Wilderness, Weathertop, & Wild Things RPG

[Kransha]

O, toil and work are now all done.
Down, down; there goes that yellow sun.
High-ho, there’s no more race to run
Until the new dawn comes.

The wind blows still, but all is well.
Din-din; so says the farmer’s bell.
And peace is in the field and the dell
Until the next day comes.

The Wargs all sleep, they ate their fill.
The clouds are quiet, the trees are still.
There’s hearth and home on the old bald hill
Until tomorrow comes.

The song was an old favorite, sentimental in some ways. Orcish voices (especially when singing) really didn’t have the same melodic quality as mannish voices, but orc’s didn’t care about that. A good orcish chorus was hard to find, especially in the north. Truthfully, Gundabad orcs sung much better than Mordor worms or the rats from Sharkû’s tower in the south. Bâzzog knew this very well. He’d never been one of the orcs who fell into line with the other marchers, singing those songs, but he’d heard them. In Gundabad, you could hear everything, even if you didn’t want to. It was of those unavoidable, annoying facts that sounded like a proverb or a figure of speech, but really wasn’t. Maybe that was why Bâzzog had left. Honestly, the real reason for his sudden, but supported departure from Mount Gundabad was lost to him. Maybe he didn’t remember it, on account of his lousy memory, or maybe it had been too trivial to waste valuable mental space remembering. He had enough of a hard time remembering names.

Thinking on that subject, Bâzzog looked around, crossing his arms before him, his gaze scanning the camp. A great, smoking fire, black plumes swirling above the crackling tongues of flame, sat in the middle of the darkening camp and orcs sat and stood all about it, eating their fill of leftovers from the company’s last hunt. There were not that many orcs in reality, but enough to make the group look formidable to others. On a number of sharpened sticks plugged into the ground around the camp were, impaled, a number of rabbits, foxes, rats, and other small, furry creatures, which were, one by one, plucked from their roosts to be devoured. The camp was celebrating its victory, though nothing had truly been one. The grand scheme was working and life was good, which was as fine a reason as any to celebrate…for orcs. Bâzzog, the chieftain, did not celebrate, though. He was not a very celebratory individual. He could be jocund when necessary, but he wasn’t in the mood. He usually had to kill something to be in the mood. Right now, he was content to overview his troops and his lieutenants, eyes traveling slowly from right to left.

The first thing he saw, looking to his right, was a monumental orc called Búbkûr. Búbkûr was Bâzzog’s second-in-command (making him third in the line of military succession, a system whose intricacies eluded him) and one of the orc chieftain’s most trusted brethren, though they were not friends…not legitimate friends, at least. He was large, brawny, and swarthy, but still somewhat shorter than Bâzzog himself, which suited the latter just fine, as he did not like orcs who were taller than him. His right arm terminated in a stump where his hand once was. He had lost that appendage in an unfortunate incident involving a late-night gambling session (the other fellow lost more than a hand, as Bâzzog remembered). For the sake of intimidation, Búbkûr had jammed a large, bent hook, twisted incorrectly at several points so that it was really not much of a hook anymore, into the stump on his arm soon after his accident and the residual healing of the wound held the weapon in its place, with the assistance of some ‘appropriated’ nails, bolts, and metal coils. Búbkûr was strong, mightily so, but barely as intelligent as his commander, thankfully. He was, if at all possible, less clever than Bâzzog, and talked more. Some might say he talked too much for his own good, but he defended his own good with really big arms and that hook. To his credit, he was a compulsive gambler and a drunkard.

Rapidly (as Bâzzog did not relish the sight of Búbkûr), the orc chieftain’s gaze turned away to look upon another being. To Bâzzog’s left, sitting upon a mound of solid dirt, was an orc called Gráthgrob, his two hands extended with a mess of sparkling, glittering, coins cradled in them, slipping through the gaps between his skinny fingers. Gráthgrob was, as far as he and his commander were concerned, was Bâzzog’s lieutenant in terms of negotiation and acted as a supply of necessary information. He knew more about the geography and locals of the area than most other orcs, and his input to Bâzzog’s crude stratagems was invaluable at least. He was smaller and less formidable, with a nature and gait that predisposed him to sidling about conspiratorially, like a snake in the grass, but he was not clever, just smart. His features were generic for an uruk, though his arms and legs were more flabby than muscular. No orc cared about his weakness and lack of stamina, since his intelligence garnered him plenty of respect, but not as much as Bâzzog.

