The Yule Log RPG

[Koobdooga]

Koobdooga's post -- Egil

Egil raised a hand in welcome when Wenda entered. His deepset eyes glittered in appraisal of the sack she’d slung to the floor. One hand slid down to pat the sack couched beside his chair.

The Glitterfist Hall had been busy these past few months. Beneath the western tip of the Iron Hills their forges had belched out great clouds of smoke and their hammers had rung out against the metals used in the making of fabulous toys. Set with glittering gems in the whorls of enameled color and the cleverest of mechanisms, the bright creations would whirr and twirl and move about at the turn of a key. They were much prized by the men of this northern area. And those who could make the trading price bought them to be handed down to their children and to their children’s children.

Already, Egil had delivered a small creation, egg-shaped and golden, to the mayor of the town. Set with rubies about its middle, it twirled slowly at the key’s turning on its red enameled base, blossoming open like a flower to reveal the tiny figure of a huntsman all in gold as he gave the death blow to a great, tusked boar with his stout stave.

The Dwarf chuckled to himself, recalling how proud the mayor was of the kill last year, and wanted something to recall it to mind for his future generations. His good-wife, on the other hand, was desirous of something pretty. And as their purse would not stretch to cover two toys, a compromise had been struck.

He pulled his chair nearer to the great fireplace as the others gathered about the steaming urn, stowing his sack carefully out of the way beneath it. Taking the offered mug, he raised it to Goody, and gave her an encouraging nod. ‘Go on then, Gran,’ he said. ‘Tell us your story from the days gone by.’

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Undómë’s post -- Old Goody's tale

Well, then, this is how it was told to me by my Gran, and she got it from hers, and hers before her, and back to that first daughter who spoke the tale. And so it must be true . . .

She saw from the corner of her eye how the Halfling who’d spoken of his granda’s story nodded his head, ‘yes’, at her words.

When the world was young, great stands of trees covered much of it. Beeches and poplar, ash and oak, and the evergreen firs and pines that thrive here in this cold land. And many, many more of their cousins, short and tall; fat and thin.

Beneath the trees and in the glades between the stands, the forest floors were covered with a riot of flowers and tangles of bushes bearing berries or flowers themselves. We two-legged creatures had not walked much in the vastness of these forests; it was the birds and beasts who made the trees and underbrush their home.

Now far, far into the west, it was said, there is a great Lady who loves the growing of things. Large and small, they are all her province, it is said. And some say, though Her lips had not the telling of it, that she sent creatures of her own design to care for her forests and her gardens.

Great, tall beings. Brown limbed and lithe; clad in green and grey bark; their chins covered with twiggy, bushy beards. Dark brown eyes they had, deep wells of brown shot with a green light. They keep off strangers and the foolhardy. They train and teach and walk and weed. Herders of the trees; wanderers in the mountains and the valleys and the plains where the trees grow. They keep them safe, as they can. Still do, though it’s said the number of their kind grows less.

She looked at the Dwarf and then round the others in the room.

‘Woe to the one who takes axe or fire to Tree-walkers’ flock. He might find himself snatched up by long brown fingers and the air squeezed out of him, til his eyes pop and heart goes still. Or crushed under a great seven-toed foot, down down into the ground. For the worms and such to feed on.

She cackled at the expressions on her listeners’ faces. ‘We should all be grateful as the Green Man has gifted us this tree,’ she said, throwing another piece of holly into the heart of the blaze.

Her gaze drifted to the glowing embers beneath the flames.

‘I saw’un once,’ she murmured low. ‘Oh, not the great tall walkers. A pretty little thing, she was. Cheeks as red and full as any apple as ever grew. Soft, white flowers in her silky yellow hair. It was early of a morning, at my granny’s hut. Late spring, too. With the dog-tooth violets just coming into bloom beneath the apple tree at the edge of the herb garden. Milking the nanny is what I was about. And I saw her, with my two good eyes back then, as I started for the goat shed. She was humming to herself. And first I thought there was bees about. But it was her. A pleased sort of humming. And she bent right over the edge of my gran’s garden and ran her long, thin fingers through the plants as were just bushing out. She looked up and caught me looking right at her and trying to be still as ever I could. Quick as a wink she took herself off.

