October 29, 2965 of the Third Age …

On a hill, was a former watch tower, long destroyed, leaving behind a circle of rubble, a place known as Weathetop. It frequently rained here, so it was nasty, dirty and wet.

Maethordan, a human Ranger of the North, was posted here, along with several other Rangers, including his Captain, a fellow Ranger of the North named Strider. The people of the land often viewed the Rangers of the North with a mixture of suspicion – and considered them “dangerous” due to their lifestyle and tendency to operate in the shadows. Rangers of the North rarely kept much company, but would often have allies. 

One such ally was here at Weathertop now – an unusual man that Maethordan had seen a number of times, especially in the company of Strider. An old man that everyone seemed to know – perhaps more mysterious than the Rangers of the North – a man, a wizard they say, named Gandalf.

His expression was grim as he spoke to Strider in hushed tones. Maethordan, and three other Rangers of the North, patrolled around Weathertop as Strider and Gandalf spoke.

“Well,” Gandalf finally said his demeanor much more different now, his voice cheerful. “I must be going, as always, a pleasure to speak with you, Strider.”

As Gandalf departed from the top of Weathertop, he patted Maethordan on the shoulder and seemed to wink at him. Maethordan watched Gandalf descend down Weathertop – not an easy journey, even for someone who has traversed up and down Weathertop many times – but Gandalf, despite his old age and relying heavily on his wooden staff, seemed to effortlessly descend down Weathertop as if it were a perfectly maintained path.

Strider’s voice broke Maethordan’s thoughts, as he turned to face his Captain. “Halldor, I need you to go to Staddle and keep a watch on the surrounding area. Sigurd, venture to Combe, and do the same. Hergrim, go with Sigurd to Combe, but continue north to Archet.” He paused and Maethordan looked at Strider expectantly. Strider approached Maethordan and placed his hand on his shoulder. “I have a special mission for you, Maethordan. I need you to go to Bree, to the Prancing Pony. There, Gandalf has sent notes for several others to gather there. You are to escort them here.”

Maethordan sighed. He did not care for venturing into Bree. Civilized life was not for him. “How will I know them?”

“Look for a barding and two people of Bree, hopefully seated with one another if Barnabas Butterbur remembered what Gandalf told him,” Strider said. Strider and Maethordan watched as Halldor, Sigurd and Hergrim departed, before Strider turned back to Maethordan. “Gandalf warns me that his travel from Rivendell to here was troubling. He mentioned that in the South Downs, a great many howls that made him feel queer, were heard at all hours of the night. These were not wolf howls he heard, he assures me – it was something darker, more sinister. Beware taking the road from Bree to here as well, as it may also be lined with trouble. We have seen ruffians waiting for merchants on these roads of late, looking to ambush the unwary. With the news Gandalf shared with me, I can’t help but wonder if the ruffian’s brazen courage is connected to the dark howls that Gandalf reports in the South Downs. While you may be skilled at moving stealthily, those that you are to bring with you may not be so skilled. You must use caution traveling back here.” 

Maethordan nodded, turned and begin to pack his few belongings into his bag, before turning to face Strider. “I will not fail you, or Gandalf,” he said firmly.

“I know you won’t,” Strider said, with a strained smile.

Maethordan descended down Weathertop and decided to move through the Weather Hills, then into the Midgewater Marshes, where he avoided goblins, serpents and spiders, though his movement was drastically slowed due to the terrain and caution. It had taken nearly seven days before he arrived at the gates of Bree. The Gate-Keeper slid open the slot to peer outside.

“Who goes there?” the gate keeper called.

Maethordan could tell, by the voice that it had not been Harry Goatleaf, for which he was thankful. There’d always been something about Harry Goatleaf that bothered Maethordan, but he could never place just what it was.

“My name is Maethordan, and I seek a room at the Prancing Pony on this rainy night, gate-keeper,” he replied.

The gate-keeper opened the door and gasped as Maethordan walked in. “You’re one of them…”

“Yes,” Maethordan said plainly, “and here are three copper coins to keep that quiet, Master Gate-Keeper.”

October 15, 2965 of the Third Age …

Inside the shattered, grey tower of Mith Tirin, Lodin, son of Brodin, sat before the crackling fire. He poked and prodded at the flame, sending small flecks of ash into the air that burned out quickly. The fire did little to warm his bones on this dreary day. Mith Tirin was a tower that once stood between Gramsfoot and Gabilshathûr.