At last, after straying over countless nameless orcs, Bâzzog’s eyes fell upon the last orc, Kransha, who stood far off, his shadow and form silhouetted against the night sky’s dark grey-blue as he stood perched atop a cresting hill, looking away into the distance as he often did. It was his job, anyway. Kransha, the eyes and ears on the orc company, was always alert, always wary and circumspect. Even now, in this festive hour, he clutched a hide-bound short bow in his hand with a narrow bolt grasped between his left hand’s index and middle finger. His small head kept spinning on his neck, searching for any sign of life on the plains of Eriador. Kransha didn’t talk much, and some suspected he was a mute orc, a great rarity, but this opinion was dissuaded by the fact that the occupation of scout usually requires the ability to speak. Most orcs had never heard his voice, but they didn’t need to. Though Bâzzog was strong and Gráthgrob was smart, Kransha possessed the greatest battle prowess. He was quick like the wind and could fire his arrows like lightning bolts that could not miss their targets. If Kransha had not been so soft-spoken and meek, he could have taken over the company a long time ago. The fact that he was loyal still to Bâzzog was a testament to Bâzzog’s command abilities, and with the marvel marksman at his side, Bâzzog was unchallengeable. Even the fact that Kransha spoke little added to the aura of eerie splendor…and equally eerie silence, around him.

Unfortunately, that fitful silence was severed immediately.

“Are you done yet?” growled Búbkûr, who sat beside Bâzzog, as he contemplated a large piece of ox meat still fixed stubbornly to a broad bone. As he spoke, he took a grandiose bite out of the victual, allowing a mess of meat chunks, grease, and spittle to fall from his gaping jaws. This action slurred the last two words vilely together, mangling the syllables beyond recognition. Unfortunately, a number of disgruntled, drunken uruks still understood him. With orcs, one often understood what another orc was saying, even if it was inaudible and incomprehensible. One orc, with a dull, witless expression plastered on his drawn face, spun to glower at Búbkûr with a pair of luminous blobs the size of horse hooves, which had taken the place of his eyes, his features twisting grotesquely. “’Ey,” he grunted simply, “shut yer stinkin’ mouth.”

Búbkûr shot a sour glance back, but otherwise, did not look up from his handheld meal. He did, though, develop the verbal ability to reply with witty, elegant, sardonic style. “You shut yer stinkin’ mouth, pushdug!” He snarled, through a second enveloped mouthful, and continued to engorge himself. “Is ‘dat a challenge, bagronk?” snorted the second, anonymous uruk, taking several imposing steps forward. He was obviously a bad logician, or else he would’ve realized that the chances of him being able to deck Búbkûr were slim to none. Luckily for the wretched orc, Bazzog, meandering forward, intervened with a raw scowl. “Maybe both of ya should shut yer stinkin’ mouths, yeah? Now that ye’re all done with yer bloody singin’,” he shot a displeased look at the rowdy revelers, “we can get back to bus’ness.”

“What business?” queried Búbkûr dumbly, his face the very picture of obtuseness. His mouth lolled open, as if he were searching for more to say but could find nothing and had settled for wordless movements of the tongue. Bâzzog fixed him with a damnable expression. “You know roight well what bus’ness.” He spat, slurring half the words together, “The trolls, sha!”

“Ah, the trolls.” Said Bubkur back, feigning understanding.

For good reason, Bâzzog hated it when Búbkûr pretended to be smart. Any one-eared dimwitted, ape knew that Búbkûr had the intelligence of an under-educated rock, so it was senseless and silly for the orc to deny it. Perhaps, if he kept his mouth shut, he’d surely be thought less of an idiot than he’d publicly proclaimed himself to be. Brushing this fact and irritance aside, Bâzzog spoke to the orcs, his voice swelling to one of command and superiority. “Alroight, lads,” he said, “gather ‘round, gather ‘round. Gráthgrob ‘ere ‘as us a plan, that he does. Go on, Grob, show ‘em the map.” On command, the orcs began to congregate in a huddle around Gráthgrob, who knelt on the grassy ground. Most uruks settled into comfortable seats on the earth, looking toward Gráthgrob as he dug around in his multilayered outfit for something. Bâzzog and Búbkûr both took places just behind Gráthgrob, on either side of him, while Kransha, stowing away his bow and arrow, took a seat at the head of the orc audience, bemused and seemingly uninterested. With few exceptions, all eyes were fixed on Gráthgrob.

