder to cock a head and listen with an ever firming frown to the grim news of their brother, while his pet's short legs rose on pointed toes against the bar .. the boy looking to Abrazân with two empty mugs he’d found, tipped upside down, and presented. The large eyes and hopeful expression voiced the request for ale without need for words.

[Moriel]

Abrazân
The Four Winds

Abrazân shook his head in sympathy with the young man, casting a glance towards Brandor’s wounded leg. “A terrible thing to happen to one as young as you, but we can be grateful you still have your life. I am sorry to hear about your father. A good ranger, a good man.” He refilled the empty tankard before Brandor. “Still, there are many things you can still do to occupy yourself, even if ranging out is no longer your destiny!” Jowan had entered the tavern while Khallador was speaking, and Abrazân became aware of his youthful companion as the boy made his way across the bar from the old man’s table, two mugs in hand. The tavernkeeper leaned on the bar as the boy upheld the two mugs in a silent plea. “Well hello,” he greeted conversationally, “Ale, is it? Hmm.” Abrazân lifted the jug of strong ale and poured it into one of the mugs. Then he replaced it behind the bar and lifted another- this containing small beer, scarcely more than water, but enough to make any small boy feel like a man. “This one,” he pointed at the first mug, “is for Jowan,” he pointed at the old man, “and this one,” he pointed at the second mug, “is for you. Don’t get them mixed up.” He winked at the boy, then laughed and turned back to Brandor. “Have you given any thought as to what you might do next?”

The Four Winds

Moriel watched him carefully, for any sign or betrayal in the old man’s face. He knew something, certain sure. “Aye,” she echoed him, “I do.” The peredhel turned back to Khallador, replacing the helm on the table in front of him with more of a clatter than was strictly necessary, breaking the spell of Beranwine’s steady words. “I will go to Esteldín, to help seek out these orcs and put an end to them. I am sure there are others who will join us, though they may not be in this tavern tonight. Longfletch perhaps- she is always ready for this sort of sport.” The corner of Moriel’s lips tugged with humor. She looked back to Beranwine. “And I have a feeling this stout veteran will come also. He has a few more orc-killing days left in him!”

[Baphởmet]

Beranwine
The Four Winds Tavern

She was clever, he had to give her that. Beranwine had very nearly worked out the map in his mind that he would need to escape when she volunteered him for whatever mission it was that head ranger (Khallador) had brought in. He snarled low, barely audible. She was dragging out the inevitable, this one. Powers forbid the grimoire decide it wanted her in the middle of a battle with the orcs! He doubted even she could overcome the siren song of the book then. It was a very dangerous game they were playing.

He didn’t recognize the other name she mentioned. Longfletch? Either they were a new ranger, only recently joined, or the sieve that was his mind had let it slip who they were. A knot grew in his stomach though, adding more innocent people to this mix could be even worse.

“I would gladly take this opportunity, my lord, to hunt some orc. It has been far too long since these old hands have felt that kind of life with them. It would be an honor to undertake this mission. If you’ll have an old badger like me.”

The Grimoire
Hidden in Beranwine’s Pack

It was not ideal, but it would do. They would fight eventually, she would see to that. She was so hungry now. That ranger had come in and spoiled everything. She had expended herself trying to drain everyone here and call to the peredhel. Yes, she knew what the woman was. She could taste the potential energy coming from her, her shadows waded through pools of grief within her. She just needed to get them away from here.

She raged at the mention of the orcs, using what power she could to smash one of the bottles behind the bar. The things living today were not worthy of the name orc. There were fewer than five now that deserved that honorary title. The creatures claiming it now were mere feral dogs. She would go with them and snuff these pretenders out, she would feed on them and make them know their true unworthiness.