Lodin had traveled North from Lake Town to Dale, where he had rested for several days. From there, he’d spent weeks traveling North East, before reaching Skarháld, where he spent several nights in the company of dwarves. It was there he first heard about news of increased attacks by goblins in the area against the dwarves. In the three nights he’d spent there, the goblins had indeed made one attack against the dwarves, and Lodin had been there to help fend off the attack. From there, he traveled East with several dwarven merchants who were headed for Annâk-khurfu. The dwarves shared stories of their skills at the forge, while Lodin shared some of the story of his past, and his desire to one day find a worthy foe, such as a dragon, to destroy, similar to how Bard had done. From there, he traveled North to Grúmachath, where yet again, he would spend time in the company of Dwarves. From there, the rest of his journey was far lonelier, as he passed through the Iron Pass that cut between the Mountains of Angmar. Had it not been for his trusty mare, Dolly, who was quite old, and had been in the family for many years, Lodin doubted he could have made it through the Iron Pass. Not that it was dangerous and he rode on Dolly to escape – hardly that at all. He never rode Dolly, really. She was more his one, true, faithful companion and friend, than she was a mount. No, it had been his journey through the Iron Pass, and how desolate and lonely it felt. The silence was pressing against him as he journeyed through there, he felt as he was being watched the entire time, and sleep was virtually impossible. He was thankful to have been out of the Iron Pass, and traveled for several days, before finding the abandoned tower of Mith Tirin to take shelter in from the rain that greeted him on the other side of the Iron Pass.

Dolly made a sound, and ran her hoof through the dirt. Lodin immediately leapt to his feet and drew his sword that was sheathed in Dolly’s saddle. The long sword flickered in the camp fire’s light; the tip of the blade was touching the grey hair of a human who had snuck up on him.

“Well,” the old man said, “hardly a kind way to treat an old friend, Lodin, son of Brodin.”

“Gandalf,” Lodin lowered the blade, “I should have known. No one else could have gotten this close to me, except for you. What are you doing here?”

“Me?” Gandalf looked confused for a moment, as if pondering the question. “Well, I suppose I am looking for a warm fire to heat these old bones of mine,” he finally answered, “and to speak with you, of course.”

“Me?” Lodin asked, as he sheathed his blade. “What do you want with me?”

“The very thing you pointed at me,” Gandalf laughed as he sat by the fire, sitting exactly where Lodin had originally been sitting. Gandalf poked at the fire. “Your sword arm is what I need, son of Brodin. As it would turn out, I have some friends who are gathering in Bree, and they could use someone capable with a blade.” Gandalf smiled, “You carry more than your grandfather’s name, Lodin,” he said, more quietly. “The crest you carry close to your heart, speaks to you of the great deeds your own grandfather did.”

“You knew him,” Lordin asked, unconsciously touching his chest, where he had indeed, hid the crest of his family – a small unicorn.

“Everyone knew him,” Gandalf responded with a smile. “He was wild. Adventurous. He did a great many things, he did, with the time he was given. And now, here you are, in Mith Tirin, with the family steed,” he looked over at the mare, “Hello, Dolly, it’s good to see you, too.” The mare seemed to share her head and nod, her beautiful mane falling to one side, as if she were shy of Gandalf’s comment. “She’s like the crest you know,” Gandalf added. “There’s none like her – she is unique, I dare say; loyal and strong beyond most mares her age. It’s no coincidence that she is with you on this journey. I suspect she will be quite important in the days ahead.”

“I haven’t even agreed to this, but you speak as if I have,” Lodin replied.

Gandalf looked at Dolly, who then looked at Lodin. “You can not possibly be on his side,” Lodin sighed deeply, looking at Dolly. She made a sound in response and ran her hoof through the sand. Lodin turned to look at Gandalf, “Fine. You mentioned your friends are in Bree? How will I know them?”

“Go to Bree and seek out the Prancing Pony Inn,” Gandalf replied. “Barnabas Butterbur is the owner. Speak with him. He will have rooms ready for all of you. He will ensure you meet with the others.”

“How many in this company?” Lodin asked.

“With you, four,” Gandalf replied. Dolly made a sound. “Sorry, five, including Dolly.” Dolly seemed much happier now. Gandalf laughed.

The following morning, just as both Dolly and Lodin expected, Gandalf was gone. 

