The Yule Log RPG

[Child of the 7th Age]

"Let go of him, you brute. That's my friend. What have you done? Let go, I say."

In a single instant, before the owl or any of the more senior creatures could properly respond to the tall figure in the sweeping robes, a sparrow had fluttered into the middle of the circle and landed on Mori's left shoulder. The tiny creature squawked his indignation and began pecking at whatever lay hidden under the folds of the robe. The sparrow seemed singularly intent on rescuing his young friend from what he perceived as certain doom.

"Enough! Enough!" blustered the Owl. "We have distinguished guests, and this is the way you treat them?" He glared over at the sparrow, until the little bird cowered, trembling under the stern gaze. Then the Owl continued in a gentler voice, "Your friend is fine. He will wake soon enough. He has had a drop too much from the cask."

The Owl hooted out an order or two, and four mice scurried over from the edge of the courtyard, carrying soft grass and leaves in their mouths, piling these on top of a rocky crag to make a snug nest for the sleeping wren. "He will be fine there for a moment," the Owl explained, as Mori deposited the bird in the tiny bed. "and you, sparrow, may keep an eye on him."

The Owl waited for the tall figure to rise from the ground, and then turned towards him, nodding his head in a respectful manner. "You speak the old tongue." Owl noted with surprize. "I do not believe we have ever met but I have heard tales of men from ages past who possessed great power and knowledge. Perhaps you and your friends belong to such an order? My cousin Archimedes was privy to one who was clad in brown robes. This two-legged often spoke with the creatures of the woodlands and the plains. He seemed to know all their ways and tongues. It was quite extraordinary. And, oh, the stories he could tell..... 'Twas enough to warm the heart even on the coldest night."

Owl sighed and hung his head. Then he stared over at Mori and mumbled under his breath, speaking as much to himself as the two visitors, "Perhaps you would be willing.... Yes, that is a fine idea, though I shouldn't impose. Still, it seems a pity to pass up such a chance without at least asking....."

Raising his head again, the Owl now addressed Mori directly, "You wouldn't happen to know any stories now? Perhaps a tale or two that would be good for a day such as this when the shadows hang long over the earth?"

There were sounds of approval from every corner of the courtyard as birds and beasts, sometimes at odds with one another, but now nestled close together to share the warmth of their bodies, were hoping to hear a tale.

[Envinyatar]

‘He speaks of the one the Lady sent,’ Stamo whispered to his companion. ‘I wonder if any of the others have been seen by them? It would be good to know how they fare . . .’ He fell quiet as Mori cleared his throat, cutting off that line of thought.

‘Come,’ Mori said, inviting Stamo to sit down beside him. ‘Let’s hunker down closer to the embers with these new friends of ours.’ Two large rounds from the old oak that had been cut for firewood were pushed over by the bear. ‘Your chairs,’ he growled. He gave the two men a toothy smile and sat down quite near them. He loved stories, of any kind, and would often let an unfortunate animal or bird escape his sharp-nailed paws if they offered up a story he hadn’t heard before.

Now Stamo loved to gather stories, too. And Mori, when the animals were sitting quietly, nodded at him to begin.

‘We’ve come from lands far east of here,’ Stamo began. ‘And there the men still tell stories of the animals and their ways. And many of the tales, they assure me, are true ones from the long-ago time . . . when men and animals still spoke freely with each other.’ He settled in comfortably and leaned forward, his gaze sweeping the audience. ‘Now here is one about a foolish hunter and the mouse who undid his foolish deed.’

There were squeaks and chatterings from the four mice who had brought straw for the wren’s little nest. They pushed to the front of the group and sat huddled together; their bright black eyes fixed on the storyteller.

There was once a large village full of very clever people. One day, one of the men, a clever hunter, told his family that he was going out to set some snares. And so he did – working late into the evening to set them all. It was dark, dark night when he returned to his tent. He filled his belly with hot gruel and buttered tea and went off to his bed. Pulling the thick furs over him for warmth he dropped deep into dreaming, smiling in his sleep at all the animals he would find in his traps. ‘Food and furs,’ he could be heard to murmur from his greedy dreams.