Gráthgrob, looking very intelligent to the other orcs, produced a grease-slathered scroll of parchment and unrolled it expertly, revealing a large, monochromatic map, simply designed, of a small area. On the top right hand corner, in nearly illegible chicken scratch was scrawled the word ‘Bree-land’ and under that, in a smaller handwriting, the words ‘Whittleworth Farm.’ Gráthgrob, his eyes coldly illuminated and reflecting the vague light of dusk, jabbed his pudgy forefinger at the map, aiming it at a series of overlapping rectangles which represented a building in the map’s center. “This here is the farm of one Rob Whittleworth,” he began most astutely, “a Bree-land farmer with a modest fortune…but not too modest.” There was an immodest snicker from the huddled group, and Gráthgrob smiled in a self-congratulating fashion before he continued. “He’s got a load of gold in his house collected after his last shipment of crops was exported to Combe and Staddle. My sources tell me that he keeps the gold unguarded, since he lives in a remote area, so it should be easy to get it, ‘specially for trolls. The man’s got plenty of cattle and sheep all fenced up in pens on the farmland. The trolls can have their fill of ‘em. They think they’ll get half, but tonight, we seal the deal by tellin’ them they can have the whole flock. They won’t question our motives after that, not that they have yet.”

One anonymous orc interjected, objecting. “’Ey, can’t we have a few o’ the sheep?” Bâzzog silenced the wretched goblin with a fearsome look, one eye opening wider than the other to glare murderously down. With a meager little whimper, the orc shut his mouth tight, but Bâzzog still saw fit to explain his reasoning, thinking himself very wise in his tactics. “No,” he said, gesturing philosophically with his gauntleted hands, “we let the trolls ‘ave the flock.” He pointed coolly at the orc who’d posed the question. “You can get all the bloody food ye want with yer share of the gold.” With this, he turned back to Gráthgrob and hunched over, peering over the other orc’s lumpy shoulder and at the map. “Now then, back to the plan.” Gráthgrob nodded and went on. “Well, Mister Whittleworth don’t have much in the way of material possessions, maybe some personal items, but nothin’ we need. There ain’t any other folk in the area, ‘cept Whittleworth’s li’l wife and daughter.” At this, there was an unsettling surge of chatter and gossiping whispers among the orcs, and a second interrupting goblin raised his hand, like a schoolboy in a classroom, and began to wave the limb about madly as he spoke. “Oh,” he cried in a raspy, eager voice, “tell the trolls ta bring the wife!”

Again, Bâzzog’s sinister mono-ocular gaze fell on the orc who spoken out of turn, his other eye shriveling into a beady dot. The orc’s excited expression shrunk, and his puffed out chest deflated dejectedly. “No!” growled Bâzzog, irritated by the constant surfeit of interruptions. Them trolls’d probly crush the lass before they got ‘er outta the house. Anyways, t’was ‘ard enough to get the trolls ta understand how to get the gold. Tellin’ ‘em ta bring us the farmer’s wife’d just confuse ‘em. An’ we don’t want to get the trolls confused, now does we?” There was another unanimous snicker from Bâzzog’s captive audience. The dullness of the trolls had become a running gag among the orcs. Some had even been using the word olog as a synonym for ‘dimwit’ and the slang caught on fast. Ever since the trolls first accepted the orcs’ one-sided offers, orcish opinion of troll intelligence had plummeted. Whenever the trolls were brought up, laughter was sure to be close behind. Unfortunately, the merry mood was cracked and shattered by a last ill-aimed question.

“So, who’s gonna tell Ugwakh all this?” Búbkûr inquired, moving up beside Bâzzog, stooped over with a hand on Gráthgrob’s back. “Ol’ ash-bûbhosh’ll wanna know the plan.” Bâzzog rolled his eyes (actually, he managed to roll only one eye, while keeping the other affixed on Búbkûr, who still bore a look of unadulterated stupidity), and shot a reply back filled with false, but familiar, orcish pleasantry. “Yer gonna tell ‘em, Búbkûr, that ye are.” He said sweetly, eliciting a chuckle from Gráthgrob, and a distinct gulp from Búbkûr, who knew that when Bâzzog was pleasant it was a sure sign of trouble. “Use yer bloody fancy talk and tell ‘im that he’ll get half the gold.” The orc chieftain concluded, with a wry grin. Búbkûr’s right tuft of eyebrow rose inquisitively.