October 21, 2965 of the Third Age …

Hobart Rushlight slumped into his chair which he’d built with his own hands. Hobart Rushlight lived in a small, unremarkable cabin in the forested area of Chetwood, east of Bree. He had barely returned from delivering notices in Bree to people who had been cordially invited to the birthday of one Bilbo Baggins. Bilbo is a vigorous Hobbit—at seventy-five he is very much the same as he was at fifty, and he was looking forward to another party. Turning seventy five was quite an ordeal, and Hobart had been from Chetwood, to Bree, to the Shire, delivering invites to those who were welcome to Bilbo Baggin’s birthday party.

Hobart Rushlight was beyond exhausted and all he had wanted to do now was go to sleep. Just as his eyes finally began to close, he heard a man’s voice. “Quite an ordeal that Bilbo Baggins with his birthday is it not?”

Hobart Rushlight sat up and reached for his sword. He was surprised to see an old man standing in his doorway – an old man he’d recognized. “Gandalf,” Hobart Rushlight grumbled and collapsed back into his chair. “If you’re looking for your invitation, it’s with Barnabas Butterbur at the Prancing Pony. Bilbo figured you stop by there frequently enough, that that would probably be the best place in order for the invitation to find you. Now, if you would be on your way, I am rather exhausted from all of my travels.”

“What if I told you I was in need of your service, Hobart Rushlight?” Gandalf asked.

“I would tell you that any letters or messages you need to be delivered are going to need a wait a day or two or find another messenger to deliver them,” Hobart Rushlight replied, matter-of-factly.

“It’s not your ability to deliver messages I am need of,” Gandalf countered, as he leaned against his staff, then nudged Hobart Rushlight’s foot to awaken him. “It’s your other… more… refined skills.” 

Hobart Rushlight opened one eye to look at the grey wizard. “What does that mean?”

Gandalf smiled, “You are quite like Master Baggins,” Gandalf said, frankly. “You are quick on your feet and have a knack for opening locked doors and the like.”

“I am not a thief if that’s what you’re implying,” Hobart Rushlight countered.

“No such thing,” Gandalf pulled himself upright. “Only that, I have some friends gathering at the Prancing Pony, and where they’re going, they may need someone like you who can move quietly around and look around, and perhaps open doors that may not be open to them. All on the up and up, as it were, Master Rushlight.”

“You only ever call me ‘Master Rushlight’ when you want something of me,” Hobart laughed. “If I agree to this meeting at the Prancing Pony with these friends of yours, will you let me get some rest.”

“Indeed,” Gandalf said as if it were obvious.

“Fine, then I agree,” and Hobart Rushlight closed his eyes again, only to be hit by Gandalf’s staff once more. “You said you’d let me rest.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean now,” Gandalf laughed. “I mean when you reaching the Prancing Pony. I’ve already spoken to Barnabas Butterbur – thank you for dropping off my invite to Master Baggin’s party there, he’d almost forgotten to give it to me – at any rate, I spoke to Barnabas Butterbur – and arranged for you and the others to have rooms at the Prancing Pony. Speak to Barnabas  Butterbur when you get there, he will get you in contact with the others.” 

Hobart Rushlight heaved a deep sigh and stood up and began to prepare his belongings to head for Bree and the Prancing Pony.

October 25, 2965 of the Third Age …

Fay Foxglow was gathering the last bit of supplies from her apothecary that she’d opened a few years ago, in honor of her grandfather. The bell that hung by the front door rang and caught Fay by surprise – she’d locked the front door – how had it opened? In the doorway, she immediately knew her answer. “Gandalf,” she said her heart no longer about to leap from her chest. “What are you doing here?”

“Why, looking for you, of course,” he replied, as if it had been obvious. “That’s why I came inside.”

“The door was locked,” Fay countered.

“Was it?” Gandalf looked over his shoulder at the door. “You should probably get that looked at.”

Fay was about to say something else, knowing that Gandalf himself had somehow “magic’ed” his way through the locking mechanism. She stopped what she was doing and looked up. “What can I do for you?”

“Do for me?” Gandalf smiled. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

“Well, for starters, you could stop coming in through locked doors,” she laughed. She was well aware of who Gandalf was. He was quite well known throughout Bree – he often brought fireworks and livened up any celebration that took place in the town’s center.

“It looks like you’re going somewhere,” he gestured to her bag that she had been putting in some of the plants she had wanted to take with her on the road. “Good, you must have gotten my message already then?”

“Your message?” Fay looked confused. “I have received no message from you.”