[Dimcairien Luiniel]

Brandor
The Four Winds

"Yes, I am grateful to still have my life," Brandor agreed, shifting his weight slightly as Abrazân refilled the tankard. "And I'm sure there are many things I can still do, but figuring out what they are tends to be a challenge." He was still getting used to walking without constant reliance on a cane for support, but every day seemed to come with a bit of improvement, though there were also days when he could barely get himself into an upright position.

As he spoke, a young boy came up to the bar and held up two empty mugs. Brandor turned to see where he had come from and notice that yet another newcomer (Jowen) had arrived in the tavern during Khallador's speech. He watched as Abrazân carefully filled both mugs, including the small beer that he clearly remembered from his childhood. That drink had made him feel so grown-up and proud that he was allowed to consume a "man's beverage". He hoped that the little boy had similar thoughts. Once the boy had left, Abrazân turned back to Brandor and asked, "Have you given any thought as to what you might do next?”

Brandor took a deep sip from the tankard before answering, "That's why I made my way to Osdolen. I'm somewhat learned and have a listening ear. Surely there is something I can do to help the Ranger cause either here or at the library. With the growing darkness, help of all sorts is needed, whether out in the wild or in the back offering support." He paused, wondering if the tavern-keeper would have any helpful suggestions.

[Yávië]

Sirya, Kennelmaster
The Four Winds

The bottom of her mug came into view and Sirya finally felt more like a human and less like one of the frayed, threadbare, drool-soaked pieces of knotted of rope that her hounds liked to play tug-of-war with. And her stomach was growling like a damnable pup. "Abrazân, you're a treasure," she declared, a wry grin finally working its way onto her sun-browned features. "How flattering must I be to acquire, say, a stack of pancakes at this time of night?" Whatever traits she had picked up from her canine companions, grey hairs aside, pleading puppy eyes wasn't one of them.

Now a little better suited to face company, she chanced a glance at Khallador. There was always a risk of being recruited, with ranger chieftans, but he had finished his official business, it seemed, and was already talking dogs. "The best?" she snorted. Her ma had always said she shouldn't go in for sales. "I've got the loudest, the messiest, the biggest eater, the one who's going to chew apart your boots, and the one who's most likely to pick an unecessary fight with a mountain lion. But they are fearless and affectionate, so there's that." She tilted her chair back and grinned. "Why don't you bring your boy around? See what *he* thinks makes a good hound? Once he's fallen in love I can overcharge you."

Something occurred to her and she turned to consider Brandor, who was still deep in talk with the innkeeper. Familiar indeed, but it had been a long, long time. "You come by too, or think about it. Nothing like a dog to make settling down an easier pill to swallow, and they aren't all as much of a handful as who I'll saddle that one with," she said with a wink at Khallador.

[Moriel]

Abrazân
The Four Winds

“Pancakes!” Abrazân exclaimed in response to Sirya’s request- btu truth be told, it was far from the most outlandish request he had ever received. Shaking his head, he scooped coals from the hearth fire and rattled them into the cavity beneath the griddle he kept along the back wall behind the bar, normally far out of service at this time of day. But it would take a heat quickly, and he set to mixing up the batter as he listened to Brandor, and his reasons for coming to Osdolen. “Well, now,” Abrazân mused, wooden spoon clattering against the sides of the bowl, “I’m sure they could always use the help at the library, the heavens only know that rangers aren’t always known for being scholarship. But here, you say? I-“ Abrazân’s thoughts were interrupted by a crash from the other end of the bar. A bottle lay smashed upon the floor, glass scattered further than one might have expected if it had simply fallen. “Strange,” he mused, setting the bowl down on the bartop, and catching up a brush and dustpan as he strode to assess the damage. Bending down to look at the vacancy on the shelf the bottle had occupied, he could see no giggling rat or other creature that might have pushed it off. With a slight frown and a shrug, Abrazân quickly swept the broken glass into the pan, and threw down a towel to soak up the liquid, before returning to the pancake batter, and Brandor. “As I was saying, well, here I might have use for an assistant, if the tavern life attracts you.” The tavernkeeper turned to his now-hot griddle and greased it quickly with a rind of pork, before splashing a bit of amber liquid into the batter and giving it a final beating. “Can’t promise I won’t be old and crotchety because I am, but the rangers are our folk, and the others that come through at times, well,” Abrazân poured the batter onto the griddle in six precise circles with flicking motions of his wrist to start and stop the flow, “They wouldn’t last in Osdolen if they weren’t on the right side. It can be busy and rough but it’s a comfortable living. Sirya!” he called, working a spatula under each circle of batter in turn as they bubbled and puffed, flipping them over to expose their golden-brown backs, “Get it while it’s hot!” In no time at all, the stack of half a dozen pancakes appeared on the bartop, accompanied by a jug of deep brown, viscous syrup.