“We’re gonna give ‘im half?”

“No, glob,” snarled Bazzog in response, “we’re givin’ ‘im a fourth of it. What d’ya think I am, stupid?”

The stare given reduced Búbkûr’s interrogative nature. He shrunk back, much to the satisfaction of his rivals in the horde and nodded obediently. “No, sir.” He murmured, “I’ll tell ‘im he’s gettin’ a fourth.”

A second later, Bâzzog’s armor-covered hand shot out and a fist clenched around Búbkûr’s throat, hauling him to within an inch of the snorting chieftain’s face. Gráthgrob below, eyes wide, threw himself defensively backward, out of the way, as the rest of the surrounding orcs leaned forward curiously. “Don’t TELL ‘im that, ye bloody fool,” Bâzzog roared, hot breath and saliva covering Búbkûr’s large, quivering nose, “tell ‘im he’s getting half, got it?” Búbkûr nodded frantically as Bâzzog pushed him away harshly. “Y-Yes, sir, yes I do, sir.” He stammered miserably, stepping back. Bâzzog approached again, looking enraged. “Than get off yer high horse and TELL ‘IM!” He bellowed; his bass voice rumbling and echoing throughout the camp. In an instant, Búbkûr had spun on his heel and was scurrying away, with a few illicit giggles following him, but no laughter or speech. When Bâzzog put his foot down, what he said was final. No one would speak until he had broken the unsettling silence, on pain of death (or painful dismemberment). Luckily, he did so.

“C’mon, lads.” He said, a smile returning to him as he turned to Kransha and Gráthgrob, “We’ve got a date with the ologs.”

[Primrose Bolger]

‘Can you believe it!’

Broga shrugged away his fascination with the long stringy morsel of rabbit that hung from Arrald’s lower lip. As the Troll spoke, his lips flapped up and down against each other, sending the dangling bit of dinner dancing against Arrald’s jowl. It was fascinating . . . quite mesmerizing . . . Grimm reached out and gave his brother a light smack on the arm. He could tell his attention had narrowed, as his lower jaw hung slack, a thin line of drool evident at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes looked a bit more vacant than usual.

‘Ow!’ cried the injured sibling, rubbing his arm. With a shake of his head, then, Broga caught the last of Arrald’s little monolog. Moving close to Grimm, he whispered in his brother’s ear. ‘He’s wantin’ a answer, ain’t he? Do we believe it or don’t we?’

‘Leave him to me. Just keep your wits about you, will you.’ Grimm’s eyes had narrowed at the mention of gold. He wanted some of those glittery coins. Rubbing the thumb and forefinger of his right hand together in anticipation of their cold smoothness, he gave Arrald a comradely smile and said what a fine outing it sounded. And would they wanting a little extra help on this venture?

Arrald drew back, his meager brow beetled. Grimm could almost see him counting the mutton in half a flock. ‘One good sized ewe’s good enough for us . . . not big eaters, really,’ he went on in the best assuring tone he could muster. We were thinking we could take care of the farmer and his wife and get . . . bash ‘em good. That’s what we like doing. We’ll bring out the gold to you . . . you can give it to the Orcs if you like. What say?’ He gave Arrald a ghastly wink. ‘Leaves your hands free for grabbing more sheep, it does.’

[Envinyatar]

Nuranar's post

The landlord evidently provided his more distinguished guests with better fare than the local folks rated. Even at this distance the untouched bread and cheese before the thin man at the bar did not look particularly appetizing. Tarondo decided he didn’t blame the man for attending more to them than to his meal. And yet . . .

Naturally the appearance of four Elves in Bree had not gone unnoticed, but this man was the only one who was still staring. Furthermore, it was not the vacant gaze of a slow-thinking rustic, but the observant watch of a very present intelligence. Tarondo could detect no hostility in his eyes, but neither did he have any intention of discussing their mission in front of all those open ears. And especially not before the character in the booth whose endeavors to hide had made him so conspicuous.

Thoronmir, the elder of the two Rangers who had been waiting for them, pushed back his plate with a sigh. “Very good,” he remarked approvingly. “A little slim on the mutton, but that is hardly surprising.” He looked meaningfully at Veryadan, then Tarondo, then back to the Ranger.

