Wilderness, Weathertop, & Wild Things RPG

[Envinyatar]

Veryadan

One of the serving girls showed the Rangers, men, and Elves to the rooms they had prepared for them. The bed looked inviting to Veryadan; it had been a long day and a longer journey – the fatigue of their rapid pace had finally caught up with him, he conceded sitting down on the mattress. His saddle packs, he noted, had been placed on a small chest at the end of the cot. A small ewer of water had been left on the table next to the bed, along with a clean glass.

‘Now there’s a candle by the bed, sir,’ the girl said. She held it to the flame of the lamp she’d brought with her and secured it snugly in the candleholder. ‘I’ll bring round the hot water early in the morning for your wash basin. The towels and soap are there near it.’ She looked about in a satisfied way at the room. ‘Is there aught else you’ll be needing, sir?’

Veryadan shook his head at her question. ‘Just sleep, I think,’ he said seeing her to the door. He pressed a copper coin into her hand, asking that she get him up just after dawn, if she would. He’d something he wanted to see to. The girl smiled prettily and dropped a small curtsy, saying she would be sure to do so.

---

Dawn came earlier than he would have liked. The bed was indeed comfortable and he was loath to drag his warm limbs from it. The girl had brought hot water with her when she woke him and he took a few minutes to wash the sleep from his face. A short time later saw him in the common room seeking something to break his fast. Butterbur’s son was not yet in evidence, perhaps he was in the kitchen or more likely still abed.

Veryadan had just gotten his plate of eggs and toast when he saw Osric, and the Ranger, Thoronmir, come into the common room. He nodded to them as they drew near. ‘Come, have your morning’s meal with me.’ The three passed a short while in idle conversation, drinking the hot tea that had been left for them. Veryadan at last put down his mug and looked from one to the other. ‘Remind me,’ he said. ‘Which one of you was going to speak with the Innkeeper?’ He took another swallow of the sweet liquid as one of them claimed the task. ‘Have you been able to do that yet?’ he went on . . .

[Dragon Elf odin Ragnorock]

Menecar woke up early that morning to go get some supplies. He also took a little walk to think about what they were supposed to do at Whethertop when they got there.

“ I know that we are supposed to get information and see who is leading the Orcs in these organized raids, but what are we supposed to do with them when we see who is the leader?” He said to himself.

After he got some last minute supplies and a sharpening stone for his knives he went back to the inn. On his way back he saw that man that was looking at him and Thoronmir in the inn, so he gave chase. But lost him by the inn. Menecar heard voices inside so he opened the door and there was Veryadan, Thoronmir, and Osric sitting at the table eating.

“Have you been able to do that yet?” said Veryadan

“Able to do what Veryadan,” asked Menecar

“Talk to the inn keeper,” said Thoronmir

“ Oh, about what may I ask?” Asked Menecar with a strange look on his face

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain had almost slept during most of the talk in the room but he was still listening to what the others said.For now they had decided to make a general announcement in the Inn about the attacks and gather information . When he returned to his room he did not feel like sleeping at all .

So instead of going to bed he decided to take a walk near the Inn .After going out he found Osric near the stables but he did not wish to talk to him so went to the other side of the Inn and sat on a nearby tree.Looking on the village he did not find it very impressive ,he wished he was back in Rivendell .

He woke up rather late the next morning ,and when he had washed ,he went down in trhe common room to have some food,there he found that Veryadan ,Osric and Menecar had already finished their breakfast ...

[Saurreg]

The morning sun was already shining down into the alley when Loudewater awoke. He got up, yawned and massaged his neck gingerly; the farmer had fallen asleep in an awkward position and his entire body ached. Stretching and rubbing his eyes as he reentered the main street, Loudewater turned towards the direction that would bring him home, walked a few steps, suddenly stopped and then turned about and headed back for the Prancing Pony.

Andas Loudewater was hungry. He was also quite comfortably calm. He was happy.

The farmer stepped onto the tavern’s porch, pushed open the creaky door and headed straight towards the bar, ignoring anything and anyone in the peripheral. He took a seat on one of the high stools just a few feet away from where he was seated the night before. But Loudewater was non-fazed, he wasn’t contemplating the events of the previous evening. He wasn’t even thinking about Lenny or his best mate Prand. The only thing on his mind was breakfast.

Andas Loudewater was hungry. And he was also happy. And that’s that.

