The Yule Log RPG

[Envinyatar]

Stamo stepped forward, the end of his staff thumping on the frozen ground as he did so. His grey eyes narrowed at the cat. ‘Tevildo . . . and are these your faithful henchmen come with you, too?’

‘His color has changed, too. Did you notice, Stamo? Black to white.’ Mori craned his head for a better view of the cat. ‘And lost your gold collar. Or did your Master take it from you when he threw you out?’

Mori had picked up his staff from the ground and stood leaning on it. ‘Well, then, our names. We are travelers from afar, going eastward – Morinehtar, I am called. And my companion, Romestamo.’

‘We are our master’s hounds,’ Stamo murmured. ‘And we are hunting . . .’

‘But come, Master Cat, tell your tale. Your audience is waiting.’ Mori stepped back, leaving a wide space for Tevildo and his ragged companions.

[Huan]

Birger moved about the tables as quiet and quick as a winter hare among frozen clumps of grass. His ears, too, were as keen as a hare’s, picking up bits of stories and gossip and news as he flitted in and then way from the elbows of the guests as they rested on the table tops. He smiled to himself, wriggling in anticipation of telling Carr the snippets he’d gathered along with the dirty dishes and mugs.

He hadn’t quite understood what the man and woman had said about the creature in Wenda’s story. But Carr was a sharp man, despite the fact the years were battering against him. He’d know how to untangle their words and tell it plain to Birger.

His tray was full; the last platter he’d gathered had been the one from the Halfling. Clean as a whistle, it was, and the basket of buns empty, too. Birger was just heading toward the kitchen when the piercing shriek froze him in his tracks. He turned quickly, the tableware and crockery stacked on his tray clinking loudly against each other.

The Halfling was lying on the floor limp as an old rag. Birger had seen things of this sort before. But mostly it was a local man with too much ale under his belt. He put down his tray and ran to the fellow’s side. ‘Someone get cook and her smelling salts,’ he said, kneeling by Willem. Birger grabbed hold of the Halfling’s arm and shook it energetically as he called loudly.

‘Sir! Sir! Wake up!’

[piosenniel]

Wren peeked out of the man’s pocket; his little black eyes fixed on the three cats. Tevildo had a cocky manner; not that all cats the bird had met were any less conceited, but this one seemed more so than most. Prince of Cats? And what was that he was saying to the man – that he had once been part of the entourage of someone called The Black Foe.

The small brown bird perched on the edge of Stamo’s pocket then flitted up to the man’s shoulder, near his ear. ‘Most powerful creatures, indeed!’ the bird snorted, bobbing up and down on his spindly legs in irritation at the feline’s arrogance. ‘You’ve got a nice thick stick, Man,’ he whispered, his beak close to Stamo’s ear. ‘Just smack the furry braggart and send him flying!’

[Tevildo]

Tevildo had not meant to say anything outrageous, but the last outburst from the wren had tried his patience to the utmost. His back arched and his fur stood on end as he spat out a reply to the small bird, "You impudent bag of feathers! One more squeak out of you, and you'll be sorry you ever came here tonight...."

"As for you," Tevildo snorted and barrelled on, glaring at Stamo and Mori. "I wouldn't be so free with my insults or that stick. The last time we met, you both looked considerably better than you do now. I can only assume that you've angered your masters and have been sent here in these puny guises as a form of punishment! I may have lost my golden collar, it is true, but at least I haven't been reduced to your dire straits...."

Once the cat had regained his composure, his voice took a softer turn. He decided to try and wheedle his way back into the good graces of the assembled company. "But I am not myself today. Perhaps I have been too harsh. You two may have met with hard times. I am no stranger to hard times. And the bird is such a little thing. She probably does not know the proper way to treat a guest. I will withdraw my hard words if you would like to hear my story. It is one that may be of special interest to those who go about on two legs. It came from the Age that saw the birth of Man and says much about the nature of the second born. It concerns a little bargain that my master Melko made with Lord Manwe, and my own part in this affair."

Tevildo looked up at the two-leggeds in a pleasant way and then bowed to the snowy owl. "Ah, well, perhaps my humble proposal does not meet with your approval. If so, my friends and I will quietly withdraw from the warmth of the fire and go off into the dark woods by ourselves to face the cold air and the dangers of the night. What shall it be then, good brethren, a fine story or my departure?"

