Session 30: The Trinket, The Child, The Nameless

January 18, 2966

Dolly pulled the cart with Fred’s body inside; covered by a blanket. Somberly, Lodin, Maethordan, Arthanar and Welton walked; despite having rested and briefly spoke at Weathertop with Strider; all four had looked as if they’d walked through a battlefield. Silence lingered between them, with only the sounds of the wooden wheel turning.

As they approached the gate, a familiar figure stood waiting. His grey robes and tall hat blew gently in the wind. As the wagon approached Gandalf, the wizard looked at each of them. “I see Shadow on you,” he whispered. “I am sorry for what you have endured these last few days. Strider made mention of it and I rushed here while you had gone to Archet to bed for a few days of rest. I have secured a room for each of you with Barnabas Butterbur. I have also located Fred’s mother and let her know her son’s fate. She, sadly, was not surprised. I have told her that we will tend to any fees for Fred’s burial. Strider informed me that they were able to recover what remained of Harry as well - but it was too gruesome. I told their mother that Harry died as well, but that his body could not be recovered.”

At the Prancing Pony, after Fred’s burial…

Gandalf sat at the table with the Company. “Tend to whatever you must. Our enemy moves East from what the Great Eagle Armanel has said… but we know not where or why. In the meantime, Hoplite Glendoodle is alive; though blind now; but alive thanks to you, Arthanar. Your abilities saved him. He has returned to the Shire. I had hoped he could have been of use to the Company, but, I was,” he paused, “mistaken. Perhaps I should have recruited Cedivar Greenhand instead!” He shook his head and smiled for the first time since seeing the Company at the gates of Bree early in the day. “Cedivar Greenhand has reported that the Bounders have had some trouble. When you are ready, I would ask you to venture towards the Shire. If you decline, I would understand. You have all already seen much.”

Lodin put his drink down, gazing at the wizard in grey robes. "The business is not done. If I am to be a reliable husband, father, noble then I must see things through to their end, for good or ill."

Gandalf, seated, but still holding onto his staff, tapped the staff on the ground gently, and tried to hide his smile. "Dolly told me you might say such a thing. A wise horse, that one is."

He paused, his voice now more serious, "But you are changed, son of Brodin. I see it in your eyes. You have seen or heard things now that most are blissfully unaware of. There is a Shadow that stretches itself across the land and I can see it has left its mark on you."

Lodin shook his head slightly. "This is common after a battle. I will recover. Though I must admit, something does haunt me." Lodin took another drink, then set the mug down firmly on the table and proceeded to share the vision he’d experienced while under the sway and curse of the Wight, William, in Chetwood.

Maethordan looked across the table at his companion - the first time hearing of such a horrid vision. "It seems that there may be something within that the darkness may pray upon; something it can use to distract you. Perhaps there is something that may be done to assist you, perhaps you can think of something to draw you back to the present, a responsibility or love you have?"

Gandalf nodded in agreement. "The blade that William held - the huine-blade operated in by granting one's desire and then turning it into a nightmare. William had always wanted to defend Archet... it was his pride and joy... that pride became his nightmare under the blade's influence... and madness consumed him. It would seem through the huine-blade, William was still able to invoke the blade's fell powers."

Lodin tried to push the memory of the visions away; to think of a light, something joyful, as Maethordan had said. Nothing immediately came to mind. He looked at Gandalf, grimly, "Well, all the better it is on its way to Elrond. I just pray it doesn't require extreme measures to destroy."

Gandalf hummed to himself - reminiscent of when the Huorn named Leaftop seemed to ponder things, before looking to Lodin, "I too hope that Lord Elrond can find a way to undo the fell weapon without requiring much."

Maethordan, a young ranger himself, regarded Gandalf as he pondered and simply smiled at the similarities between the two. Lodin scrutinized Gandalf for a moment, but left it; wizards and talking trees, bah!

Gandalf gestured towards the young waitress, Teelia, and requested a small tankard for himself. He looked back towards the Company. "When you reach the Shire, seek Cedivar Greenhand - he is a curious hobbit - one of the Bounders. A rather jumpy hobbit, no less. Claims I turned him into a toad once!" Gandalf laughed. "Would certainly explain why he is so jumpy! Sometimes, I think I'd do right turning that one into a toad, if I could! But he is a good hobbit. Pure of heart, he is."

Lodin frowned wondering if the toad incident was a similar nightmare to his own. Maethordan looked at Gandalf then asked "How will we know this Cedivar as the Shire is of a fair size and full of hobbits?"

"You will find him in Crickhollow in Buckland," Gandalf answered plainly. "As for finding him... He is one of the Bounders... and one of the most jumpy and perhaps paranoid Bounders... that, however, is a good thing. It makes him quite aware of small changes happening around him. Things the other Bounders may ignore. I may be sending you on a fool's errand, but I'd feel safer knowing you all had checked. Besides, some time among the Hobbits may help sooth the shadows I see in each of you."

Lodin took a deep breath and sighed, "Well, I think I'll send a messenger to Frerin to see if he's learned anything of Durindem. I wonder if Hobart is available?"

Gandalf nodded. "Write your message and I will go find the woodsman, Hobart to move urgently with your message."

Lodin wrote a letter, good thing his mother insisted on a basic education, detailing the events since Frerin's departure, emphasizing the events concerning Rukhsfelak. He requested an enquiry into Durindem and expressed his desire to visit the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains, when time permitted.