Butterbur Jr. was at the far end of the bar but of the serving girls approached, shrank back alittle when confronted by the horrendous stench and stains on the farmer’s day old clothes but quickly regained her professional composure. The bubbly lass bade Loudewater a good morning (which, our farmer reciprocated courteously) and asked if he would like to break his fast (which again, Loudewater amicably agreed to).

Breakfast was a steaming bowl of congealed porridge served with a half-boiled egg and a steaming mug of tea which Loudewater quickly asked for to be substituted for a tankard of mead. Breaking the shell of the egg, the hungry farmer poured its contents into the bowl, stirred and wolfed down the meal greedily. He scalded his lips and tongue a little and amused the serving girl who tried to suppress her giggles. Loudewater’s senses were highly acute that morning, he heard the serving girl and responded most uncharacteristically – he busted into an infectious fit of hysterical laughter himself.

The high-pitched laughter of a young teenaged woman and the guffaws of a middle-aged men drew heads to the bar. In normal circumstances, the normal Andas Loudewater would have shied away in embarrassment and scrambled for a place to hide. But on this day, Loudewater’s stomach was contented and he was feeling strangely fine. He couldn’t be bothered.

As the last of the laughter died down, the girl returned to her chores behind the bar (she was wiping tumblers) and Loudewater resumed to his meal. He took a long swig of mead and savored the sweet sour taste of fermented honey and distilled well water and signed appreciatively. It wasn’t particularly good mead, but on this particular morning Loudwater was in a mysteriously good mood and the beverage tasted divine.

“Tell me sweet lass,”

“Yes, Mister?”

“Do you think I’m fat?” asked Loudewater as he felt himself about the stomach and waist. His groping hands detected the presence of a slight paunch typical of a middle-aged man of his physique, a bulge that he had noticed and disregarded countless times. But on this day he eyed it evilly with much disgust.

The young girl was too surprised by the nature of the question and did not answer. Instead she continued to busy herself with her chores (still tumblers). But Loudewater did not expect a definitive answer from her anyway.

“It would seem that I should loose some weight. Don’t you think?”

No bite on the bait.

“Partake in those… those exercises that young strapping boys are nowadays so involved in. Get fit huh?”

No knock on the door.

Loudewater shrugged nonchalantly and made a funny face at the serving girl. It was meant to amuse, but it terrified her. Getting up onto the floorboards, the farmer slapped a gold guinea on the counter as tips for the service rendered and sauntered towards the door. Peripherals not important.

“Tell ole’ Butterbur to put it on my tab. Andas Loudewater,” he touted loudly as he reached forward and turned the handle of the door.

As Loudewater took one step out of the Prancing Pony with his left foot, he paused in mid step, turned around and faced the serving girl again,

“You know what? I think I would like some change. Some adventure or something. I think… I think I’ll go camping,”

The farmer stepped outside, closed the door and surveyed the bustling main street that was choked to the sides with traffic. The sun was blazing mightily. He took the cope off, swung it around his back and went off whistling. He did not even notice that Fen Sheperdspurse had passed by him and slithered back into the inn.

Loudewater was happy.

[Envinyatar]

Fen Shepherdspurse

Fen leaned on the bar looking much the worse for wear. Most of the night had been spent galloping to and from his meeting with the Orcs, rather Orc, he should say. Búbkûr! Fen’s face screwed into a soured look as he thought of the Orc. That ugly son of a dark night irked him no end. Dumber’n a stump, he’d decided. He had hoped to speak with the other one, Gráthgrob, the one he’d first made contact with. ‘Ah, well,’ he’d shrugged mentally, ‘one Orc’s coins are as good as another’s.’ He’d come away from the meeting with a few extra coins in his pocket and a new task set for him: pump ‘em for information . . . – the tarks, Búbkûr called them, and the Elves.

And now here Fen was at the bar, wondering how he was to go about his assignment when his ears caught part of the conversation by one the Rangers and the Innkeeper . . .

‘We're interested in hearing about some of the attacks on the settlements around here. Do you know anything about it?’ one of the Rangers had asked. Butterbur’s back was to him and Fen could not make out what he said. But then the Ranger had turned and addressed all those in the common room. ‘Does anybody have any information regarding the attacks in this area?’ Fen was quiet, looking slyly about as several farmers spoke up saying, ‘Aye’, they’d heard the news of this or that happening.

