Wilderness, Weathertop, & Wild Things RPG

[piosenniel]

Meneltarmacil’s post

Thoronmir mounted his horse and resumed the journey toward Bree. It had been about a week since he and his companion had left Evendim to meet the emissaries from King Elessar, and he hoped that they would be able to help with the problems he had been experiencing. Things hadn’t been going well at all for the last few months. Reports came in to Annuminas day after day about mysterious disappearances of livestock from farms near the Weather Hills and the surrounding regions, and lately people were reportedly disappearing as well. Thoronmir had sent out a few rangers to scout out the area, but none of them had come back after weeks of waiting. Thoronmir was glad indeed to hear that his message to Gondor had been received and that people were on their way to help. Due to the important nature of the problem and the need for it to be discussed and find a working solution as quickly as possible, Thoronmir felt it necessary that he should go to Bree himself instead of sending an emissary and that he and his companion should make the journey on horseback instead of walking, as time was more important than secrecy here. He had seen enough death at the Pelennor Fields; he did not want any more coming here.

Thoronmir and his companion rode eastward until they had reached the southwestern part of the North Downs. From there they would continue to ride east until they met the Greenway and then turn southward toward Bree. They passed through a gap in the hills, a narrow passage that was wide enough for two, maybe three horses to walk side by side. Thoronmir’s horse stopped suddenly in the middle of the passage, tossed back his head, and snorted.

“What is it?” Thoronmir asked. “Is something wrong?” Suddenly, he too heard the sound. He listened intently. There were footsteps of five, maybe six individuals somewhere up ahead and a little higher up.

“Thoronmir?” his companion asked.

“We’re not alone…” the older ranger said.

[piosenniel]

Dragon Elf odin Ragnorock's post

After a semi peaceful night Menecar woke up to the sound of birds chirping and a great day for traveling with his companion. It was a peaceful day has begun with the sun shining through the trees. They had a half a days travel by Horse to Bree left to go.

“Do you think that there will be people waiting for us to arrive at the Prancing Pony?” asked Menecar’s companion.

“I think there would be I don’t think that King Elessar would let two Rangers do this alone,” said Menecar.

Suddenly Menecar heard the sound of leaves moving in the woods. He stoped to listen, and to see if he heard the sound again. Sure enough there it was again, but it sounded louder as if the thing or things were getting closer. He looks over at his companion to see if he heared the same sound. But he dose not look like he has. Menecar rode over to him and says:

“Do you not hear the sound of leaves?”

“the sound is drawing closer.” said Menecar

[piosenniel]

Meneltarmacil's post

"Did you hear the sound of leaves?" asked Menecar.

"Yes, indeed," Thoronmir responded.

"The sound," whispered Menecar, "is drawing closer."

Thoronmir drew his sword as Menecar pulled out his bow. They continued to ride forward through the gap in the hills. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, an orc leaped from the top of a nearby ledge, knocking him off his horse. The orc took a wickedly sharp knife and tried to stab Thoronmir, but fell dead before he could. Looking behind him, Thoronmir saw that Menecar had shot his would-be killer.

"Thank you," Thoronmir said as he got back on his horse.

"You're welcome," replied Menecar.

Several more orcs apppeared both in front of and behind them. Thoronmir rode over the ones in front while Menecar took out their pursuers with his bow. More orcs came, but by then the Rangers were already out of sight.

************************************************

Thoronmir and Menecar arrived at Bree in the late afternoon. They rode up to the Prancing Pony Inn and went inside.

"Good afternoon," said the inkeeper. "Thorgil, isn't it?"

"Thoronmir," said the ranger. He never gets my name right no matter how many times I try to tell him. "And this is Menecar. We'll need a room for the night and stabling for our horses." They paid the necessary amount of money and then walked into the common room to await the arrival of the messangers from Gondor. Thoronmir and Menecar both ordered some ale, then sat down at a nearby table.

"How many orcs do you think there were?" Thoronmir asked.

"I only heard about five or six from a distance," Menecar replied, "but there were about twenty trying to kill us."

"That's what I thought as well. The ones we heard were probably just a scouting party," Thoronmir continued. "I didn't expect to find that many orcs in the area we were in. We'll have to mention this to the messenger when he arrives." He looked over at Menecar, who clearly wasn't listening, but was instead looking at a corner of the room. "Are you alright?" the older ranger asked.

"That man," said Menecar, pointing at a rather mean-looking fellow, "has been watching us ever since he got here."