The Four Winds

“A badger, is it?” Moriel laughed, thrusting the helm back to Khallador across the table with the heel of her palm. “Badgers may look peaceful and kind, but they can be quite ferocious when roused.” She turned back to Beranwin, and as her eyes met his, a smashing heralded the introduction of a bottle from behind the bar to the floor. Abrazân had been at the opposite end of the bar at the time, and the faint undercurrent of hate that tickled the hairs on the back of the peredhel’s neck led her to believe it was no clumsy hand that had caused the damage. “Hmm. Earthquake?” she suggested mildly, quirking a brow at the old man. “I should be glad to travel the way to Esteldín with you, Beranwine. It is my wont to travel alone, but I am sure we will have much to discuss! The front gates then, first light?” Not waiting for Beranwine to reply, Moriel stepped around the table to Khallador’s side and crooked her finger at him in front of her chest, indicating that he stand apart with her for a moment. She dropped her voice low, counting also on the distance, the conversation of the others, and the old man’s confused state to keep her words from Beranwine’s ears. “I will make enquiries as to Grath Longfletch’s whereabouts and send word ahead to her,” Moriel murmured to Khallador, “I have promised to help Beranwine with some business, and it may be that Longfletch is better placed to lead this party than I. In any case, we will make our way to Esteldín, and if she arrives and gathers a force first, so much the better.” With a nod to Khallador, and one back at Beranwine, Moriel slipped from the tavern. She was not ordinarily one to let her quarry out of her sight once acquired, but in this circumstance, she was confident he would not disappear. The honeyed whispers of the grimoire would not allow it.

[Dimcairien Luiniel]

Brandor
The Four Winds

As he waited to hear what Abrazân would say, the kennelmaster, Sirya, next to him ordered some pancakes. Brandor chuckled to himself. He would have to remember that order, perhaps that would make a tasty breakfast. Abrazân mentioned that they could likely use help in the library as Rangers weren't exactly known for their reading and organisational abilities and he nodded slowly in agreement. Suddenly they were interrupted by the sound of breaking glass - a bottle had appeared to have fallen. Abrazân cleaned it up and then turned back to where Brandor still stood, leaning against the bar. And then he said something which surprised Brandor, but honestly were the words he desired to hear. There might be an opportunity to work as an assistant in the tavern. It could mean a job, food and shelter, plus a way to still be involved with the comings and goings of the Rangers - a primary reason for why he had left Rivendell. He had been offered a chance to stay, to spend his days there, but he wanted to still be out in the world, even if he wasn't fighting anymore.

"If you think I can help you, I would be honoured," he said slowly, watching the older man carefully form the pancakes. "I'm not a fast person anymore, but I am not afraid of hard work. And I know a fair bit of cooking from growing up on the move. As for being old and crotchety, such a personality may indeed be welcoming after spending several months with the elves."

[Baphởmet]

Beranwine
The Four Winds Tavern, The Streets

Esteldín… he should know that name. There was a whisper of a memory, a faded painting that contained that knowledge. Beranwine strained his mind, clawing his way through the vacuous holes that blockaded and truncated him. The Rangers. It had to do with the Rangers. He took a deep breath. Yes. Was it another outpost? The cold grip of fear seized his stomach, his heart jumped up into his throat. The distance between the two places was not vast, but the lands were wild and untamed. It would be easy for Moriel to either take his... cargo or kill him and do the same. Either way, it was unsafe. But she was clever, oh she was clever, she had already made him vow to join this mission so if he slunk away and escaped now, he would be considered a deserter.