‘Well, you can bet I took myself off, too, ran fast as my short legs’d carry me to tell gran what I’d seen. She weren’t surprised in the least. Just said I’d seen her ‘visitor’. Like it was the most everyday thing as could happen. “She likes my garden,” gran told me. “Comes to weed it when she can. And she stirs the plants.”

‘ “Stirs the plants?” I asked.

‘ “Wakes ‘em up a bit. Sorts ‘em out and tell’s ‘em what they need to know to grow to suit her. Has her own ideas about such things. Most particular.”

‘Anyways, at was all she’d say about it. And I never saw the pretty little lady again. Still . . . always tried to keep my herbs all in order and growing good in my own garden. Just in case, you know . . .’

Old Goody’s voice trailed off, and she seemed to fall in on herself once again. The Yule log crackled and popped, an ember flying out onto the hearth. She roused herself enough to shoo it back in where it belonged.

[piosenniel]

The stubby tailed, brown mouse of a bird, a winter’s wren, flitted from branch to gate post to eave of the ramshackle shed, finally coming to rest on the rim of the old oak bucket that sat by the smoldering trash heap. He ruffled his feathers, fluffing out against the cold night and hopped from foot to foot. Across the smoldering heap he could see the other birds and beasts who’d come to claim their place by the small fire’s warmth for the night.

His bright black eyes took in the gathering and a rich, fife-like piping rose from his throat, trilling up with the rising smoke. He was glad to be here, though uncertain what had brought him from his nest in the rotted log near the stream. Something had called him, he was sure of it; lifted him from the dark night’s torpor as he snuggled warmly in his nest of leaves and twigs and bits of fluff got from the summer’s cattails. Something . . .

Flitting the short way to the ground, he ran mouselike toward the edge of the mound where the embers burned the brightest. ‘Look!’ he cried. The sound of his voice caught in a semblance of words surprised him. An otter lifted his sleek-furred head and grinned at him, as if he understood.

‘Look!’ he went on, his left wing pointing to the pulsing heart of the coals. ‘There are pictures moving in the fire.’

[Bêthberry]

The first night passed without incident, all yet merry with the thoughts of the festivities. Most of the guests stayed up to hear Goody's tale and were rewarded with more than a quiver down their spine. Yet, as the night drew on, most slowly wended their way towards their rooms, which the Innkeeper had warmed with hot stones in their beds. Goody and a few others remained to keep the Yule Log burning but Carr had been among those who sought sleep. Time enough later he decided to sit with the tellers.

And so the morn brought work, clearing out the kitchen fires and rekindling them, helping Cook prepare the breads and stews and pies by bringing up supplies from the larder, no easy task given his leg. Each year at this time it ached and he remembered Yules past.

He sprinkled the embers out on the pile where yesterday's rubbage had been burned and noticed the tracks around it, most of which he recognised. Aye! Let all animals take community in these dark nights that welcome a new year. He heard a short, sharp chirp. A wren was it? Carr looked up and saw a snowy owl perched atop the shed. Maybe with these around other creatures more fey would stay away.

With that he returned to the Inn, offerring Goody a heaping plate of breakfast buns and cheeses, some eggs and sausages and gut stuffing, a steaming cup of coffee. A reward of free breakfast for each teller! The first watch had passed and the log burned brightly. Would Good stay to tell more? He couldn't remember how her tale had ended.... sleepy old man that he was.

[Nerindel]

He heard it again a harsh rasping sound within the concealment of the trees, attempting unsuccessfully to mimic the whisper of the wind through the swaying bare branches of the oak and the yew. Three times now he had heard it and again he turned, his sharp eyes searching futilely for a source, but again nothing! It was there, what ever it was, watching, waiting, he could feel it. Cracked dry lip’s curled in distain as he shot a warning glare into the dawn shadows of the trees.

“Who or what ever evil haunts this place would be well advised to come no further and trouble not those beyond, least they wish to feel the sharp bite of Mandur’mak! (Hell’s sword)” His gruff voice echoed a moment before being swallowed up by the renewed howling of the harsh winds.

“Now if that name doesn’t drive the fear of Eru into what ever lingers hither, perhaps knowing who wields it may?” A soft melodic voice whispered.