[piosenniel]

The pain. It’s long deathly fingers puncture the skin, slithers through the ribcage and seizes your heart. Strong fingers close so tightly that your blood vessels start to burst and your body begins to convulse. A cold chill caresses your spine, numbs your senses and send you into shock. Darkness covers your eyes…

Andas signed aloud to himself as he continues his best to read yesterday’s edition of the village routine orders in the dimly illuminated room; community fees going up next month. The poor weather did little to comfort his mind. Helga’s loud shrill voice continued booming from the back of the kitchen, she was ranting about his spectacular inability to perform the easiest of household chores now,

“And how many times do I have to tell you? Reds don’t go into the wash tub with the whites! Now look what you’ve done! Another braccae spoilt! What’s wrong with you? Can’t you…”

The pain. It picks you up and smothers you in a deadly embrace. It plucks the soul from the very core of your being with cruel fingers, pops it into a black bottomless maw and chews. It bites and sucks the juice that is your personality, your aspirations, your hopes and relishes it. Once done, it spits out what remains of your incorporeal form and rub it into the dirt with a heavy suffocating foot…

Helga was done with nitpicking Andas’ poor housekeeping skills and was now relating to him the events that occurred during the morning’s trip to the market. Andas squirmed uncomfortably in the overstuffed armchair and tried to read, dull brown eyes darting left from right; another sheep missing, Old Grant defaulting on insurance. Still, nothing could dull the formidable voice box of Helga’s,

“Rosy Parker was at the fishmonger’s today and Gregory was with her. Oh, he was such a dear thing! Carrying her heavy baskets and buying those expensive white flowers from that Monty lad to surprise and such…

Now how come you don’t do those things for me?!”

The pain. Helga was pain. Helga was pain personified. And nothing could stop Helga, not even hail nor brimstone could deny the awe-inspiring phenomenon that was Helga ****ed…

It was now or never. Andas knew his moment had come.

“IS THAT YOU PRAND?!” He shouted aloud suddenly to no one in particular,
\
“WHAT’S THAT?! YOU WANT TO TALK TO ME?! YOU WANT ME TO COME OUT?! IT’S IMPORTANT?!”

Every word forcefully enunciated.

The disembodied voice of Helga’s queried,

“Why are you shouting Andas? Did you say Prand is here? Why don’t you invite him in?”

A turning point has been reached and the wheels in Andas’ head turned faster,

“WHAT’S THAT PRAND?! YOU CAN’T COME IN BECAUSE YOUR SHOES ARE ALL MUDDY?!”

Meet Helga the cleanliness freak.

“OK PRAND! OK! I’M COMING OUT NOW! HERE I GO!”

With surprisingly quick reflexes, Andas pulled his body off the armchair, sprinted across the room and grabbed his belt and cope from the coats hanger.

“I’m going out to see what Prand wants, dear! Could take a while! Don’t wait up for me! Love yah, bye bye!”

Before Helga could reply, Andas swung open the front door leapt out and slammed it shut. Liberation never felt better.

It was dusk and ominous dark clouds were already forming overhead in the north. Andas was hungry and from the looks of it, he also needed a roof overhead soon too. And he knew just where to go in situations like this.

Adjusting his belt and getting into his cope, Andas Loudewater stepped onto the gravel skewed dirt path and marched briskly over to The Prancing Pony…

[piosenniel]

Envinyatar’s post – Fen Sheperdspurse

‘Well, look what just slunk in, would ya.’ Matty Thistleseed nudged his companion at the Pony’s bar, his chin rising just slightly in the direction of the sallow fellow who’d come in through the door. His head ducked quickly back toward his drink and he wrapped his cloak tighter about him as the newcomer’s greasy haired head swiveled toward him.

Fen Sheperdspurse grinned at the man’s discomfort. Or rather his lips twisted into a gruesome imitation of grin – a sort of ghastly rictus caught halfway between a snarl and a sneer. Others of the present inhabitants of the common room looked at him coldly as he passed their tables, on the way to far corner booth. Many of them muttered imprecations at his presence, their hands clutching at their purses in fear they would disappear if Fen’s shadow slid over them in passing. And well they might fear, save for the fact that Fen was feeling flush today, his purse replete with a jumble of silver and copper coins he’d just last night “come into”.

Seated at last in the dim corner booth, Fen thunked his yew would stick twice on the floor to catch a passing server’s attention. One bony finger pushed a silver penny to the edge of the table, his ragged, dirty fingernail tapping insistently on it. The server came close enough to snatch the penny, stepping back quickly to avoid the touch of Fen’s hand. ‘A pint of ale, boy. And one of new baked loaves with a wedge of Archet cheddar.’ He fixed the server with a knowing leer. ‘And none of that with the moldy rind just peeled off. I’m onto your tricks, you hear!’