The next day, it was time for daylight but no daylight came. The village people knew something was wrong. The sun did not come up. It stayed dark. The clever hunter who had set snares the day before shrugged his shoulders at the dark and said, "I will go and look for my snares anyway. Maybe I got something in my snares." So, he set out in the dark.

When he came to one of his snares, he said to himself, "Yes, I did get something in my snare!" He saw that he had caught the sun in his snare! Now, how could he free the sun? It was too hot to go cut the snare where the sun was caught, so the hunter went back to the village people.

"What happened," he said to them," is that I caught the sun in my snare. That is why the sun cannot come up."

The villagers called a meeting, and everyone was asked to come. Even the animals and birds were called to the meeting. Everyone was told that someone had to go and free the sun.

Well, there was one particular mouse who was there. And this mouse was a very big mouse. He was the biggest animal of all those gathered . . .

‘Yes, even bigger than you,’ Mori answered, as the bear looked up with a frown on his face.

. . . And, anyway, this mouse was asked if he was willing to free the sun. He also had very, very sharp teeth, you see, and he would have to chew the snare wire to free the sun.

"Okay," said the big mouse, "I will go and free the sun." So, he went. He came to the snare where the sun was caught. He started to chew the snare wire. Even though he was burning, he did not give up. He just kept on chewing at the tough tether until the sun was free. He worked so hard and so quickly, he was able to cut through the snare wire before he was all burned up.

Finally, the sun was free. It rose up into the sky and it was daylight again.

The tiny mouse we see today . . .

Stamo picked up one of the little creatures and held him up in the palm of his hand.

. . . it is the mouse that freed the sun from the snare. He was a big, big mouse then. That is how much he burned from before he was able to free the sun. Now he is the smallest animal there is. And the rainbow that we see, so they tell me . . . that was the snare that caught the sun.

[Folwren]

The silence that followed the end of Stamo's story was broken abruptly as the door swung open and a blast of cold air and winter flurry tumbled together through the open doorway. But only for an instant, before a tall heavily bundled man had sprung in and shut the door behind him.

'Blades and Barnicles!' he exclaimed, stamping the snow from his feet and shaking his great shoulders. 'It's cold enough to kill a horse! I beg your pardon,' he said, to the few pairs of keen eyes that turned his way at his rather loud entrance, 'and good evening to all of you.' He nodded and stepped forward. 'If I could beg for a place to stand by the fire - no don't worry about getting me a chair, I can stand. A mug of ale would be possitively marvelous, however.' He paused mid stride to thrust his hand in his pocket and drew forth a silver coin.

'Who can I ask for the drink, and pay?' he questioned, glancing around. Carr Dagnysson came forward, and the new comer broke into a grin. 'Here you are my man, run off and get that foaming pint. Thank'ee, thank'ee.'

He continued his march to the edge of the fire and squeezed into an unoccupied space. To his nearest neighbor, he turned and stuck out his hand. 'Berrick Andrail, at your service.'

[piosenniel]

The bang of the Green Man’s front door echoed into the inn’s back yard. From his cozy resting place, the wren raised his head and looked about. ‘Is it spring already?’ he asked in a raspy voice. ‘Is that the ice on the river breaking up?’ A cold breeze blew round the little pile of straw bringing with it a few flakes of snow. He shivered and tucked his head back beneath his wing.

‘Good story!’ came his further, muffled comments. ‘I say Owl,’ he said, daring to poke his head out once more. ‘Now, isn’t it your turn for a story in return? Make it a good one . . . ‘bout us birds.’ He tucked his head again beneath his wing, his ears open for Owl’s deep voice to begin.

[Celuien]

Few of the revelers noted the entrance of a tall, gray-cloaked form that stole softly into the Green Man Free House. Slipping through the shadows cast by the blazing Yule log, he moved to a quiet corner near the fireplace and stared at the flames, as if lost in thought. The light shone warmly on his weather-beaten hood, but could not reveal his face beneath its deep folds.

Cheers and laughter echoed through the Inn, and out of the din rose the call for a new story. "Another tale! Another!" And one of the Hobbits spotted the stranger. "Tell us a story,' he cried. "By your looks, you should know a few."

A hush fell over the room. The stranger's voice, clear and low, rang out in the quiet. "If you wish. Of ancient deeds it tells, though the end is still not known." He leaned forward into the light.

