Wilderness, Weathertop, & Wild Things RPG

[Saurreg]

A faint reddish hue tinted the night sky, but the clouds were smooth on the underside. There were no rumbling of thunder or bouts of lightning flashes within the wispy cotton nimbuses. There would be no storm tonight, not even a heavy downpour. The evening was turning out to be an anti-climax despite the cloud built-up during dusk.

Loudewater bursted through the door of the Prancing Pony and barely came to a stop at the middle of the dirt road. He was breathless with amazement and had to bend down with his arms propped against his kneecaps to catch his breath and allow the blood to flow to his head. Nausea came but he did not feel the urge to heave. As the farmer continued to breathe heavily and stare at the ground, he espied his old dagger dangling by the left side of his leather belt and froze in terror.

It would have been so easy for him to simply reach down, unsheathe the blade and slash Lenny across the neck, had he felt the dagger during his moment of temporal insanity at the bar…

Morbid realization sent shivers down the farmer’s frame and he suddenly felt the urge to make water. The lavatory of the Prancing Pony was behind the establishment, whereas he was standing in front of it. Loudewater felt immensely irritated by his inconvenient location and he was reluctant to walk around the huge complex or worse, reenter the serving hall where he had just committed his self exodus.

Nature’s call persisted and Loudewater’s temper augmented. He was irritated both by the discomfort of his bladder and the shameful state he was in. Face distorting hideously, he emitted a harsh low growl and kicked at the dirt, fashioning a small cloud of dirt and sand in the night air.

The imp of perversion and his sidekick, the pixie of irrationality paid a visit again. Loudewater’s eyes flashed with mad mischief and he bellowed,

“I AM ANDAS LOUDEWATER! A REAL MAN! RULES OF PATHETIC TOWN FROGS DON’T APPLY TO ME! I’LL MAKE WATER WHEN EVER I WANT! WHERE EVER I WANT! ARRRAAGH!”

The farmer then proceeded to untie the drawstrings of his trousers right where he stood, but his fingers were clumsy with adrenaline and complicated the knot even further. The more he struggled, the tighter the knot went. Loudewater was in such a desperate state of exasperation that he found himself clenching his teeth and literally hopping around like a great ape in heat.

The world worked in mysterious ways. Sometimes it drove normal men to the brink of unexplainable insanity and sometimes it was compassionately kind to said men. In this case, it decided to spare Loudewater the blushes and embarrassment of potential memories. An icy night wind blew and its cold touch washed over the maniacal farmer, who immediately became still. He tilted his head thoughtfully, cursed a little under his breath and then toddled into a dark dingy alley (well sheltered from the elements) between the inn and another mason building to relief himself.

After he was done, the farmer found himself unable or rather, unwilling to leave the dark recesses of the deserted pathway. Loudewater’s legs gave way and he fell heavily onto his own filth. He drew his knees together, rolled his shoulders so that he was in a fetal position and wept silently to himself…

[Esgallhugwen]

After Silrûth had closed the shutters she sat back down on the stool, moving it closer to the table. All of them had huddled closer together, watching as "X's" were inked onto a thin parchment paper, the places of stolen livestock and other violent happenings.

The fair golden haired Elf could not help but be bothered by the beady stare of a haggard old man that preceded their meeting, she was often distracted by the noises outside but kept a close ear to what the Ranger's were discussing.

"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?"

Silrûth looked at him, "too far for my liking", she gazed coldly at the markings on the map showing a widening range of attacks and thefts. She added to her partner by saying, "though the attacks are not based out of the Trollshaws, it is quite obvious on my scouting missions that the Trolls are indeed migrating from that region, something is giving them the confidence to move out from their refuge, while something else is moving in, orcs and such no doubt, the trees have ways of telling me".

She could not hide the hatred in her deep grey eyes, but she remained calm and smiled warmly at the Ranger's, one of whom was peering over the group about to reveal further locations, Silrûth believed his name to be Menecar.

“Could you come over here and tell us where some of the attacks happened?” asked Veryadan

“Sure, I would love to.”

But before he could continue Silrûth interrupted as politely as she could, "pardon my asking, but do any of you have any speculations as to what may be causing these disturbances, some sole force must be behind all of this, Orcs are not very independent and Trolls are far too feebleminded for well thought out attacks".

[Envinyatar]

Fen Sheperdspurse

His heart thumped so loudly in his chest he thought for certain the Elves would hear him. Fen stood in the darkness of the room across the way from the secret meeting. He’d flattened his back against the wall just inside the door, closed his eyes, and stopped his ragged breathing as best he could. ‘1,2,3,4, . . .’ he said slowly. Fen counted slowly to twenty, then opened one eye at a time and took a deep breath. No one had come looking for the source of the shaken door handle.

He snaked his head around the doorframe – the door to the room across the hall was still shut; no one he could see was lingering in the hall. Pulling his raggedy cloak about him, Fen made himself as small as possible and slunk quickly down the hall. He kept to the shadows as he made his way through the Common Room and hurried out the door.

Someone, at the end of the lane, had tied his horse to a convenient tree, avoiding the few pennies it would cost to stable the steed at the Inn. Fen reached out his grubby hand and rubbed the horse’s nose, speaking quietly to the beast. ‘Come now, my friend. I have use of you for the night. I’ll have you back before your cheapskate owner ahs downed his last mug.’

Untying the horse quickly, he mounted, and gave him a few sharp kicks in the flanks, urging him away from the Inn. He was bound for his usual meeting place with the boss’ representative, or so he called himself . . . now what was that throat-clearing name again . . . ah yes, Gráthgrob . . .

[Nuranar]

"Pardon my asking, but do any of you have any speculations as to what may be causing these disturbances? Some sole force must be behind all of this, Orcs are not very independent and Trolls are far too feebleminded for well thought out attacks."

Tarondo was studying the map over Veryadan's shoulder when Silrûth spoke. He spoke answered without looking up. "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."

"I will tell Butterbur that we want to hear the stories," Thoronmir volunteered.

"He will have plenty to tell himself," laughed Luinien. "Beware!"

"He will tell others also," said Veryadan. "More will come forward; everyone loves to spread news of disaster. And we can find survivors, too. Their accounts will be most useful."

"If there are any," Alaksoron said gloomily.

Tarondo shot him a glance, then nodded and went on. "Very well, I think that is sufficient for tonight. And" - he halted them for a moment - "do not reveal that we are sent by the King, unless it is unavoidable. I do not see any good that would come of that information spreading throughout the countryside." After the companions agreed, they dispersed to rest for the remainder of the night.

[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 . . .

[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?’