Wilderness, Weathertop, & Wild Things RPG

[Alaksoron]

Osric didn't feel particularly tired so he decided to visit his horse before bed. Shadow was a fine animal, strong if not terribly fast. Falkur gave him a pat and fed him an apple and stroked his nose a bit, made sure Shadow went to sleep. Then he went for a smoke.

He didn't go back inside the inn, rather just leaned on the side of the porch. It was too loud inside for him. Right now he needed quiet. He needed to think. He mused over what the others had spoke of. Osric himself had taken little part in the conversation, merely looking at the map and offering what he knew.

A sudden wind made Osric shiver. Pulling his cloak closer against the evening chill, he thought bed might not be such a bad idea. His eyes dropped like lead weights. He was very nearly asleep where he stood when his keen ears picked up the distant sound of weeping.

[Envinyatar]

Kransha's post

A dull, pointless tune, whistled badly by orcish lips, rent the calm air. Búbkûr was not a good whistler, not at any rate, and his butchery of the same old uruk folk tune he’d heard circulating around the campfire was appalling. He didn’t even like the melody, as he’d made clear earlier, but the silence of the area disconcerted him greatly, filling him with the urge to be at least half as noisy as he usually was. He didn’t like all the nature, which was a given in a forested, hilly land. He especially didn’t like the trees. He’d lived his whole life in a place without trees, or bushes, or leaves, or roots, or any filth that accompanied trees. Any tree was like a thorn in his side. But, he especially hated those leafless, crooked ones. Those were the worst trees, and since Búbkûr didn’t like trees, he especially didn’t like the least likable trees, as they were not likable (which made perfect sense to him, somewhat). There were a lot of those in Bree-land, mostly in the dense, derelict forests. Thankfully, there were not that many of those trees in the area where Búbkûr was at the moment.

Where he was was at a familiar locale, between Bâzzog’s section of camp and that of Ugwakh, his second. He had come from Ugwakh’s section, having acted as an annoyed messenger who brought word of plans and schemes that he did not fully understand. He felt left out of the loop, regardless of who he spoke to, and it made him mad. Ugwakh’s dull, gruff attitude hadn’t helped. The parley broke into quick and steady argument, common for hostile orc-kind. Búbkûr was content to have left the wretched glob of an orc to his own wretched devices. His course back to Bâzzog was abandoned as he sought unheard of tranquility to ponder his situation. He felt better, not in the company of Bâzzog, Ugwakh, or the smart-mouth Gráthgrob. But, his feeling was overthrown when clip-clopping noise broke his ‘concentration’ and a trio of those crooked, horrid trees appeared just as he crested a small lump of a dirt mound. To the most crooked, most hateful tree was tied a horse, with its rider walking beside it. It took an irritatingly long time for Búbkûr to recognize the fellow and realize that he had wandered to an appointed place of meeting with said man.

“Yer Fen Sheperdsnurse, roight?” He said, enthusiastically, as he approached the man. He remembered that the 'negotiator' between the orcs an the Breelanders was actually old Grathgrob, and that's probably who this creature was expecting. It didn't matter, since, as they said in Bree sometimes, "Beggars can't be choosers." When it comes to orcs, everyone's a beggar, and nobody bothers risking their lives making choices. Choices are a bad thing, in uruk company. Finishing his exclamation, Búbkûr looked over the man, who looked dissapointed about the recipient of his soon-to-be-delivered message. He also looked like several other things, but Búbkûr was never any good at conjuring appropriate adjectives.

Fen coughed pointedly. “That’s Sheperdspurse, orc.” He corrected, his raspy voice grating on Búbkûr’s easily stricken nerves. Waving his clawed hand dismissively, the uruk nodded. “Yeah, sure it is. Whaddaya want?” He was obviously impatient, and in a sour mood. Even though he never considered challenging Bâzzog, he was often tempted when the superior orc treated him so dishonorably. Growling in his bracken-clotted throat, the orc’s hook hand scratched idly at the small of his back, drawing blood inadvertently. Though Fen’s eyes were drawn to the strange activity, the man of Bree managed to remain focused and continue speaking. Búbkûr’s gaze, though, unavoidably continued to sway, looking at that crooked tree behind the man; that tree he so disliked. Disliking the tree made him feel more confident, and he almost blocked out the sound of Fen Sheperdspurse.

“I come bringing ill news, orc,” Fen drawled on, “and you’d do best to pass it on to your captain.” Búbkûr looked up; one brow rising so that one of his two beady eyes became swollen and bulbous, which was probably the best look of inquiry the foul creature could muster. The orc whipped his hook hand back out and brandished it in a menacing fashion at the Breelander. “Yer bringin’ illness?” he said, skeptical and confused, “I don’t wanna get sick, ya know!” His two eyes were now bulging from their sockets, to Fen’s dismay. The Breelander probably would’ve been irritated by the orc’s stupidity if that same orc hadn’t been waving a rusty metal hook several inches in front of his nose. Hurriedly, Fen attempted to calm Búbkûr promptly, gesturing with his arms to settle the bewildered fiend.

“Bad news,” he stated swiftly, “I bring bad news.”