Fen drew back into the shadows as he waited for his drink and meal. His eyes slid about the room taking in the ‘usuals’ and the more interesting newcomers. A pair of Rangers occupied a table across the room from him. They both sat facing toward the room, their gaze darting here and there as they spoke quietly to each other. Why were they here, he wondered. Seeking someone? Seeking news?

One of the men’s eyes narrowed as he spied the dim figure in the far corner, causing Fen to shift further back into the dark protection of the booth. His hand sought his coin pouch and stuffed it far into the pocket of his breeches. The coins clinked as he did so, and fear sprang up that perhaps the Ranger had heard them. He preferred not to have to explain how they’d come into his possession.

‘Plenty more where those come from,’ his new “acquaintance” had told him.

Fen smirked at the thought of his present employer coming into the Inn for a pint. ‘Serve those goody-goody’s right,’ he snorted.

From out the window, just visible in the gathering dusk, a familiar face intruded upon his thoughts – there was that henpecked Andas Loudewater just coming up the path to the Inn . . . and in the distance behind him was a curious group. He could but barely make them out if he squinted against the lowering sun. Another Ranger, it looked . . . and a man riding near him. And there, much to his disgust, rode four Elves on their fine horses. Fen spit on the ground, his brow beetled, as he calculated just how much he might get for such a horse, should it go ‘missing’ . . .

[piosenniel]

Saurreg's post

Andas Loudewater had just reached the front porch of the most popular drinking hole in the whole of Bree when large raindrops started to fall, creating tiny little craters on the much used dirt road. Dark clouds rumbled precariously overhead, blocking out whatever light the setting sun could offer and enveloped the entire evening sky in black velvet from horizon to horizon and as far as the eye could see. Loudewater frowned to himself and sighed deeply as he pulled the hood of the cope off his head, this night would offer nothing but heavy down pour and his creaky joints would pay the dear price.

Damned rheumatism, damned age. What I wouldn’t give to be twenty years younger again.

The grease caked windows of the establishment were illuminated weakly by lit lamps and a sonorous burble could be felt through vibes that shook the loose floorboards of the porch - it was the sing-a-long, happy hour had begun.

The Breeland farmer took a deep breath and readied himself mentally as would an athlete before the race. After a momentary pause, he swung open the door of the Prancing Pony and confronted destiny head on. Rising to the occasion, destiny sprung forward like an uncoiled spring and smashed into Loudewater’s face. The farmer staggered but recovered himself quickly enough; years of patronizing the Prancing Pony had somewhat dwindled the potency its overwhelmingly pungent whiff on him but for the uninitiated, the whole affair of simply entering the tavern could be an insurmountable ordeal. Butterbur had never believed in the concept of proper workplace hygiene and many a newcomers had paid the price. More than often regulars like Loudewater and even old Butterbur himself had heckled at unfamiliar faces contorting in agony followed by the whizzing (they always whiz) and the occasional nausea.

It was all good “clean” harmless fun really. But incidents do happen, those that make simpletons like the good folks of Bree go “hmmm”

Once, an elven wayfarer (dainty and disturbingly pretty in a girly way) tried to enter the Prancing Pony (don’t ask why) and results were somewhat horrific… (For the faerie that is).

Suffice say, that incident was significant enough for Butterbur to go “hmmm” and the next day after the tragic affair, Loudewater saw for the first and only time Butterbur scrubbing the floorboards and opening up the windows to air the place. It was a momentous event that Loudewater rated up there with the likes of the return of the king.

******

Loudewater stepped through the doorway and entered the main serving hall of the tavern. The hospitable warmth radiating from the fireplace felt most comfortable and he permitted himself a wane smile of self-satisfaction. If there was any place he would want to be when a raging storm came along, it would be here.

The Prancing Pony was already packed to the walls when Loudewater entered. Breelanders of different walks of life and trades have already packed the benches and tables and were all bellowing in drunken unison with lusty voices, throats were well lubricated by free-flowing pints and cheap wine. It was “Roll out the Barrels!” a popular hit penned by the famous Susan Delgado and Loudewater found himself almost subconsciously humming along to the tunes of the ever popular folksong.

No one writes such great works anymore, he reflected sadly.

Loudewater’s head swerved upon his scrawny neck as he scrutinized the crowded room looking for some unoccupied spot for himself and perhaps a friend or two to interact with. Amidst the mass of swaying and rocking heads, and raised arms clenching tankards and goblets of spilling beverage, Loudewater’s dull eyes caught sight of an appendage belonging to a familiar face waving frantically in the air. Loudewater grinned at the familiar face, waved back and made his way through to the bar.