He stopped himself. Would that even matter? He was dead anyway. He had fallen into a trap of his own making, or its own making. He chewed the inside of his cheek and rubbed his Lichtenburg scar absentmindedly.

“The front gates then, first light?”

Defeated, the old Ranger nodded. “Aye,” he said. She didn’t hear him however, she had already moved back to her conversation with the Head Ranger.

He looked around the common room. In the interim of his conversation (or whatever you wanted to call it) with Moriel, the amount of people had grown exponentially. This He could feel the panic seize him once more. There were far, far too many people here. Too many targets. Too… many.

He took a deep breath, tried to calm himself, and took a seat again at the bar. He could find a way out of this. He had to. The din of the common room, once the man had recentered himself, was actually quite nice and relaxing. His breathing (did he really need to keep doing that) evened out and his stomach growled as the smells of cooking meats and stew reached his nose. A flittering feather of hope dropped into his mind. Could he escape this? Could he manage to undo the damage that had been done to him? Or at the very least, could he find peace after this was all over?

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the elf slip through the entry and back out into the great yawning darkness beyond. He felt a momentary elation. He could slip out now too and… no. No he couldn’t. For all he knew, Moriel was waiting just around the corner to ambush him. Did he dare risk it? His heart skipped a beat. He had to. If he stayed, he was doomed no matter what; if he tried to escape he might have a chance, as miniscule a chance as it was.

I’m always with you, Beranwine. No matter where you go, you must take me with you. You cannot be rid of me. Remember what you were told. The man in black is still watching you.

Beranwine’s heart sank. His stomach soured and he wanted to scream. Instead, he clenched his fists and shut his eyes as tightly as he could. He tried to fill his mind with music, with the sound of waves, with the galloping thunder of horses, anything to block out that honey sweet voice.

When he finally opened his eyes again, the scene in the tavern had changed. How much time had passed? There were fewer people here now, the gentle thrum of conversation had nearly died completely.

Now. Now was his chance to escape. With a furtively look around the darkening tavern (whether that was his eyesight or the slow dying of the fire he could not tell) he slipped from the bar and began walking toward the entrance. He stopped suddenly, as if he had run into an invisible wall. He looked down at his side. His pack was missing. He shut his eyes tightly again and sighed. He would not be allowed to leave here without it. He slumped back to the bar, picked up his pack and, feeling the accursed weight of the thing, slipped it over his shoulder. How he could leave. He did so, moving furtively through the quiet, shadow ensconced streets. Still on edge, he jumped at nearly every but of movement or sound. He could feel his heart racing, for all the good it did.

[Moriel]

The Four Winds -> Stables ->
Front Gates, the next day

The night passed too slowly for Moriel’s liking. Osdolen was a place of respite and warmth, where normally she was happy to tarry in the tavern and indulge in the company of the rangers, her long-distant kin; where even one such as she might settle down by a fire and forget the harshness of the wild for a time. But first Beranwine and then Khallador had thwarted these ideas, and the book, the cursed book, gnawed at her thoughts. How had the old man come into its possession? He had not answered her question, and there was something wrong about him. The grimoire had him firmly in its grasp, and who knew if he was even capable of telling how he had come to be its keeper. As for the book itself… she had her suspicions. There were many more such fell objects in the world than a good man might imagine, and Moriel had known her share of them, and those who owned their allegiance. Rather than fall into the comfort of a soft bed she could have had in Osdolen, she retreated to the stable where she had left Beron, who eyed her quizzically. She wiled away the night hours cleaning and repairing various items of gear and clothing in preparation for the journey, and in the final stretch before dawn, catching a brief snatch of sleep, leaning against Beron’s warm side as he lay in the straw.