Astutely, Búbkûr settled down, speaking dimly as if nothing had happened. He needed no second measure of reassurance. His hook returned to its fleshy scratching post. “Oh…yeah, fine.” He muttered, looking away without a care or aim. “What is it?...The bad news, I mean.” Fen nodded, as if in understanding and, wrapping his narrow fingers around his staff again. Like a foul orator preparing for rhetoric, he contemplated. With a reserved gesture that plainly meant “Get to the point,” from Búbkûr, Fen began again, saying “There’s been some sort of clandestine meeting in the Prancing Pony” and pausing afterward to see the orc’s reaction (or lack thereof). After Búbkûr bobbed his head dimly, Fen went on. “Four northern Rangers and four Elves and a fifth ranger, all whispering like they’re talking about some dark secret. I thought Bâzzog would want to know.”

“Sure he would.” Búbkûr snapped, frustrated, not fully comprehending the situation, “Ya say four tarks meetin’ with four Elves?” Rolling his eyes as the orc looked away, Fen replied: “Yes, and another Ranger with the Elves.” Búbkûr’s lower, bulbous lip wound up over his upper jaw, enveloping it, and he scratched his hairy chin. “I’ve got it.” He said at last, a spark in his bugging eyes, “After we spend all the gold from last noight, we’ll get right on doin’ somethin’ about them tarks.” Fen’s own eyes illuminated evilly all of a sudden at the last statement. Stuttering in anticipation, the man ventured a query.

“Last night, you say?”

“Yeah.” Búbkûr tried to look intelligent as he nodded, still unaware of the wound he was tearing in his back, “Them stupid trolls got a grand haul from the Whittleworth Farm just outside o’ Staddle. Thems trolls get stupider by the day, I reckon.” He laughed, good-naturedly, but the laugh he elicited from Fen was forced (though Búbkûr was too busy developing the cognitions of a proper guffaw to notice). “Indeed.” Fen murmured, as soon as his ‘surfeit of raucous laughter’ had concluded, “So, what of the Rangers and Elves?” Búbkûr noticed Fen’s uneasiness, but ignored it in true orc fashion, considering. His feeble strivings toward philosophy were miserable, especially when he tried to look philosophical. “Pump ‘em fer information, ya know?” He growled sinisterly, “Ya can tell ‘em about the farm, that’s old news. Just so long as ya get some good news next time ya come.” He brandished his hook hand with ominous intent again, his eyes narrowing. “I won’t be quite so pleasant if’n ya bring ill news again.”

It didn’t take long for Fen Sheperdspurse to turn on his heels, leap onto the malnourished horse he had bound to that nearby, crooked and hunched over tree, and gallop off briskly into the distance, towards Bree. Chuckling merrily to himself, and thinking himself quite intelligent, Búbkûr galumphed back towards Bâzzog’s camp, slicing through half the trunk of that crooked tree, shaking it to its very roots. He really hated that tree.

[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?"

[Primrose Bolger]

Grimm woke to the smell of roasting chicken. Peeling open one thick eyelid, he stared blurrily out from the little cave of skins he’d thrown over himself in the night. His nose poked just beyond their ragged edge, sniffing mightily at the enticing scent.

Broga heard the familiar snuffling noise and turned his head toward his brother. ‘Just about done. All nice and crispy on the outside like we likes ‘em and juicy on the innards!’ He grinned sloppily as Grimm heaved himself up from his pallet and scratched his backside, his familiar morning ritual. ‘Look here! I even got the fire going myself!’ Broga turned back to his cooking and ripped off a leg and thigh, crunching happily through the skin, meat and bones. ‘Come on! They’re done now.’ he said waving the half gnawed hindquarter at his brother, a trail of chicken grease slithering down his chin as he held out a rod of spitted hens to Grimm.

The sleepy-eyed Troll mumbled something as he stumbled toward the brace of hens. Grasping the hot iron rod in his fingers, he danced about a bit, blowing mightily as he slid the hot birds from their skewer and onto a nearby log. Picking one up in his great grip, he tore a sizable chunk from it with his snaggly teeth. He chewed thoughtfully on it, grimacing every once in a while as he rubbed his neck with his free hand.

‘Whatsa matter?’ asked Broga, wiping his hands on his clothes as he reached for a water skin.

‘Them bags a gold,’ mumbled Grimm round a mouthful of chicken. ‘They’re a poor excuse for a pillow, they are. My neck’s all tied in knots.’

Broga ignored his brother’s complaint, knowing that if he commented on it, the particulars of the aches and pains might go on forever. Instead, he picked up a thigh bone and cracked it open, sucking what marrow he could from it. The jagged end of it he used to pluck, ineffectually, scraps of meat from between his teeth. Sitting back, his stomach pleasantly full of good food, he surveyed their little camp. ‘Those Orcs ain’t bad little fellows,’ he offered in a congenial tone. ‘Think up some good fun, they do.’ He looked toward his brother. ‘Think they’ll have something thought up for us tonight?’

[Meneltarmacil]

Thoronmir stood up and walked over to where the innkeeper was. "Mr. Butterbur?" he said.

"Something I can do for you, Thenamir?" Butterbur said.

My name is Thoronmir, as I've already reminded you fifty billion times. Thoronmir thought to himself. He sighed, then spoke, "We're interested in hearing about some of the attacks on the settlements around here. Do you know anything about it?"

"Well, I've heard from a lot of people about bad stuff happening to their farms. Livestock missing and such." Butterbur replied.

"Anybody in particular?" Thoronmir said.

"Bill Swiftstream lost a lot of cattle last week," Butterbur answered. "Tom Longbranch's cornfields were burned at around the same time, and I heard that Andas Loudewater's missing several sheep."

Thoronmir made a mental note of the names and the location of their farms. Then he addressed the people ion the common room.

"Does anybody have any information regarding the attacks in this area?"