Strength Check - 19:12, Today: Ymir son of Gunir rolled 1 using 1d20 ((1)).

Ymir seeing his enspelled gauntlet failed to do anything to the creature, reached into his pocket to use another focus but then the creature focused its attack on him. He avoided the first blow but the second hit true & the Artificer found himself off his feet and thrown back from the impact.

On his back, Hunginn landed on his chest & flapped his wings and let out a few short caws.

"Have ye ever heared of someone being hurt GOOD?!", he said wincing in pain.

Almost as swiftly as it began, the brutal brawl was finished.  Five Tawartereg lay dead, like old, rotted trees toppled to the clearing floor or broken amid the close growing oaks surrounding them.  The camp had, of course, been utterly destroyed and many innocent trees had likewise been felled or maimed during the battle.  The forest was again silent, not even the insects dared speak.  It was eerie and pitch dark.  Only a few wan beams of moonlight or starlight reached here.  Dwarves, however, manage to see well enough in darkness, and those still standing gazed around, taking stock in their own wounds, and the state of their companions.

Nendiel and Dwór lay bloodied and still upon the thick leaf litter, it was nigh impossible in the darkness to see whether or not they yet lived. As for the rest, none had escaped unscathed.  The Wood-trolls were fearsome opponents, and it went without saying that, in their current state, should they encounter another such wild band before dawn (about three hours away) they would not likely survive.  There also was the problem of their animals.  The hounds had remained, even assisted in the slaying of the monsters, and Ymir's raven Hunginn still perched on one of the fallen Trolls, pecking at it incessantly, as if to make sure it was truly dead.  The baggage animals, however, had been understandably terrified and had chewed through their hobbles and run off into the woods.

As the group begins to dress their wounds and tend to the fallen, a susurrus wind blows through the trees around them, whispering in the darkness and echoing through the otherwise silent wood, as if the trees themselves voiced their disapproval. A ways off, through the maples and alders, the Gûlduin river gleamed like a ribbon of shadow to the west, its enchanted (some would say cursed) waters offering no aid to the dwarves' plight.

OOC: Okay, except for Nendiel and Dwór, the rest of the group, namely Bofri, Evia, Kronin, Óli, Thrir and Ymir are at HALF Hit Points at the moment.  The Trolls were a VERY tough fight, but you were winning when last we played.  You may all take 1,000 XP from the battle.  I think you had at least three baggage animals, two mules and a pony, at least that's what I remember.  Their tracks should be easy enough to find, with a little light and someone with a NWP in tracking.  Kuush or Ascud could definitely help with the tracking, provided they have been trained for such work.
This message was last edited by the GM at 11:20, Sun 21 Jan.

The old Rune-caster quickly carves a sigil into a branch he retrieves, then bites his lip and spits his blood onto the rune.  Suddenly the branch bursts into bright flame.  He thrusts the branch into the earth, creating a makeshift brazier.  He sits down hard on a newly made stump, then tears off a piece of his cloak.  He kneels down over Dwór's form and listens to his chest.

"Tis an ill place, this is!" He mutters, shadows dancing across his face in the nearby firelight.  "This Troll attack does not portend well for our journey.  Dwór, at least still lives.  I know not of the Elf-maid."

All around the bowl-shaped clearing, the murmuring winds grow louder...
This message was last edited by the player at 10:46, Sun 21 Jan.

Kronin stood amidst the freshly churned earth and the deep and moist leave litter of the wood where he breathed heavily, his armored form rising and and falling a little with every pained breath.

In his hand was the bloodied Cambeleg, and some how even in the dim recesses of the old wood the elegant sweep of the curved blade caught some faint sliver of light. At his feet lay a great gnarled hand still half clenched and severed at the wrist.

The smell of the rotting leaves, the disturbed soil and the spilled blood was thick in the air and unpleasant to him, and although his horned helmet left little by which his expression could be seen, it was clear that his wariness that the struggle was well and truly over vied with his concern for the fallen.