She awoke to darkness and the stallion’s soft breathing, and crawled her way to his head to bid him farewell. “Looks like we’re on our separate ways again for now,” Moriel murmured, scratching Beron’s broad face beneath his forelock, “Try not to miss me too much,” she teased, and the horse whickered softly, as if to say the same. She smiled and giave his velvety muzzle a final rub, before rising and buckling on her baldric. She brushed the errant straw from her clothing and hair, shouldered her pack, and went to see the stablemaster. She caught the man, a contemporary of Abrazân, just as he was arriving for the day, and arranged for Beron’s extended stay. Returning his cheery wave in kind, she exited the stable and its smells of comfort for the chill damp air of early morning. The streets of Osdolen were silent; not entirely empty, for there was always a ranger here and there, moving cloaked through the outpost, but none spoke, and she was one of their number, hooded in black. Moriel arrived at the gates first, to none of her surprise. They stood open, as they generally did unless trouble was known to be abroad; the concealed entrance to the passage which led there from the outside world, and those who stood guard atop the wall, were enough to shelter Osdolen from any ordinary question, and from prying eyes. As the light of dawn’s first fingers at last reached the sky above the rangers’ hidden town, Moriel turned back to the street at the sound of approaching steps, and the eyes glinted within her hood as she saw Beranwine drawing hear.

“Shall we?”

[Baphởmet]

The Stables -- > The Next Day, Front Gates

Sleep came fitfully for Beranwine. There were half a hundred sounds that caused him to jerk awake every time was within an inch of sleep. His head pounded with the anxiety. The stables were cold and damp, but they were far from people, far from her. The old ranger was not sure what the Grimoire had seen or sensed within the tall woman, but it had unnerved him, it had caused him to err in his judgement. He’d made mistakes within the Four Winds, mistakes that might cause him his life. In the darkness and relative safety of the stables, he laughed grimly. Life. Something he’d lost long ago now. What was he now? Some undead servitor, a zombie, a wight? He shuddered. He didn’t know what he was, he didn’t know what it was that kept him moving, kept him from decaying, but he knew it was foul. The Grimoire had hidden the fact that he was dead, hidden that he’d been brought back to life just to serve as a transport of the dread book, the work of the Witch-King himself. He hated it. Every fiber of his being fought against it. He wanted to destroy the book, to leave it behind, to be rid of it some way, any way. But he couldn’t. He had tried earlier to toss it into one of the fires that burned in the streets of Osdolen, but he had not the will to do it. It was not that he did not wish the book harm, he did, but he lacked the mental ability to destroy it, to even contemplate its destruction. The Grimoire had laughed at him as he dejectedly put the book back in his pack. The sound created a pressure inside his head. The pain was so great that he verily believed his head would rupture at any moment. There was a loud POP deep within his brain and suddenly all the pain vanished. His sight dimmed and his hearing faded to nothing. He stumbled around for nearly an hour after that, whimpering and moaning. He managed to find the stables and, after nearly getting kicked in the head by a moody stallion, he found an empty stall where he could huddle up in the corner. It was so cold. His hearing eventually came back, and his eyesight seemed to sharpen in the empty darkness. He could make out vague shapes and textures, the horses seemed to have an unearthly glow about them, he could feel them more than he could see or hear them. It was distracting. All he wanted to do was rest. But the Grimoire was not about to let him off so easily.

