The Misty Mountains...

Harthion

In reply to The Loremaster (msg # 2):

**The Past**
Harthion sat on the bench in the center of Imladris, Rivendell, the Last Homely Home with his eyes closed, listening to the wind. The wind spoke in the voices of the leaves - rustling and soft on the ground - and the chirps of birds. He was focusing on them, letting his mind walk along with the dancing streams of air. Then - brightly - a sparrow call. The voice seemed to draw his attention, for a voice it was. Mellondil, his little friend. He brought news of the direction that his assailant would be coming.

He swung his sword out, arcing back behind him to catch the other elven blade that came down, turning around and twisting, the blade scraping back to flip the blade up. From there, he leveled the blade at the other elf, the both of them smiling. The sparring always served to start their mornings. They both moved in fluid motions, their blades singing and joining with the concert that was swirling around them. After a time, it died down and the two sat side by side in one of the many gardens belonging to Lord Elrond. Harthion and Beruthiel, side by side.

“He wishes to speak to you,” Beruthiel said, speaking in the flowing sounds of the Elvish tongue. “He would once again question your decision to take to the field.”

“I know. He has lost hope in them, Beruthiel. He would deny it, but you know it to be true. He lost hope long ago when Isildur failed.”

“Do you blame him? How would you have reacted?”

“They are young; all of them. All of the people who remain free of the Shadow are young and like the young they must learn. I do not belittle them as some of our kind do. I know the heart that burns within them. But a wildfire will be snuffed out by rain or spread to consume a forest unless it is banked up and directed. That is what I will do; what I must do.”

“You’ll need to be more skillful in your sword-work if you wish to lead any but a small-folk pipe gathering, dear Harthion,” Beruthiel added with a smirk.

“That is what I will always return to you for aid with,” Harthion added, returning the smile.

**The Present**
Once again, Harthion’s eyes opened as in those years before, but this time it was relatively silent. His fire still crackled, keeping the soft falling snow at bay with some pleasing warmth. He looked around. The pass of the Misty Mountains was a necessary evil, a path that needed to be walked, and prior to then had been relatively uneventful. A fell odor reached his nostrils and Mellondil’s chirping was not merely protesting the cold. Something was nearby. In a fluid motion Harthion kicked the fire into vanishment and he ducked into the trees.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:11, Thu 24 Feb 2022.

Harthion watched the snow flakes falling towards the fire.
Like small white beads-- disappearing in the heat.
Beruthiel was right: more skill would be needed in beadwork!
Harthion was camped on the Western-side of the Misty Mountains, up pretty high, close to the High-Pass, just a little ways to the South of the road that led down the mountainside and off towards the sea way out to the West - the road many called the East Road.
Harthion was thus a ways East of Rivendell, and close to the Beorning camp that kept guard over the High-Pass. The Beornings were followers of Beorn, and Grimbeorn son of Grimbeorn, strong Men who lived on the West banks of the river Anduin, to the East of the Misty Mountains.
They kept the pass and the East side of the Mountains safe from the Enemy-- for their own sake, and for that of merchants traveling to and from Erebor & Dale, and Bree & Mithlond...

Harthion's thoughts were interupted as a fell odor reached his nostrils and Mellondil’s chirping alerted his ears.
Something was nearby and Harthion kicked the fire into vanishment as he ducked into the trees.

Out of the looming darkness, as night was soon to come on this Spring night, a half-dozen tall shapes appeared-- Men.
Harthion remained wary as these could be bandits-- but at least not Orc or Troll.
But-- the smell?
Rotten-- flesh?!

Wounded-- some of the Men were wounded, obviously, as at least two were only moving along with their companions' aid.
Badly wounded, with rotting flesh!
As they moved closer and Harthion could see them better despite the snow-- he recognized them as Beornings.
Heavy fur garments, light leather armor, long deadly spears-- these were guardsmen, of those who secured the pass and the road to the Old Ford on the Anduin.
This message was last edited by the GM at 05:42, Thu 24 Feb 2022.

Harthion saw them for men, and finally took the vague odor for what it was: a scent of battle and the aftermath thereof. He waited until they had a decent spacing between their position and where he would make himself known, so that he did not frighten them, and he stepped out of his concealment. When finally he did, he stepped out raising his hands slightly to show that he had no weapon drawn and there could be no mistaking his figure and form for that of evil.

"á na márië, my friends," Harthion spoke, quietly though loud enough to be heard by them. "Hail, kin of Beorn. How fare you? I see wounded among your number. What has caused such harm in these mountains?"

As he asks his questions, Harthion attempts to get a look at the wounds that have been suffered, to see if his skill can be of any use in making the wounded well.

The vague odor that Harthion smelled was, in his mind, something more than just the scent of battle-- something strong, and how could they men leave the flesh to rot so?

The Beornings' first reaction was one of nervous surprise, raising weapons-- but they immediately relaxed when they recognized that they were facing an Elf.

They glance at their two harmed ones when Harthion mentions wounded--
"Orcs. We fell upon an Orc-host."
Though they slow down, they keep on moving, obviously in a hurry.

AHarthion attempts to get a look at the wounds--
You can roll Scan or Healing...

Harthion approaches more closely, examining the wounds on the injured Beornings, after getting their permission to examine their comrades.

OOC: 12:34, Today: Harthion rolled a total of 19: a great success (same result if weary) using the The One Ring with a target of 15 with rolls of 8 (Feat Die), 5, 6.  Rerolling - I think I did the previous one wrong.
This message was last edited by the player at 17:41, Thu 24 Feb 2022.

Harthion checks the wounds-- the Beornings happy to get any help.
The Elf rapidly determines that the smell and what must be a painfully not-healing wound comes from poison.
Poisoned arrows.
You get this from your Successful roll.

It seems to Harthion that the poison, some dark substance, is actually not a natural compound-- it... makes him think of a weapon the Orcs of Gundabad, used. Grimy, black bows with sharp black arrows-- Morgul venom!
You get this extra information from your 6 on the Skill die, the Great Success.

OOC: yes, seems the 1st roll was off, but the 2nd roll seems fine.
Don't worry if things mess up now and then at first, we'll get there!
When you make Favoured rolls, you can roll adding "0d6" to get just a d12 on one of the rolls, and do the other as a 'normal' roll-- then choose the better d12 roll.

"You have had ill luck indeed, my friends," says Harthion, looking carefully at the wound. "You encountered orcs out of Gundabad, foul creatures who use poison on their blades and weapons. Venom of the fell creatures of Morgul which...I thought to be faded."

A feeling of concern washed over him, but he was enough of a veteran of combat that he did not allow it to pass to the men of Beorn before him. He straightened up.

"I would advise you to continue to fall back, but first...tell me how many orcs you saw of this kind? And where did they overtake you?"

"Ill luck-- pah... more that we were outnumbered!
They rained arrows on us when we located them and drew near.
And they were not Orcs out of Gundabad.
No... they came up from the South of the Misty Mountains, on the East side.
We located them after they had crossed-- a hard crossing at that, most probably over the Redhorn Pass.
I know not of Morgul venom, but these were not out of Gundabad.
Black armor, black weapons-- black bows... they wear and wield.
Maybe from Dol Goldur?"


The men keep on slowly moving--
"Aye, we are not stopping. We shall continue with haste to Beorn's halls, for we cannot heal these wounds at all. Thus we race against the poison's spread.
As for the Orcs, about four dozen they were.
Thankfully they did not overtake us-- for their arrows were bad enough.
We came across them two days South of here, on this Western flank.
They did not follow us-- maybe because we are lighter-clad, or because they have pressing matters and no time to lose?"