A vibrant young woman wrapped in artic bear furs stepped out of the shadows behind the dark clad stranger, The first wisp’s of fresh white snow landing on dark brown curls. He did not mark her appearance with any undue surprise, for in fact he had known her to be there for sometime, shadowing his advance towards this sleepy snow covered village.

“Arato, ‘The eternal’, wielder of Hell’s sword,” she went on coming to his left shoulder and running a leather gloved hand long the pommel and hilt of the sword that hung ever ready at his side. “ Sworn to Serve and Protect the lands and it’s people from the denizens of the dark, to send them to the void where they belong and to ensure they never return!” He said nothing in reply his gaze still fixed on the shadow filled forest , but he had heard every word though it meant nothing to him, not like it once had.

“Penitent soul? cursed warrior? heroic fool?” She smiled sympathetically as she came to stand before him, her green eye sparkling like emeralds as they found his.

“All and none” he smiled back wistfully, “all and none” he repeated raising a dark gloved hand to touch her pale cheek.

“I thank the Valar that you came,” she sighed, closing her eyes as she nestled her cheek in his hand recalling the warmth of his touch.

“Well do not waste your thanks, they have nothing to do with my decision to come!” Arato huffed, pulling his hand suddenly away. “You know as well as I that they sit protected and safe from the hardships of this world and do nothing to aid in the struggles of mortal men, I want not and need not of them let the elves worship them if they will but men make there own fate and are influenced by none but themselves!” his reply was sharp and betrayed more than a little bitterness that stung at the young woman’s heart.

She was not elven herself , but had been raised by them and had taken their beliefs as her own, she did what they did out of love for the world created for them by Illuvatar and the Valar, too protect that which was given them. Maranwe the elves had named her telling her that it meant destiny, for those elves believed that nothing happened with out purpose and that they had been destined to find her.

But Arato was different and Maranwe believed he no longer knew for what purpose he fought, he had lost much and was marred by the evils he had see and faced and it was for this purpose that she had begged him to met her here. That she may once more remind him why they do what they do.

“Hush let us not speak of such things, the Yule log is lit and must be kept, there is drink to be drunk and Tales to be told,” she smiled her hand gently finding his, he did not look at her but continued to look out into the darkness for sign’s of what lingered beyond his sight.

“If I stand here any longer, I shall freeze!” she laughed lightly stamping her feet on the soft wet snow in an attempt to warm them.

“What ever is out there can wait, if it has not run off already, look a new day is born… Please Arato will you not see the turning of the year with me!” She concluded as he finally turned to face her.

“The Yule? has a year really passed already? He whispered half to himself, shaking his head in mild surprise.

“My Lady I would be delighted to spend the Yule tide with you, if you are sure you can endure my company that long?” he then grinned holding out his free arm for her to take. With a shake of her head and a smile of her own she took his arm and together they took the last few feet to stand before the door of the green man free house.

Holding forth the door Arato let the lady enter before him, then leaning his staff by the door , he graciously helped her out of her cloak, his marred hands fumbling briefly with the clasp, before slipping it from her shoulders and turning to hang it from a peg by the door. He was astounded to turn and see that she wore not the leathers and forest garb to which he had become accustom but a fine gown of festive red velvet that hugged her waist elegantly and gave her a beauty that till now he had never noticed.

She grinned at him knowingly and indicated a small table close to the fire, near to where others where gathered, he nodded his agreement and continued to watch her as she walked towards the small group, then chuckling within his hood he noted that she still wore her boots under the long skirts of the fine garment, the boots that he knew concealed the daggers that had save their lives on more than one occasion.

“You can take the girl out of the warrior but not the warrior out of the girl” he chuckled to himself removing his own cloak and hanging it next to Maranwe’s. His Dark hair was peppered with grey and his careworn face was marked by three deep scars running side by side down his left cheek and neck, but he thought nothing of it as he moved to join Maranwe who was now speaking with what look like the innkeeper of the establishment, enquiring if they were yet too early for breakfast and a tankard or two of mead.