Tarondo nodded at him, then turned away slightly and called in a low, clear voice, “Mr. Butterbur.”

The heavy little man trotted hurriedly over from across the room. “Oh, sir, I hope, everything’s –”

“Everything is perfectly satisfactory,” Tarondo said firmly. He had no intention of allowing the flood to get underway. “Is there a room where we may speak in private?”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

A few minutes found the eight of them in a small room with a fire. There were a few chairs, but not enough, so Butterbur brought in a few more stools. “And if there’s anything more you need, just ring the bell on the table there, and I’ll come runnin’. Always a pleasure, anytime . . .”

Menecar shut the door on the burbling landlord and turned around with a grin. “Just like his father,” he said, shaking his head.

“I will close these,” Silrûth said, crossing to the window. Swiftly she swung the shutters to and barred out the night.

Luinien was looking quizzically, almost expectantly at Tarondo. Catching her eye, Tarondo glanced at the door and then back. “Would you be so kind?”

“Of course.” Luinien picked up a stool and set it down by the door. She eased it open, peered swiftly down the hall in both directions, and noiselessly re-closed it. Sitting on the stool, she leaned her head back against the doorjamb and winked at her brother. Her hand rested gently on the hilt of her dirk.

Nearly everyone else had found a seat, but Osric Falkur still stood in the middle of the floor, his brow furrowed. He glanced speculatively at Tarondo, then turned to Thoronmir. “Who is he? The twisted man hiding in the shadows?”

“Fen Shepherdspurse,” the Ranger replied. “One of the brigands who took cover under the Shadow in this area, and nearly the only one to have survived this long. We try to keep aware of him, but he is very sly and has no love for us.” He spoke quietly, a wry smile on his lips.

“And the other?” Aidwain leaned forward, his eyes glinting in the firelight. “The thin one, who watched us the entire evening?”

“That was only Andas Loudewater, a local farmer,” Menecar spoke up. “I expect he was taking refuge from that sharp-tongued termagant he is married to.” He paused, frowning. “Surely he could have nothing to do with any of this,” he said, a note of protest in his voice.

“That is not the issue, Menecar,” Veryadan interposed. “We have no reason to believe either Shepherdspurse or Loudewater of being involved in anything. At the same time, we are not going to assume they are not involved. Especially when both have showed particular interest in us.”

Tarondo nodded. “This is simply part of being aware.” He stood up and paced slowly across the floor. “The problem is, we don’t know what is going on, much less who is behind it. We are here to discover exactly what is happening and who the enemy is. Only then will we take action, if we can. The King gave us strict orders to keep as safe as possible. He would rather have a report on the trouble than our deaths proving that there is trouble.

“Thoronmir and Menecar, what can you tell us? We need specifics on these attacks, and the more recent the better. Right now, that is the place to start.”

Thoronmir nodded. “We have that. Four weeks ago, there was . . .” he paused. “If you have a map I can show you more clearly.”

“Here.” Veryadan rose and extracted his map case from the pile of their gear. He pulled out a roll of parchment and spread it out on the table where the lamp stood.

“This is marvelous!” Thoronmir said.

Veryadan smiled slightly. “It’s by way of being my vocation. Now, tell us when and where everything happened.”

The group gathered around the table as the Rangers recounted the incidents of theft, bloodshed and death that were terrorizing the country.

[Saurreg]

Loudewater continued to stare at the strangers until the very moment, the door to their private room was shut by the female faerie. For a moment there, Loudewater was surprised at how attractive her face was. He turn backed towards the bar top and returned to his meager fare. Prand was still staring at the closed door. Loudewater thought to himself,

Either ‘em strangers are pretty shy folks or they’ve got some business that they want no stray ears or eyes to share…

Like a hulking war galleon, Butterbur II turned from the said shut door and rolled through the floor towards the general direction of the bar (people moved out of his way instinctively because if they don’t, he’ll just mow over them). The fat innkeeper was rubbing his thick hands together in glee and a sly smile was pasted on his bright red round face; he was obviously pleased that one of his expensive private rooms was rented. Butterbur caught sight of Loudewater and smacked his forehead when he remembered that he had yet to serve the farmer his drink.

“I wonder what them strangers are here for? And in such numbers…” asked Prand, as he turned back towards the bar top to join his companion.

“Who cares? I’m more interested to know when they’ll leave.” replied Loudewater untruthfully.