Some time later, Beranwine had no idea how long he’d spent huddled in the corner like a drowned puppy, something stirred. Someone was entering the stables. They moved on feet far quieter than any ranger Beranwine had encountered, before or after his death. A strange feeling began to creep into his gut. Anxiety. His breathing caught. He stayed as silent as he could, quiet as the grave. More gallows humor. The rustling didn’t last long. The horses didn’t seem perturbed by the intrusion. Was it just an animal? He wanted to believe that. He so wanted to believe that. But he knew it was not. Who or what was in that stable with him, he did not know. The Grimoire, though, was restless, endlessly chittering to him, mumbling words and phrases in a language that made him want to vomit. Words that sounded like the dying breath of drowning men, like him in his final moments. He could still feel the bone cracking cold of that frozen lake in the measureless north. Could he feel it, or was the Grimoire simply forcing him to relive it? Over and over and over again. How many times had this cycle gone around? How many times had he remembered and forgotten? The thought made him shudder. He just wanted to rest. He was fairly certain he didn’t actually need sleep anymore, but the ghost of that feeling, of relaxation and bliss kept him hoping, hoping for the briefest of respites. He knew it was very unlikely to happen, and the more he wished for it, the more it hurt when he found it perpetually out of his reach. He wanted it all to stop.

He slept. But the dreams were dark and foreboding. He was chased by a wolf through a forest of trees with branches that tore at him and leaves the color of blood. The wolf was larger than any wolf had a right to be, hulking, wrathful, and hungry. It hungered for him, hungered for what he had. He ran and ran and ran, but the forest never gave away. He only traveled deeper and deeper, down and down and down. The trees turned from trees to bones in the shape of trees, with branches like harpy fingers, clawing at him, ripping his flesh. The howls were behind him, ahead of him, above him. He tried to scream, tried with all his willpower and might, but nothing came. He gasped for breath, choked, and blacked out.

He came to wakefulness in the early hours of the morning, long before the sun’s light would crest the horizon. His head pounded and his muscles ached. It would have been better for him if he’d simply left Osdolen, made his way blindly in the wilds beyond. He was not safe here. No one was safe here. Everything was turning to rot. He tried to stand up, his muscles cramped, and his heart seized. He fell, his pack when flying from him. The Grimoire spilled out of his back and fell open. Horror filled Beranwine, a greater horror than anything he’d ever known. He scrambled blindly, moving like a worm as he tried to cover the book, deny it any sight of the world outside. He felt something bite him as he landed on the book, a thousand teeth felt like they ripped into him. He threw the book into his pack and threw it hard against the wall of the stable. Horses whinnied angrily and snorted all around him. He began muttering to himself, a desperate sound to try and keep the voice from reentering his head. But that attempted failed.

Really? Are you so gullible and naïve that you think that’s the only trick I have? Foolish little kitten. You are about to be devoured by a wolf

“Shut up. Shut up, shut up! Shut the fredegar up you leeching monstrosity! I will find a way to destroy you. I will, I swear it on my--”

On your life? How much worth is that these days?

Cold rage filled Beranwine. He wanted so bad to throw this book in the sea, in a fire, in a gaping endless chasm. He would. He squeezed his eyes shut and hummed discordantly. He saw himself in his mind, doing just want he wanted. He could visualize it. That was a start.

Still in pain, the one-eyed ranger forced himself up and collected the pack, tying it off and buckling it so the bloody tome would not have the opportunity to escape again. He exited the stables and made his way as furtively as he could to the front gates. He was almost home free! Then a voice out of the darkness shook him to his core. It was her. The woman. Moriel. His heart sank.

“Lead the way,” he said. He wanted to die.

[Tharmáras]

"You are welcome here, Brandor, despite your infirmities. Just as a body, though one, has many parts, but all its many parts form one body, so it with the Rangers of the Dúnedain." Khallador, who was known to be philosophical at times, gave him a smile of reassurance. "If the foot should say, Because I am not a hand, I do not belong to the body it would not for that reason stop being part of the body. The eye cannot say to the hand I don’t need you! and the head cannot say to the feet, I don’t need you! On the contrary, those parts of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable, and the parts that we think are less honorable we treat with special honor. We should all have loving concern for each other."