He pivoted at the waist, this way then that, his oval shield of that rich blue metal with the coiled serpent wrought upon the face pivoted with him, and slowly he forms of Dwór and Nendiel stood out from the detritus of the chaotic battle.

Seeing that the stalwart Dwór was being tended to by the son of Orm, Kronin picked his way across the cleaning towards the still form of Nendiel by the flickering light of Oli's blazing branch.

After Hunginn flew off his chest, Ymir got to his feet after that hard hit he took. Dusting himself off, he took a look about at the devastation the battle had done and shook his head. His body was very hurt and sore after the battle and he walked slowly toward the Tawartereg that his Raven-Friend was pecking at and sat himself on it not too far off.

"Im pretty sure the thing is dead - ye peckin at it wont make it deader", he said to Hunginn.

Hunginn stopped and flew to the Artificer, landing on his shoulder & let out a few caws.

"Well i feel like a wagon hit he but im breathing - just need a moment is all."

Kronin carefully kneels down, beside the Wood-elf.  He is no healer, but he can tell at least that she still breathes, if shallowly.  Her left leg is bent at an unusual angle, indicating it might be broken.  Her fair face is discoloured, and she has a cut across her forehead where blood has run freely and covered the right side of her face with stains.  She still clutches her staff tightly in her right hand.  The leaf litter may well have cushioned her fall, but its clear the impact and sheer force of the Troll's blow has hurt her sorely.

Óli goes and cuts a branch from a nearby larch, then returns and kneels down by fallen Dwór.  He carves an odd-looking rune into the wooden branch, then chants as he smears it with the sap that leaks from the wood.  The Rune-caster then presses it to the Dwarf valet's chest.  Dwór suddenly gasps and moans loudly.

"Easy lad," says Óli brusquely.  "You're still alive, and considering you fought hand to hand against a wild Wood Troll, that's a feat in itself.  Lie still and let my rune do its work."

When Huginn lands of Ymir's shoulder and caws, the Artificer notes he drops something from his beak that practically lands in the dwarf's hand.  It appears to be some sort of leather bag, tied with a thick thong.  the Raven preens his wing feathers, seeming very proud of himself, but quickly turns his ebon head and stares at the surrounding trees, instantly alert.

Around the clearing, the wind through the trees increases to a wail, their branches swaying, even though there is no discernable wind...
This message was last edited by the GM at 12:40, Sat 03 Feb.

"Well, one of us should go and retrieve our mules and pony.  We'll not get far in this gloomy forest without them.  Right, I'll be back shortly then.  I probably shouldn't go alone though; the Greenwood is clearly still a perilous place.  Thrir, Evia Flamecloak?  Are you well enough to help me find our lost beasts?"

Evia and Thrir (NPCed as is Bofri) nod their assent and the three prepare to leave the clearing.  Bofri lights a torch from the burning brand near Óli and heads west.  The trio find, however, that the tree branches, trunks, and roots prevent them every time they attempt to depart.
This message was last edited by the GM at 12:34, Sat 03 Feb.

Evia also volunteered for a shift in the dead of night so that others might get a more uninterrupted rest. Once the order of the watch had been created she would look for some wood within the forest as long as it was safe according to their guide. You found the forest with its close dark feeling as strangely familiar... or perhaps comforting.


-

Ymir inspects the pouch Hunginn dropped in his hand.

"Where'd ye pilfer this, ye black-winged cutpurse", Ymir said as he opened and looked within the pouch.

It is now clear to all of the dwarves in camp, no one is leaving or getting any rest, so long as the trees are physically barring the way!  Everywhere they turn, there are dark trees: larches, pines, oaks, elms, and walnuts, and others they cannot discern in the firelight, encircling the bowl-shaped clearing where the Troll battle took place.  The trees' branches are frenzied now, as if shaken in a violent wind, though not so much as a breeze stirs in camp.  They cast a deep shadow over everyone and everything beneath them, and their windy voices are now clearly heard; angry whispers, dark mumblings, low moaning and furious shrieking and other sounds that could not be understood.  The menace from these trees is palpable, and the entire of the woods beyond camp seems to blur and melt into some sort of dark mist, giving way to deep impenetrable shadow.