The world works in mysterious ways and Andas Loudewater was experiencing its wash over effects. Something within the farmer’s bosom suddenly stirred as he recollected the coming of the strangers and felt the sensuous air around them. He felt as if an indescribable feeling had just overwhelmed him and he was suddenly inquisitively interested in the newcomers and their business. Annoyance of their unwelcome presence seemed to have dissipated as swiftly as it came.

Something in him snapped. Something else felt unleashed. Liberated.

“Madness!” He uttered beneath his breath. But it was self-denial, a change had come.

“What?” Asked Prand, as he gave Loudewater a wary side glance. The younger man’s voice sounded harsher than he ever heard before and there was a quivering hush to it.

“No, nothing. I said nothing!” Snapped Loudewater curtly, eyes betraying anger, voice cold and harsh. Prand’s query had caught him off guard and he was both embarrassed by his own state of mind and unreasonably annoyed at Prand’s acute hearing. But as soon as the words left his lips, he immediately regretted his outburst.

Prand did not deserve that. Loudewater hated himself.

Prand was taken aback by the sharp reply, he turned back to his tankard and said no more. He had never seen good natured Andy in such a state before and it stunned him.

Lenny Henry pushed his way pass the chairs and tables of the tavern hall, sauntered towards the bar and squeezed himself between Prand and Loudewater uninvited. There wasn’t much space there and a sensible person might have looked for another spot, but good manners and common sense seldom applied to the crass carpenter. Lenny had a smirk on his face this night which probably meant that he had picked up the latest gossip and rumors of town (Prand reckoned that Lenny could give the most nosey and talkative women in town a run for their monies).

“Hey guys, guz what I heard,”

No one rose to the bait. Loudewater continued to dine while Prand sipped on his ale and pretended to read the labels of the wine barrels at the back of the bar. No one liked Lenny much. He had one drink too many already and was reeking of alcohol. Loudewater found himself stuffing more cheese than he would have liked into his mouth just to block out the pungent stench.

Undeterred, the carpenter tried the usual approach. He turned towards Loudewater and eyed him casually from head to feet for a moment, an evil grin forming at the edges of his thin lips,

“Lemme guz, ‘nother tiff with Helga again Low’water? No wait! Yer too spotless to start a fight! She threw yer out of the house? Or did jah run away while yer could, like the good dog you are, with your tail tucked between yer legs?”

Damn you Lenny!

Lenny bursted into a fit of mean sarcastic laughter that made nearby heads turn towards the bar. Picking on Loudewater whenever he could was his usual way of getting attention. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t. But that was ole’ Lenny for you; deriving perverted self satisfaction from other people’s misery. And usually Loudewater would stifle wherever sense of embarrassment and hurt he felt inside and either feign not hearing the jib or laughed along in pretended good-natured ness.

Loudewater’s nostrils flared with irritation, but he said nothing and continued to eat. His teeth clamped hard with each bite and he was clutching the cheap fork harder than he should be. Many a times he wanted to put his foot down and demanded that the insults come to a stop. But his courage had always failed him at that particular moment when it was most needed and Lenny got off unchallenged. That hasn’t changed.

Nothing’s changed.

“Roll down the barrels” ended in applause and whistles of appreciation. A young man spotting a crop of flaming hair yelled for the popular hit “Panic in Gondor” but was deemed out of order. Finally after some hassle back and forth, the good patrons of the Prancing Pony broke into a drunken rendition of “You arn’t nothing but a hound warg”

A humming Butterbur Jr. came back to Loudewater with a greasy tankard of weak ale and cleared his throat loudly so that Lenny would know that he’s being watched. The innkeeper pouted when he noticed the visibly bended folk in Loudewater’s trembling hand but said nothing. Another patron shouted for service and the innkeeper rumbled along towards him.

Disappointed that his provocations had not yielded the desired effects, Lenny shrugged and cleared his voice,

“Whatever… Anyway, as I was saying, big things are happening in the east. ‘Em eastsiders are losing cattle and sheep faster than Butterbur can finish a bowl of cream soup!”

Prand signed and replied patiently, “We know of the missing life stock Lenny. It’s been reported in the weekly town circulars. It’s old news,”

“Yeah, but jah haf no idea the scale of it! We’re talking about entire enclosures, tens of hundreds, of thousands of them! All missing, guard dogs slaughtered in the most gruesome manner, farmers with missing heads. Barns and houses flattened! Makes yer sick in the stomach!”