[Child of the 7th Age]

The great owl who'd been perched on a bough, high above the assembly, glanced down at the wren and heard him speak. As if in response, the owl spread out his snowy wings and glided to the earth, standing almost at the edge of the firepit. The bird's tone, though solemn, was not unkindly as he turned to address the wren and the others in the circle. His speech, like that of the other animals, was not the common tongue used by Man, but the ancient language of the Elves that some call Quenyan. In his snowy plumage, the owl looked much like a wizard with billowing white robes.

"Has not your mother told you the tale?" the owl gently chastised the wren. "On this, the longest night of the year, when the Yule log crackles on the hearth, all the creatures of the field and woods come together and speak the old tongue, the father of all words. And strange pictures leap out of the dying flames to remind us creatures of what we must do tonight."

A small rabbit rushed to the front of the crowd, breaking loose from his mother's stern grasp, and ran over to where the embers smoldered, his voice laced with wonder, "I see a picture. I do see it. There are wonderful trees dancing in the flames.....apple and cherry trees, I do believe." He glanced over shyly at the owl and asked, "But what does this mean?"

"Do they teach nothing to children these days?" The owl grumbled under his breath. Out loud he said, "But this is the night when the earth comes alive. We must go wassailing and sing to the trees so they will bring forth blooms in the spring and then the sweet fruit."

Just at this moment, a line of fruit trees sitting just outside the courtyard of the Inn began waving their branches and leaning far over the fence as if calling out for a song. The owl piped up and began his verse:

Oh lily white lily your lily white pin,
Please to come out & let us come in.
Lily your lily your lily white smock’
Please to come out & pull back the lock.

A great bear lumbered up pushing a gigantic barrell that had been left at the cellar door, which was filled with last fall's cider. He sat down squarely on the cask and broke open the wood casing so the cider ran out in pools. Quickly, the animals scampered forward to drink and soon all were singing quite loudly and just a bit off key:

Our wassail, jolly wassail
And joy come to our jolly wassail
How well they may bloom, how well they may bear
So that we may have apples and cider next year.
Oh master and mistress oh are you within?
Please to come out and pull back the pin

There was an old farmer and he had an old cow,
wanted to milk her but didn’t know how.
He put his old cow down in an old barn,
and a little more cider won’t do us no harm.

Harm me boys harm, harm me boys harm,
and a little more cider won’t do us no harm.

The girt dog of Langport, he burnt his long tail,
And this is the night we go singing Wassail,
O Master and missus oh we must be gone,
We invoke Varda's blessing 'til we come again.

Oh the ringles and the jingles
and the tenor of the song go: merrily
Merrily, merrily, oh the tenor of the song goes: Merrily

Hatfulls, capfulls, three bushel bagfulls
and a little heap under the stars.

Hip hip hooray!

[piosenniel]

‘Here’s one for the mossy-bearded apple tree!’ chirped the little wren. He’d found the ale to his liking and had managed to down his fair share. He puffed out his breast feathers in the pale morning light and trilled a merry tune.

Oh apple tree, we'll wassail thee
And hoping thou wilt bear
For who might know where we may go
To be merry another year

To grow well and to bear well
And so merrily let us be
Let every creature down his drink
And ‘was hael’ to the old apple tree
Brave lads, and a health to the old apple tree

The ancient apple tree beyond the gate rattled its sere leaves and banged a branch or two against the wooden fence. The wren flew tipsily to the tree’s branches and danced along the length of a bare limb. Others of the animals gathered took up the singing, all of them feeling exceptionally merry, if not a little fuddled in their thinking.

His head reeling a bit from the long night without rest and the good ale, the wren gave the old tree a last bow and flew up to one of the shuttered windows at the back of the Inn. There was a small knothole, just big enough for him to crawl into and begin to tuck his addled head beneath one wing. The inner shutters were latched tight and he leaned his body heavily against them.

The sounds of voices in the room beyond barely reached his sinking consciousness. But, all of a sudden the inner shutters were pulled open and his drowsing form tumbled inward. He landed clumsily on a dark blue robe folded neatly on the bench beneath the window. Above him stood a tall man, looking down the length of his nose at the poor bird. And just beyond the one man was another, just as tall, all wrapped in his bed sheets and peering at the wren with a questioning look on his face.