Long ago, the Noldor, led by Fëanor, greatest of craftsmen, came to Middle-earth in exile from Valinor. And there was strife amongst the Elves, and many parted in bitterness and anger. And some few, weary of discord, forsook the Princes of the Noldor and went out into the wild, seeking refuge from the evils of the day.

And so it came to pass that a small band of the Noldor came into Ossiriand, and there they settled and built a hidden fastness amidst the forest. With them went a great treasure, whose memory has been lost even to song; two Lamps, effigies of the Two Trees of Valinor, wrought by the hand of Fëanor himself ere the making of the Silmarils. They were borne by Túrwaith, once a great friend to the House of Fëanor, for he had received them as a gift in Valinor. And though he had parted from Fëanor in anger at Alqualondë, he still kept the Lamps in token of their friendship in better times, and perhaps in hope that things should be put to rights one day. And in the hidden citadel, the Lamps were kindled in memory of Telperion and of Laurelin, and the Eldar rejoiced, for there was peace.

Yet it was not fated that they should remain forever in quiet. For out of the North came a host of Orcs and foul creatures of Morgoth, and they were besieged. And the Light of the Lamps failed with the last stores of oil, and darkness fell.

And lo! Túrwaith came forth. And he sang a song of Light, and of the Two Trees, and of Valinor ere the evil of Morgoth came. And the Lamps blazed forth again. And then the hearts of the Elves were filled with wonder; and they were glad, for their foes fell back in fear at the coming of the Light, and the forces of the Eldar issued forth in pursuit. But all in vain. For from behind the Orcs, a new terror appeared; a Balrog, surrounded by shadow. Undaunted, it strode forward. But the Lamps shone still, a beacon of light in the growing dark. And the Balrog drew forth a vast, cruelly spiked mace. It shattered upon the Lamps, and their Light was extinguished. Túrwaith fell. And then the Orcs poured back upon the Elves, and many were slain, and their fortress was razed to the ground.

Yet Túrwaith lived. And he gathered together the fragments of the Lamps and journeyed onward, wandering alone in the wilderness until the Ban should be lifted and he might return to Valinor.

The storyteller drew a deep breath. "That is as far as the tale goes."

More than one listener was skeptical. "There's nothing like that in the old lore. Where did you hear that story?"

"A tale may not be known, yet still be true," he cried. Then he stood and cast back his cloak. "Behold!" He held forward his hand. The shards of two fair Lamps, one of silver and the other of gold, glistened in his palm. As a murmur passed through the room, he drew his cloak about him again and sat down. "For I am Túrwaith, and the tale I told even as it happened."

Wenda looked at him thoughtfully. "Where are you going now?" she asked, though she felt she already knew the answer.

Túrwaith turned toward her. "To the Havens," he replied, and fell into silence.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Owl turned towards the wren and smiled. He was happy to see that the little one had recuperated from his wild escapades earlier that evening.

"Yes, perhaps we do need another tale," noted Owl, puffing out his chest and trying to look official. "I might be persuaded to say a word of two. These fine loremasters have given us a story about the meekest and most timid creature. Surely I could add a word of two about the wisest of the wise: the Great Bird who was friend and counselor to a powerful wizard and shapeshifter. Although this wizard might not mention the fact, the Owl actually taught him all he knew about the secrets of wood lore and the ways of the beasts. Of course, I am alluding to my cousin Archimedes!"

For a long moment, there was silence....just a bit of wiggling and a cough or two. Owl was used to having his own way and, though many of the birds and beasts crowded around the circle had heard this story a dozen times before, no one wanted to object.

Everyone sat back and waited for the tale to begin, knowing it would likely take up the rest of the evening. But, before the snowy Owl could open his beak and say another word, a high pitched howl was heard from the other side of the yard. Owl's eyes darted up and he muttered sharp disapproval under his breath. On the top of the stony wall stood an inordinately large ball of fur with a long tail and piercing blue eyes, a gigantic cat whose coat looked like a white puff ball. Behind him were two of the rougher sort of tomcats, the kind that normally get chased away by men. The first was missing an ear and the second had a deep gash over his eye. At the sight of these three beasts, the four mice shrank back in terror, and the wren burrowed his head underneath the pile of leaves and twigs.