[Envinyatar]

The hmmmph! from the wren was cut off as Stamo plucked him from his shoulder and held him up to his face. ‘Hush!’ he whispered letting the bird balance on his finger. ‘The Green Man’s ale has made you bold, and we will not always be near to act as your protectors.

And besides,’ Mori interjected, speaking to both his companion and the wren. ‘This is a special set of days in this part of Middle-earth, or so I am given to believe by what’s been told to me. There is a truce of sorts in effect, enmities are put aside for this short while, and tolerance come to the fore.’ He turned back to where Tevildo and his friends were standing. ‘Your pardon, please. We’ve been less than welcoming. Come, sit near the coals and warm yourselves. And then, of course, your story, please.’

The poor wren was beginning to shiver in the cold, and Stamo tucked him back inside a pocket in his cape. There were a string of short exclamations, muffled by the thick wool of the cape. And just as well . . . Stamo could just make out another hmmph! and a mumbled sore losers! followed by whiner!.

Luckily, for the peace of the gathering and the sake of a tale yet to be told, Stamo’s body heat and the soft, thick warmth of the pocket overcame the wren’s feisty attitude. Soon, the only sounds escaping from the folds of the robe were that unmistakable sounds of the bird’s beaky snore.

[Arry]

The three Halflings had sat quiet as mice at their table. Willem had recovered from his fright reasonably well; the Green Man’s ale having helped considerably. Though the entrance of Wenda clothed only in a hastily thrown on robe and the hearing of her story had begun to put the wind up him again. And even his two more stout willed brothers, Andwise and Madoc, were beginning to feel a bit squeamish.

‘I knew it! I knew it!’ Willem said, a slight edge of hysteria coming into his voice. ‘We should have listened to gaffer Tolly. He said his knees were telling him a bad storm was brewing and we shoulda stayed home.’

‘You great ninny,’ Madoc said, pouring his brother another mug of ale. ‘His knees tell him about rain and hail and snow and such. Not the kind of storm we’ve run into here.’ He drummed his fingers on the table in irritation. ‘We get home again and you’re never dragging me back this way. Altogether too strange the doings ‘round here in the winter.’

Andwise was only half listening to the banter between his brothers. His mind was elsewhere . . . on the story the woman by the fire, Wenda, had told.

Of the three brothers, he was the trapper. His snares and traps were the bane of those animals he hunted for meat or pelt, from bird to boar. His eyes flicked to where Wenda sat. Would she be the bait, he wondered. Would she have to at all? Could the creature be enticed by something else? And what would it take to kill such a creature? Ordinary iron?

He watched Goody as she fussed again with the Yule log. A shaft from the log, perhaps. Sharpened to a killing point. Yes . . . that might work. With a bow trap, the sort used to kill the big boars.

‘Of course, it would most likely have to have some bodily form. But then wouldn’t it have some sort of body in which it moved about. We could kill the body, I’m fairly certain of that. But should we be worried about what might escape?’

The room had grown quiet. Andwise looked up from the shallow puddle of ale on the table in which he’d been drawing his plans for a trap. He’d spoken aloud without thinking. His brow furrowed at the attention.

‘The wight,’ he said, as if the two words were all the explanation needed. ‘I’m sure we could trap and kill it. Just need to know a bit more about it.’

‘Are you daft!’ spluttered Madoc. Willem said nothing . . . he’d fainted again.

[Folwren]

Berrick Andrail, having slept like a log well into the morning, missed the excitement and the dread caused by the coming of the reindeer with the empty sledge and what had followed afterwards, but when he entered the wide room with the fire at the end of it, and people scattered about, he became instantly aware of the spirit of fear that drifted about the room. He stopped in the doorway, an exclamation of merry greeting checked on his lips. His dark eyes moved over the entirety of the gathering there.

A couple of women sat by the fire, and two other men stood nearby. A young boy, the helper here at the Green Man, sat by the kitchen door, his hand on a dog’s head. And then, lastly, he noticed the three Haflings that were there last night, again sitting at the table. The one had fainted again. What for, Berrick had no idea, but he was about to find out.

He meant to ask the lad sitting closest to him what had happened, but Bergir stood up, not having noticed him, and walked towards the fire, having been invited by one of the women there. Berrick shrugged slightly, and decided to take his inquiry to the hobbits - at least to one of the two who were still conscious.

“Good morning, friends,” he said, walking towards them. They both glanced up, and one answered with a nod and a quiet ‘good morning.’ “I’ve just arrived here,” Berrick said, “slept a bit late, I’ll admit. But what’s the trouble? The party isn’t too merry this morning.”