“Then why are you packing, daughter of Edwin?” he asked, seemingly confused.

“Because there’s nothing more for me here,” she shrugged, and continued packing her bag. “Mother is gone. Father was slain by an orc. Grandfather passed the same way as mother. My friend has gone missing.” She looked up and shrugged, “There is nothing for me in Bree save for sad memories. I am going to leave, perhaps return south, to where grandfather sometimes spoke of.”

Gandalf smiled and leaned heavily on his staff, as if he had suddenly aged, “Hirluin,” he said, recalling the name of Fay’s grandfather. “I do miss him.”

“You knew him?” Fay asked.

“Oh yes,” Gandalf’s expression lit up. “I definitely knew him. Traveled together we did for a short while. He was quite knowledgeable about plants of all kinds.” He tapped Fay’s bag with his staff, “I see he parted that knowledge upon you. And your mother, dear Hayley, she would be proud of your sewn work. I see it in your clothing. I see her weaves through what you have done to patch your own clothing, and make that cloak you wear. And the blanket, you have there – the one you’re taking with you. Looks to have been started by her, but has your finishing touches on it.”

Fay pulled her blanket close to her. “How could you know that?”

“Child, I knew your mother and father, and your grandfather quite well,” he said, heaving a deep sigh, momentarily lost in the memories. “She sewed more than a torn bit or two in these old, grey robes I wear. Her needlework is quite well known and was sought after when she was still with us.” Gandalf shook his head and cleared his mind of the memories and firmly planted his staff on the ground. “Well, if you didn’t get my message and you’re leaving – where do you plan to go? Just south?”

“For beginners,” Fay shrugged.

“What if I asked you to join my companions? On a little adventure? They could undoubtedly use your knowledge of plants, and probably needlework as well,” he smiled. “Perhaps on this journey, you might discover some answers you didn’t know you were looking for?”

“Who are these companions of yours?” Fay asked.

“One of them, you know – or at least know of him. Hobart Rushlight, born in Bree, lives out in Chetwood,” Gandalf explained. She nodded her head – she had met Hobart a few times when he was passing through Bree and stopped at the Prancing Pony. They’d shared some drinks and laughs together. “Another is a barding who has come a great way named Lodin. Together, you will meet with a Ranger of the North by the name of Maethordan. He will escort all of you to Weathertop.”

“What waits for us at Weather top?” Fay asked, confused. Weathertop was a ruined watch tower that had fallen into disarray.

“Ideally, I will meet you there, after I tend to some other business. If I am not there, you will speak with Strider,” Gandalf explained.

Fay shoved her blanket into her bag and nodded. “I’m interested.”

“Oh, good,” Gandalf said and reached into his pocket. “Ah, there’s the summons! This time I can’t blame Barnabas Butterbur, I forgot to give it to Hobart to deliver to you. Here,” he handed the summons to her. She opened the letter and read it, “Meet at the Prancing Pony on November 5, 2965.” 

When Fay looked up from the note, Gandalf was gone and the door was once again locked. She folded the note and shook her head. 

November 5, 2965…

Maethordan moved through the bustling streets of Bree and arrived at the Prancing Pony. Inside the Prancing Pony, people were moving about, drinking, singing, sharing stories of this and that, and not a single person stopped to look at Maethordan.

Maethordan moved through the crowd and spotted Barnabas Butterbur. He placed his hand on Barnabas Butterbur to stop the rotund man from moving; despite his size, he moved with a quickness inside the Prancing Pony.

“Oh!” Barnabas Butterbur let out a squeal of surprise. “You startled me, sir. What can I do for you?”

“Gandalf told me to speak with you, about meeting some people here,” Maethordan answered. 

“Meeting people here?” Barnabas Butterbur gave it some thought. Then he thought about it more. Then he thought about how Gandalf might turn him into a newt if he didn’t remember what was asked of him. Then he thought about what his life would be like a newt. Then he wondered if Nob could possibly run the Prancing Pony? His mind screamed in horror and brought him back to the real world. “Oh, yes!” He finally said, “I do remember! I do remember! They’re over there, by the fire place.”

Maethordan turned to see a barding, and two people of Bree – a man and a woman – sitting at a table – looking at one another.

Everyone go ahead and describe what your character looks like, what they might be doing (eating, drinking, etc).

Fellowship Points:

4 (1 per player) + 2 (Gandalf) = 6

Eye Awareness: 2