Lenny. Persistent and prone to exaggeration.

“Then how come it’s not reported in the circulars?” retorted Prand, his interest perked.

“How would I know? Look, you can’t trust those town council and village elder sorts. They’re working in cahoots with that king to swindle us folks. ‘Em bloody bureaucrats!” swore Lenny as he hit the bat top with his clenched fist to emphasis his distain for authorities.

“You’re being unreasonable Lenny. The return of the king was a good thing. Federal taxes are lower than town taxes, I’ve never had so much gold in my purse… Not that there’s a lot to start with anyway. But there’s moderation of the price of corn and crimes have dropped. Life’s good,”

Lenny snorted loudly in a derisive manner, but Prand on a roll was not to be denied,

“This, this missing life stock thing, it’s just a recent development. You saw those rangers? And those newcomers that joined them? I bet Gondor sent them here to deal with it. The king cares. He was after all, one of us.” Prand concluded the last line with a proud smile. He enjoyed reminding people that he met Strider a couple of times during his younger days.

“HA! You Prand, and all yer government trusting sorts. I’m willing to wager that ‘em riders are behind those missing animals and travelers. I dunno, maybe some ploy of Gondor to raise highway taxes or sumthang! Never trust the government!”

Lenny. Paranoid conspiracy theorist.

Loudewater thought that he had heard enough and chuckled slightly to himself at Lenny’s aspersions and foolhardy beliefs. The adversary heard him and spun around for the inevitable confrontation. Loudewater the pacifist jolted a little but pretended not to notice the bigger man, and glued his eyes to the table, preparing for the inevitable.

Nothing’s changed.

“What’s that Low’water? You’ve got something to say? You’ve got a problem with me?” challenged Lenny in his characteristically bullying tone when dealing with the gentle farmer.

“Leave him alone Lenny!” ordered Prand. He was still icy after Loudewater snapped at him. But he wasn’t about to allow the insulting to go on.

Loudewater’s pupils dilated and his face blushed due to the accelerated flow of blood through his arteries and the quickened breathing. Anger was mounting within him and that was not all; the same emotion he felt earlier after he saw the strangers had resurfaced. The same sensation that made him lost his head and snap at Prand.

A change was coming.

For a moment he said nothing and continued to push the food on his plate around with the fork. He reached for his tankard and took a long sip.

“Yeah, that’s it, isn’t it? Laugh behind my back and pretend not to notice me when I’m talking to you… You’re gutless Low’water! You know that? And you know what? I’m willing to bet Helga’s got more guts that you do! I’m willing to bet that whenever you get lit’ troubles like this, you go running home to dah missus for protection!”

A change had come.

Lenny was about to continue but his words died in his mouth and his black eyes bulged in surprise when loudewater turned speedily towards him, dull eyes now wide opened, steely sharp and ablaze with fire, lips quivering uncontrollably and trembling hands clenched into vein-popped fists - the bended fork snapped into two and clattered onto the floorboards. The farmer’s breathing was now heavy and ragged, chest heaving and his shoulders rose up and down. His entire body was shaking like a coiled spring waiting to be released.

Lenny was caught unprepared and staggered backwards into an equally shocked Prand who had never seen Loudewater in such a state before. But just as quickly as it came, the sensation and all anger within Loudewater dissipated. The farmer convulsed and sucked in a long breath, his eyes were still wide but they were dull again. Disbelief and embarrassment of his own audacity now filled his head.

Without a word of courteous leave-taking, Loudewater leapt off his stool and mad his way to the exit, this time elbowing and shoving harder than required. The predictable yelps and torrent of curses filled the tavern air.

[Envinyatar]

Veryadan

Veryadan spread a delicately thin layer of parchment over the map he’d placed on the table, securing it with four small, round, sand-packed leather weights. The dark, thick lines and letters he’d used on the original showed through clearly enough, and he took out his quill and ink, quickly sketching in a rough outline of the areas and a hasty scribble of each place name. Taking his place at the top of the map, he asked the two other Rangers to stand opposite him.

‘Now show us, if you will, where the attacks have been reported – and what sort of attack it was, and when each occurred if you have that information. I’ll mark them in as you go along, and we’ll see if any pattern emerges.