Fen smirked to himself at their little stories. They were nothing compared to what he’d heard about last night. He called Butterbur to him, saying he might have something them Rangers might want to hear about . . . something horrible what just happened last night at the Whittleworth farm. Who should he talk to he wondered aloud, looking about the room at the Breelanders who had already engaged the attention of the Rangers there. ‘You wait here,’ said Butterbur, mistaking the man’s tired, grey, drawn face for one who had seen some horror and was distraught at the thought of it. ‘I’ll fetch someone to hear you out. You just set yourself down, and drink your ale. I’ll be back quicker’n you can wink . . .’

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“Oy! Arrald! Get yerself out ‘ere and help me with these sheep!”

Arrald crept out of the cave that he shared with his brother, still scratching his armpit and yawning mightily. Even from where he stood three long troll strides away the smell was enough to curl the hair in Dim’s nostrils. “Ouch!” he cried. “How much of that farmer’s brew did you quaff last night?”

“As much as yerself!” Arrald shot back grumpily. In fact, he had downed a considerable quantity more than his brother in celebration of their takings from the farm. That and their cunning in withholding some of the gold from the orcs. Arrald chuckled again at the memory, causing him to burp loudly.

Dim squinted his eyes at his brother as he took the skin from another sheep. “What are you laughing at?” He rather suspected that it might be him, for Dim was very sensitive about his brother’s opinion. He had always known that he was the slower of the two and was self-conscious about that.

Arrald gapped and stretched again, then reaching out for one of the cold joints of goat from the night before he explained to his brother. “I’m just remembering on how those orcs were so easily taken in by us. There we were, practically falling over with the weight of the gold we had on us, and we handed over just one pouch to them. Ha!” he burped again as he chortled. “That will teach them stinking orky for calling us stupid.” Arrald and his brother enjoyed a good laugh together and the sound sent wildlife for miles around scuttling for cover. When they had regained their composure Arrald said, “Hand me over that bag of gold, Dim. I wants to count it again.”

Dim looked at him blankly. “I ain’t got it,” he said. “You ‘ave hold of the one we kept.”

“I do not,” Arrald replied angrily. “I gave my pouch on over to that orc chieftan. You know, the swaggering one as thinks he’s so smart and sharp. I handed my pouch over as you kept yours hidden.”

“No no,” Dim said shaking his head. “You’ve got it all misunremembered. I gave my pouch of gold to that second-in-commander orky, while you kept yours as you spoke with the commander.”

“No,” Arrald said, recognition of what had happened beginning to dawn upon him. “That’s backwards. I gave the gold, and you kept it.”

“No,” Dim said, growing angry. “I tells you, it’s the other way round. But why are we arguing about this? You must know what happened as you still have your pouch.”

Arrald fixed his brother with a rocky gaze. “I don’t ‘ave any more gold in me pocket as you have sense in your head you dunderbrained fool! You gave up the gold that you were supposed to keep, while I was distracting them with the gold I was giving up so that you could keep yours.” This took Dim some time to work through, but when it did he denied that this had been their plan, and Arrald insisted that it had been. Either way, it was now painfully clear to them what had happened.

They argued back and forth about it for most of the morning until finally they had a good knocking about over it which settled the matters nicely. Settling back down to their lunch and nursing their bruises they decided that at least they had been smart enough to keep the livestock and the beer for themselves.

[Esgallhugwen]

"That is precisely what we are here to discover. The King ordered us to find out the source of the trouble and take what action we can." The Elf straighted up and smiled at the others. "We can sit up all comparing the intelligence and abilities of Men, Orcs, Trolls, and Elves," he said, "but I am weary, if no one else is. We need to learn exactly what happened during these attacks before there is value in speculation."

"Aye", Silrûth replied with a small grin on her face, "forgive my hastiness, mayhaps I'll go for a short walk before I rest my eyes", she stood as the others began to leave the room, Veryadan rolled up the map and tracing neatly, taking it with him.

The Elf made her way to the front of the Inn, few patrons had stayed behind and the stragglers were too drunk to make it from there tables to the door. The fresh air pushed back the nauseating smell of alcohol and sweat, and already she began to feel her mind clear.

_~_~_~_~_~_~_

A thin ray of sunlight slid through a parting in the drapes casting a warm band across Silrûth's head. The golden circlet disappeared as she sat up and stretched the sleep out of her.

Fully dressed with saddle bags in hand she headed down the stairs, noticing her fellow companions she glided towards them and took a seat across from Menecar. She greeted them jovially and dug into the breakfast that was placed before her.

Thoronmir was off asking about the stories from young Butterbur, and her companion was no where in sight, "I don't suppose you've seen Aidwain this morning?", the three shook there heads and she nodded knowing his love for sleep.