A deep shadow falls across Kronin and Nendiel as he examines her broken form by torchlight.  Cambeleg was still unsheathed, the Troll ichor staining the otherwise beautiful blade gleaming in the fire's glow.  The noble dwarf warrior can feel the anger radiating from the larch looming over him, and it almost seems as if the shadows, playing on its rough bark make a strange sort of face out of the knots and weathered wood...



As Evia moves to gather wood, she is quickly confronted by the enraged trees besieging their encampment!  Their irate voices, like a storm wind now, fills her ears and sends a shiver down her spine.  As a warrior, Evia knows she is already hurt from her battle with the Tawartereg, and she has no idea what these animated trees want or how strong they may be.  The only thing she can be sure of is they are defintely threatening. She's wise enough to know that, if these creatures DO attack, the odds are not at all in her fellowship's favour!



Looking inside the mouldering old pouch, the dwarf is astounded.  It appears to contain a fingerbone, a red gem of some sort, a bunch of dried toadstools, and a long oddly shaped stick of dark wood.  Definitely far more than its size should be able to contain.  He has very little time to ponder the marvelous old pouch or its curious contents, however, as Hunginn squawks raucously, alerting the Artificer to the looming danger of the animated trees!
This message was last edited by the GM at 11:50, Sat 09 Mar.

The former Stone-guard swiftly pulls out his mattock and takes a defensive stance beside Evia.  The fear shows in his usually stoic face, even in the dim light.  He shifts from foot to foot, looking to his companions for their reactions as he grips his weapon tighter.  The son of Brogur would not go down without a fight, if it came to that, although his own injuries quickly reminded him he'd not likely survive another battle so soon...

Thrir (NPCed) drew his own short sword and prepared to fight if it came down to it.  The torch light wasn't much, but they created many shadows that a dwarf like Thrir could make use of in a pinch.  He had to admit, however, that he'd never faced a tree before, and had no idea if they'd be fooled by the darkness.  Still they hadn't attacked yet...he waited, the tension in the air giving him goosebumps, as he watched to see what the trees would do.

Hearing the hate in the trees whispering wind, the Rune caster retrieves a torch from his satchel and lights it from the main burning branch he'd made earlier.

"Ye've no love for fire, that's certain!  Come on then, I've got something for you right here, if you're brave enough to wrestle with me!  I may be old, but I've lit many a merry blaze in my day.  Gainsay me and I'll stuff this strait down your wooden gullet!"

Evia backs up to the fire, both for a sense of comfort and perhaps as a guard against the trees. She makes no threatening gestures as she waits to see what is going on and if any of her companions may have a way of communicating with the trees....


-

Ymir looked up at his Raven Friend as he began to caw excitedly and then shot to the gathering forest seemingly surrounding them with its branches.

He shoved what Hunginn had given him into one of his many pouches on his person and pulled out his smithing hammer and joined the others in a defensive formation.

"If'n it isnt one thing is another - we kill three troll trees & the whole forest be against us...Now i know why our kin choose our mountain holes as homes."

Each of the Dwarves takes a defensive stance against the Animated Trees.  The Trees loom ominously over the much shorter Khazad, muttering darkly in their strange whispering speech. Although still grievously wounded from their brutal battle with the Wood Trolls, those still on their feet watch and prepare to fight once more, if it should come to it.

Suddenly there is, of all things, the sound of many birds singing.  Nightingales, Whippoorwills, Nightjars, and Owls, to name but a few.  Their voices seem to blend in a loud music that drowns out the shrieking wind of the trees.  Soon the trees begin to sway, as if seduced by the merry birdsong.  Slowly the avian melodies quieten, and as they do the trees likewise grow still, and step back to fade into the forest many shadows.  The torches in the camp flicker and go out for the space of a few heartbeats, then flare to life once again, though dimmer than before.