The room was hushed save for the murmurings of the two Rangers as they conferred with one another. A finger would then reach out to tap the parchment lightly. Veryadan marked each with a small ‘X’, then put a few abbreviated notes alongside each . . .

[Envinyatar]

Fen Sheperdspurse

The Elves and those nosey rangers had left the common room, the man from Rohan following behind. Gone down the hall to one of the fancy rooms. Fen watched them as they left, and waited patiently for a few moments to see that none would return. With the ease of one used to oozing quietly from one place to another, he slid up to the bar, landing close to the hallway the companions had gone down. Fen nodded casually to the man standing next to him, offering to stand him a drink. He’d jostled the man as he’d leaned in against the bar, and he wanted no trouble. Fen was waiting for old Butterbur’s son to have his attention occupied, then he intended to sneak down the hallway to hear what he might.

A trio of Bree men near him caught his interest with their loud talk. He sidled a little closer, leaned in on the bar, and cocked his ear toward the group. The din in the room rose and fell, allowing him only snatches of the conversation.

“ ‘Em eastsiders are losing cattle and sheep faster than Butterbur can finish a bowl of cream soup!”

Fen hid a smirk at this declaration, nodding his head slightly at the truth of it..

“We know of the missing life stock Lenny . . .” his companion remarked in an impatient tone.

“Yeah, but jah haf no idea the scale of it! We’re talking about entire enclosures, tens of hundreds, of thousands of them! All missing, guard dogs slaughtered in the most gruesome manner, farmers with missing heads. Barns and houses flattened! Makes yer sick in the stomach!”

‘You’ve no idea how sick it would make you if you knew the whole story,’ thought Fen, relishing the fact that he was lucky enough to be ‘in’ on it.

An argument broke out at a table by the fireplace, causing Fen to miss the next few patches of conversation at the bar. By the time things had quieted, Prand was speaking again.

“This, this missing life stock thing, it’s just a recent development. You saw those rangers? And those newcomers that joined them? I bet Gondor sent them here to deal with it. The king cares. He was after all, one of us.”

Fen spluttered into his mug as he tried to take a drink. He hadn’t made the connection himself . . . and now here was this other fellow making it for him. The Rangers and Elves weren’t just passing through. They were here to nose around in his boss’ business. Well, that wouldn’t do! Fen had plans for retiring to his own comfy little place once he collected enough coin to see himself comfortable. The Boss would need to hear about this development.

The Innkeeper had gone over to see to the argument at the fireplace. Fen slipped away from the bar and down the lamplit hallway. He doused the lights as he went, drawing near to the room where his quarry was gathered. The door was shut, locked in fact – he’d tried the latch ever so slightly and met resistance. Something scraped near the door and he leapt for the darkness of an open, empty room . . .

[Meneltarmacil]

"Four weeks ago, we started hearing reports of livestock disappearing in the area just east of Bree, which was somewhat disturbing considering the fact that the area had been completely quiet for almost twenty years. At first I put it down to increased numbers of wolves and other predators, but when people started disappearing we knew it had to be more than that. I sent out a scouting party two weeks ago, but there hasn't been any word from them since. It's a good thing you got that message I sent." said Thoronmir.

Veryadan spread a delicately thin layer of parchment over the map he’d placed on the table, securing it with four small, round, sand-packed leather weights. The dark, thick lines and letters he’d used on the original showed through clearly enough, and he took out his quill and ink, quickly sketching in a rough outline of the areas and a hasty scribble of each place name. Taking his place at the top of the map, he asked the two other Rangers to stand opposite him.

‘Now show us, if you will, where the attacks have been reported – and what sort of attack it was, and when each occurred if you have that information. I’ll mark them in as you go along, and we’ll see if any pattern emerges.

The room was hushed save for the murmurings of the two Rangers as they conferred with one another. A finger would then reach out to tap the parchment lightly. Veryadan marked each with a small ‘X’, then put a few abbreviated notes alongside each. The map eventually showed several points on the map, mostly between Bree and the Greyflood.

"I think their most likely base of operations would be at Weathertop." Veryadan pointed to the hill that was almost dead center of the attack sites on the map.

"The attacks appear to be spreading out farther and farther out," Menecar observed.

"If kept unchecked, they could threaten the Angle, Rivendell, Annuminas, and our own base of operations in Evendim." Thoronmir added. "Aidwain and Silrûth, I believe you are both from Rivendell," he said to the elves. "How far into the Trollshaws would you say they have come?"