‘Begging your pardon, sirs,’ the wren managed to tweet out. His head was aching now from the fall. He yawned widely, an incongruous act for one with a beak to manage. He fluffed out his feathers and looked blearily at the two large creatures. The room was nice and warm. With another large yawn he fell to his side on the soft material, and began to snore . . .

[Envinyatar]

Mori paced about the small room; the only light in the darkness of the early morning, a candle. And it near burnt down to the plate it stood on. Stamo groaned and pulled the quilts over his head. He was tired of hearing his companion’s voice . . .

First it had been about the story the old woman had told. Mori had sat straight up on the straw filled mattress and said quite firmly, ‘I knew it!’ Stamo had sighed and propped himself up on one elbow, knuckling the tiredness from his eyes. ‘Knew what?’

While Stamo’s dreams had fled eastward to the rugged steppes and wide landscapes in which he now moved with ease, Mori’s had flown west and he began to talk about the Lady there. A Lady both of them knew quite well. She was a sister to their patron’s wife. ‘Do you remember,’ Mori had said, quite pleased with himself. ‘She made an entreaty, that her beloved trees have some who might watch over them. I’m sure those are the very creatures the old woman and that Halfling spoke of.’

Wishing to return to sleep, Stamo mumbled some affirmative that indeed it must be so. And wasn’t it clever of Mori to have put the pieces together. He was just easing himself back onto his pillow, when he felt his companion jostle him on the shoulder. ‘What’s that now?’ Mori whispered, getting up from the bed. Stamo could hear him fumbling about in the darkness, and then the quick, sudden light of the candle dispelled any hope of further sleep.

‘Best you not be doing that trick outside this small room’s walls,’ Stamo chided him. ‘These Northern men may mistake it for some shadow-craft.’ He sat up groggily on the edge of the bed and gathered the quilts about him for warmth. There were muffled sounds coming from beyond their shuttered window. Singing they thought, down in the courtyard their room overlooked, at the back of the inn. An odd assortment of noises, too. Not just off key in a drunken sort of way, but gruff in a way, and growling at times. And at others as high and light as the voice of some sweet tongued bird. Accompanying it were scratchings and scufflings as of branches scraping against wood in the wind or the heavy-footed steps of some large creature as it tried to move in time to the song.

‘It’s only some who’ve been awake all night,’ Stamo said. ‘Still singing; their bellies full of ale. There’s naught to be concerned about.’

‘Then they must have come while we were sleeping. And why are they standing about in the back yard of the inn and even more curious, how is it that they’re drunk?’ Mori looked expectantly at Stamo, who had lost his friend’s line of reasoning long ago. ‘The Elves,’ said Mori, to the further confusion of Stamo. ‘Who else do we know who speak Quenya?’

Mori’s hands were now on the latch that held closed the inner shutters of their window. Stamo had risen, too, curious now about his friend’s statements. He’d wrapped the top quilt from the bed about him in an attempt to keep away the cold. His eyes went wide at the small feathered form that fell in with a plop! onto his folded robe as Mori pulled the shutters open. And even more his surprise when the tiny wren opened his beak and made excuses for his sudden entrance.

‘The bird is talking!’ Stamo stuttered his gaze fixed on the now snoring form.

‘And quite drunk, by the smell of him,’ Mori added, his nose wrinkling at the sour odor of old ale upon the wren’s feathers. ‘Get dressed,’ he went on, scooping the inert form into his large hand. He tucked it carefully into the sleeve of his robe and motioned for Stamo to follow him down stairs.

The two made their way out of doors and round to the back of the inn. The trees about the area looked all in their place and round the warmth of the refuse heap were a few small animals poking about for scraps, or just huddling near the warmth of the coals. An overturned barrel lay near a broken down shed, empty of the ale it once held. And there, on the spine of the shack’s tattered roof, perched a snowy white owl, his great golden eyes staring at the two tall men who were just entering the courtyard proper.

‘Greetings, my friends!’ Mori called out gently in Quenya to the curious assembly. There were scuffling sounds as if others lurked in the shadows about the yard or beyond the yard among the trees. He scooped the still sleeping form of the wren from within his sleeve and held it out on his palm. The poor little bird appeared dead, so still was he. ‘Are you missing one of your number, perhaps?’