Khallador chuckled when Sirya responded to him. "You should have been a saleswoman in the Bree Market," he replied, grinning. "If you decide to sell your pups there, let me know so I can witness that amusing spectacle. Anyways. I'll bring my stepson to your kennel next time he visits Osdolen. Telthion lives in the North Downs with his mother, my wife Vorondis, at Kingsbridge in the region of Ergoth. The Dúnedain settlement is a day's journey south of Osdolen."

- Locaton of Ergoth indicated in blue,
courtesy of its creator Annúnfalas -

“What do you think, friend? Does this mark mean anything to you?”

“Aye, and I think you do too.”

Khallador observed the interchange between Moriel and Beranwine in quiet wonder, accepting the helm emblazoned with the fiery claw marks. She was mysterious but he didn't pry; Khallador knew his friend well enough to know that if she knew something important for him to be aware of that Moriel would share her knowledge. "It seems like there's fewer of us ranging more each day," worried Khallador in grim answer. "I trust Longfletch. There will be some Elven miners in the vicinity who might help her if she needs to be succoured." Khallador held her forearm and smiled warmly at Moriel. "Peace be the journey, Moriel. Bring me back a riveting tale, I hope."

Khallador joyfully watched the little boy Jowan had brought in. "Where did you find the boy, old man? If he is an orphan, the child is welcome to abide here or my kinswoman, Ursula Montagna, can find him a home in Ergoth."

"You know what to do, Gutthad..." A crooning velvety Voice spoke to the boy who wore a beaded necklace carved in strange runes. "Remember what I did to Thossui and his child? Do you want to be a good boy or a bad boy? I am watching and I am waiting. Choose wisely and you will be rewarded. Choose poorly...and you will be punished. I never ask twice, love." The Voice was unheard by anyone present. Only the shy silent youth with the carved serpentine stones fastened to a black leather cord was privy to Her soft honeyed Voice.

A grave Ranger with sable hair tied away from his strong bearded face entered The Four Winds. In his company were thirty Rangers similarly clad in dark green and armored in Imladris ringmail.

"Thandir, what news from Swanfleet?" Khallador greeted the company commander with a firm handshake. He was the husband of Imelda Montagna, Ursula's sister. His Dúnedain from Ergoth had recently patrolled the territory.

"We encamped east of the falls on the old ford over Glanduin where a road leads to the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil," said Thandir, taking a tankard of Tubeng cider Khallador ordered for him. "We usually flush out brigands hidden amongst the meres and eyots of the countless swans housed in the land of reeds. There were more vultures than swans when I last came there..."

"What happened, son?" Khallador prodded the stoic younger man. Thandir's haunted countenance troubled Khallador.

"When a group of my men didn't return to camp I decided to lead a team into the braided channels of Swanfleet," explained Thandir when he composed himself. "Perhaps ruffians had attacked them I believed but we didn't find thieves from the Greenway. The stench of death and carrion birds alerted us to one of the small islands. It was there we found our Rangers impaled. Gluttonous vultures dispersed when we approached the gory poles of the glade. Carved into the bark of one horse chestnut were large runes spelling a name in Tengwar..." Thandir's composure shattered, his widening eyes glazed in terror. "The Marsh Witch." He wept bitterly. "The encircling trees etched with runes I've never seen were kindled ablaze and we fled the burning eyot."

"Although the Watchful Peace ended evil things again
began to attack Eriador or to invade it secretly."

- Tolkien, from The Lord of the Rings: Appendix A - (III) Eriador, Arnor, and the Heirs of Isildur

"There have been and still are many Men that walk alive under the Sun,
and yet are under his (Sauron's) sway... And their number is growing daily."
- Gandalf, from The Lord of the Rings:
The Fellowship of the Ring - Many Meetings

GM UPDATE: @Ercassie ...you know what to do...

[Tharmáras]

GM Non-IC Update. Changes to the OP, instituting new rules regarding posting content, have been made 06/15/21. Everything posted before this announcement is not considered (nor will it ever be considered) a breach of thread guidelines.