"Well", Silrûth nudged the plate with her thumb, "I will be seeing to my horse, I'm sure he will be down soon", she smiled and excused herself from the table. Her horse nickered in greeting and recieved a few affectionate pats on the forehead. The mare had been well seen to and Silrûth had only to do a light brushing and hoove check before she was back inside.

Her seat had been taken by Aidwain who was lazily eating his breakfast, enjoying every mouthful. "Finally awake I see?" she stood next to him her leather saddle bag hanging from her shoulder.

Butterbur Jr. had rushed over to them, "there's a man just o'er there who 'as some bad news of recent 'appenings at the Whittleworth farm, would any of you be willing to lend an ear?"

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain had come down to breakfast rather late and nearly everybody else had finished their's,he lazily sat down and cursed his habit of geeting up late.He sat down rather out of anguish and started eating . " Have any of you learned anything frm the locals ? ",he asked. " Not until now but we have made an announcement in the Inn as you would know ",replied Menecar " And yes before I forget Silruth was asking for you ,she has gone out to look after her horse".

After a while Silruth herself came inside with her saddlebags," Finally awake I see? " she stood next to him. Nrxt moment, Butterbur Jr. had rushed over to them, "there's a man just o'er there who 'as some bad news of recent 'appenings at the Whittleworth farm, would any of you be willing to lend an ear?"

[Envinyatar]

Fen Shepherdspurse

The door to the Inn swung open for a moment. Fen looked up, he could hear Butterbur’s voice somewhere a short distance before him, but saw only the large dark blur of him against the bright white light of day which framed his ample outline. The common room was still dim, only a few of the shutters had been opened and just a single lamp in the center of the area had been lit. Fen’s eyes narrowed at the bright light that now flooded in. He could hear the Innkeeper speaking to someone and the calm low voice of someone still unseen give answer. It was someone tall who followed closely after Butterbur; someone very tall, in fact. Golden haired. The daylight behind threw a nimbus of radiance about the person’s head causing Fen to squint harder as he tried to pick the features out in the darkened face.

The door to the Inn closed. Fen spluttered in his mug of ale as the features of the woman came into focus. No, not just some woman . . . Blast that brainless barkeep! Butterbur had brought one of the Elves to speak with him! Fen had little liking for the Fair Folk. He’d heard too often they could pry behind your eyes, to see if your mouth was telling lies. He swallowed hard at the short sword she wore so easily against her hip. He could almost feel the keenness of its sharp blade against his neck. His eyes darted about the room looking for an easy escape should this ‘interview’ not go well.

Butterbur was hurrying the Elf along, drawing nearer to where Fen stood. Her fair face looked up often as the Innkeeper nattered on, grey eyes coming round often to rest coolly on Fen. A thin bead of sweat broke out on his upper lip; his face turned a whiter shade of pale at her imminent presence. Fen jammed his hands hard into the pockets of his breeches to keep her from seeing them shake. He pinched his thigh hard through the thin material of one of the pockets, the pain of it driving away his rising fear. Thoughts refocused, he counseled himself with the consideration that perhaps he needn’t tell any lies if he doled out the truth with care.

By the time the two reached him, Fen was looking quite distraught . . . with a pale grey skin, ragged demeanor, of one who has seen something quite horrible.

‘Here he is, m’Lady,’ said Butterbur. ‘The poor blighter what saw such grisly sights as I was telling you.’

Grisly sights?! frowned Fen. What’s he been telling her?

Silrûth appraised him silently as the Innkeeper spoke. Fen, a moment of inspiration coming upon him, began blubbering; his breath coming in sobbing gasps. His shaking hands flew up to knuckle the tears from his eyes as he let out a desperate wail. ‘Oh, Lady! I’m so glad the King has sent you to give us poor folk some help. There’s wild nasty beasties of some sort as has come to bedevil us. Last night . . .’ And here he seemed overcome with genuine grief . . . ‘last night the Whittleworth’s ‘n their hands was cut down . . . murdered most foul by a ravening band of evil fiends. Killed ever one of ‘em. Children, too, so I heard.’ He shook his head at the thought of it, wiping his now dripping nose on a begrimed rag he’d fetched out of his pocket. He looked up at her with his red rimmed eyes. ‘You and your friends have come to pertect us, right?’ he asked in a fawning manner. ‘Afore they get to us, right here in Bree and kill us all as we sleep in our beds . . .’