When the Dwarves can see once again the trees around the clearing have thinned, and those that remain stay still.  There is no wind, only a pale sliver of moonlight that makes its way through the canopy and into the clearing to aid the wan torchlight.  There, standing in the pale splash of moonlight, is an old man, leaning upon a twisted staff.

Evia let out a long breath as she lowered her weapon and look at those behind here. "Everyone still in one piece?" she asked. Assuming everything is as it was before the trees she would return to the fire.


-

"Well, he most certainly is", Ymir said using his Smithing Hammer to point at the old man. The Artificer remained on guard should this man be a Wizard of some sort..

Hunginn cocks his head at the old man in curiosity but remains silent.

The old man regards each of the dwarves one by one.   His demeanour is calm, eerily at ease, considering the violence and tension mere moments ago.  His wizened face is round and ruddy in the torchlight, and from his chin sprouts a thick wiry reddish brown beard .  Two bright brown eyes peek from under his bushy brows.  In spite of the awkward silence, he smiles warmly and doffs his battered brown hat.

"'Tis a dangerous thing to be walking about this old forest alone.  Would you mind if I share your fire?"

"No of course not, please take a seat." Eva went back to her job of minding the hearth even putting on a couple more logs just to make herself feel better with a bit more light and flames. Turning to the old man she asks "And what brings you walking the eves of Mirkwood at night traveller ?



-

Ymir stepped back to let the strange man come forth but stood with his Smithing Hammer in hand, not quite ready to trust him just yet.

"So are we just to ignore what we just seen a few moments ago before he made an appearance?", the Artificer said to the group. "Birds don't sing and trees don't sway like that from me experience."

"I thought he may have been the one who calmed the situation. In my experience it is not like trees and birds to react like that unless they are threatened..... But you a probably right Ymir."


-

The Old Man nods in polite response to Evia's invitation and approaches the fire slowly.  His heavy brown robes, worn, mud stained and patched in several places, would seem impractical for wandering around the woods, save that they almost seem to flow with his movements, not impeding him in any discernable way.  Before taking a seat on a flat-topped stone, he glances over to Hunginn and 'caws' at him, in an exact imitation of a deep raspy raven's call.  Hunginn spreads his wings, flutters them in an unusually vigorous display, then bobs his head as he croaks in reply.

Hearing the Dwarves speak quickly in Khuzdul, the Hermit seems unconcerned, and if he understands any word of their dialogue, he makes no outward sign.  Instead, he sets his staff to one side and removes his hat, then reaches into it and draws forth an ornate glass bottle that contains some sort of ruddy coloured liquid.  Taking a quick swig of its contents, he wipes his mouth on one sleeve and then turns to Evia to answer the Dwarf maid's question.

"I thank you, for the hospitality, Mistress Dwarf.  And, to answer your query, I am returning from seeing a very old friend.   I thought I might visit my former home in the southwest of the Greenwood. I've not seen it in quite some time, and I find I rather miss it these days.  Of late I've had a bittersweet longing for the old place, I suppose one might call it a sort of 'homesickness' perhaps.  But of course, I noticed the commotion in this clearing, and I thought I'd make sure that everything was alright.  Trolls are a nasty business I daresay, and not many survive to tell stories of their encounters with them," he frowned, seeing the unconscious Nendiel and Dwór.  "I do have some skill with herbs, I might be able to aid your friends, if you would allow me to help."

He glances over towards Óli, who still clings to the burning torch, and Bofri, who has yet to lower his mattock.  Then he eyes Kronin and Thrir, standing guard over their fallen comrades, then finally he regards Ymir directly.

"Ah yes, the trees... Your concern was well founded. They were angry at the hurt and death to their own; the result of your battle with the Wood-trolls.  Truthfully, they are not overly fond of Dwarves in their forest in general, for they've had cause to dislike your folk, in the past that is, and they have the longest memory of almost any living thing.  Also, they do not like large amounts of fire (he looks back towards the Rune-caster) or axes (he looks over to Kronin).  I suggest you douse the torches and sheath your axe; you will not need either of them for now."
This message was last edited by the player at 07:02, Sun 14 Apr.

"Your help for out wounded with be appreciated my name is Evia and I will let the others introduce themselves." "Would you share a meal with us once you have finished with the wounded ?" she asked as she began to prepare some food.


-

Smiling to the dwarf maid, the old man replies: "I should like that very much.  I haven't eaten at all today, oddly enough, and I've heard dwarves make a fine stew.  I was told of your coming, of course, so I know your name, and those of your companions.  Still, I am honoured to formally meet you, Lady Evia, Dwalinsdottir.  You may call me  Radagast, if you like.  Your people had a name for me, as I recall...GÛHULKÛN if my old memory still serves.  In truth, I never was as quick to learn the overly clumsy tongues of most folk.  Now those of beast and bird I find much more to my liking."

The wizened hermit reaches for his staff and then rises and makes his way to where the injured lay.  Thrir gives him an appraising look, while Óli's regard is downright suspicious.  Kronin meets Radagast's gaze and then nods, stepping to one side to allow the man access to Dwór and Nendiel, watching him closely.  Bofri leans on his mattock, his brow furrowed and a frown marring his bearded face, but he makes no movement.  The hermit leans heavily on his hazelwood staff, kneels slowly and examines the wounded elf and dwarf, his bright eyes widen as his wrinkled brown fingers gently explore their hurts.  He shakes his head sadly, then reaches into the well worn satchel at his right side.

He draws forth a parcel of what appear to be dried blue flowers, then a packet of whitish brown mushrooms, cloth bandages, clean wash cloths, a small clay mortar and pestle, and finally a larger dark wooden bowl.  Almost reverently he lifts the flowers and blows softly upon them, speaking words in a tongue none have heard before (any character with Ancient History NWP or Linguistics, or Spellcraft may roll at a -3 penalty to the roll to discern what language he uses and/or what he might be doing).  He places the flowers in the bowl and then speaks in the odd language again, his tone one of authority.  In his hands the water steams and a refreshing fragrance, like a mountain meadow filled with wildflowers, wafts over all gathered there.  He then retrieves a washcloth and immerses it in the flower concoction, wringing it out then using the cloth to clean Nendiel's wounds.  The old man smiles softly as he bandages her wounds and nods, leaving the sweet-smelling bowl close by her side, its vapours drifting over the elf maid.

"Her wounds are grave, but she has a strong spirit.  I believe she will recover and heal with rest.  Now to see to the young dwarf that lies yon."

Moving with surprising fluidity for his apparent age, the wizard now looks to Dwór's wounds.  He places the mushrooms in his clay mortar, then crushes them carefully with the pestle.  Radagast glances over at Hunginn the raven, then croaks and caws to him in a quick staccato.  The raven flies off into the wood, returning five minutes later with a small branch bearing a cluster of dark berries.  Hunginn flies directly to the old man and drops the berries and branch into the mortar, bobs his head to him, then returns to Ymir's shoulder and begins preening himself.

"You've a rascal of a rook for a companion, Master Ymir, but he has a noble heart nonetheless."

Making a paste of the contents of the mortar, the wizard swiftly covers the dwarf's wounds with the dark paste, then again bandages them carefully.  Once complete, he washes out and returns his belongings to his satchel, then takes his staff and slowly stands up.

"Well, I have done what I can, for the moment.  Time and slumber must do their part now.  You should find a safe place to stay for a day or two while they recover.  I can provide that, in recompense for your hospitality.  Trust me, I bear you neither ill will, nor foul intent, I merely wish to help in some small way, if you will permit it."
This message was last edited by the player at 20:46, Mon 15 Apr.