Gandalf took the scroll, rolled it up nicely, and tucked it beneath the sleeves of his left robe. "I will see to it personally that Hobart gets this and understands the urgency."

The Company remained with Gandalf for some time longer, sharing stories. When Gandalf excused himself to go find Hobart and deliver Lodin’s message to make its way to Blue Mountain, the Company stood up, paid for their drinks and returned to their designated rooms. Before Maethordan left to enter his room, Lodin called out, “Hold. The troll-cloaks that Fitch made appear to have been delivered. They’re here in my room.”

Lodin picked up one of the troll-cloaks, and they were - as Fitch predicted - heavy and burdensome, but they would also provide great protection. Maethordan slid on the cloak and immediately felt how heavy it was. He gave a slight spin, and with a smile, smirked, “How do I look?”

Arthanar blanched at the troll-skin hide cloaks. "They look disgusting," he muttered, "but at least, Fitch Talltrees was able to remove the troll-kin odor."

The following morning in each of their rooms, was a note scribed by Gandalf that read:

Dearest Lodin, Maethordan, Arthanar, and Welton -

I must thank you once again for your time investigating the matters at Crickhollow. Cedivar Greenhand is a good hobbit, if not a bit paranoid in all things. However, this may serve us well - as I said last night, his concerns are sometimes nothing more than his imagination - but his awareness to all these things around him that frighten him so may help find things that the other hobbits have become too placid in their concerns, as they are easy going folk.

If I have sent you on a fool's errand, take the time to enjoy the company of hobbits; they are fine folk and can help lift even the darkest of spirits.

G.

Before departing for Crickhollow, the Company stops at a store in Bree called “The Explorers of Bree” in search for another tent, and other such things they may need for their journey. Inside the store is a human, with brown hair and brown eyes, who looks like he has seen quite a bit of action himself, between his limping and the wrinkles, though there is no grey hair. Ah, welcome to The Explorers of Bree! My name is Darren Mossborn!" he said, beaming with pride. "The lot of you look like adventuring folk! What is it I can do for you this day?"

"Yes, we need another tent. And I could use a new whetstone please." Lodin eyed the Climbers kit dangling from the wall for a while, but with only two silver to his name, he moved on.

Darren began to gather the tent and whetstone, and noticed Lodin's eyes lingering on the climber's kit - always watching for where he can make a sale, he slide the items he’d gathered across the counter and leaned forward. "Much of a climber are you? If you've not the coin, I am always willing to trade for interesting things. I don't get to get out and about like I used to," he gestured to his leg, which clearly had a limp, and a large scar down his leg. "Boar got the best of me once. Not been able to really go out since. Wife doesn't appreciate it; so I opened this shop up. Some of this," he gestured, "is of my own things - others," he pointed to a few bobbles, "are of trades I made. Wife doesn't like it when I trade, as that doesn't put coin in the pocket and food on the table, but I miss going out and enjoyin' the wild. But it's gotten different out there these days. Not as safe as it used to be." He chuckled, "I've done it again - gone rambling. But yes, always willing to trade if you have something. Who knows what the next person walking in the door might need."

"Much obliged, but no,” Lodin replied, “I'm just thinking about what I'd need if ever I needed to hunt down... a certain foe. If it ever comes to that, I'm sure I'll have the coin by then."

"A certain foe," Darren leaned forward. "Mysterious words! Mysterious words!" He slapped the counter and laughed. He slid the tent onto the counter and the whetstone. "Listen, take the whetstone for free if you're taking the tent. That will be two silver pennies, it will. Wife will be happy to have coin in the pocket, food on the table, as she always says!"

Arthanar offered to pay 1 silver penny of the cost.

"I've not much use for the coin of Men," he whispered.

Lodin nodded in appreciation and gave the proprietor a silver penny along with Arthanar's.

Darren slid the silver pennies into his pocket and pushed the tent and whetstone across the counter. "May they keep you safe and warm out there," he said. "If you ever cross this way again, and have some stories to tell, I'd love to hear them!"

Maethordin smiled at Darren, looked almost surprised when he fished in his own pocket and came out with a handful of silver and said, "A tent, whetstone, two sacks, two set of candles, two oil flasks and two climber's kit please." 

He then handed over the eight silver pennies and said with a smile, "Keep the change." 

Maethordan then handed one of the sacks, containing one set of candles, one oil flask and climbers kit to Lodin and said softly, "Just in case you need them."

Darren was quite shocked by Maethordan's generosity and replied, "I will keep the lot of you in my thoughts, I will! And my wife will appreciate this!" He jingled the silver pennies in his hand before he pocketed it.

The Company left through the western gate of Bree on their travel to Crickhollow. On the first night, Maethordan nodded, “I have scouted these lands for some time. Follow me, I know of a short cut, where the path bends ahead - cutting through this path here, we will shorten the first night by several hours.”

The first night, the Company sat together, energy and spirits still high. They spoke little, mostly gazing into the flickering campfire before turning in for the night.

It was the second night, while Welton had been scouting the area that they would be making camp, that he saw something out of the ordinary - he spotted the orange glow of a campfire in the horizon as the sun set. Curious, he quietly approached and discovered a group of dwarven travelers, who seemed to be settling for the night; unpacking a few things from their wagons, which were being pulled by mules. He listened for a moment, and heard them speaking of coming from Blue Mountain, through the Tower Hills, and into Michael Delving. 

He returned to the rest of the Company to report what he'd seen.

“We should go speak with them,” Lodin said, his mind drifting to their former companion, Frerin Stonecliff, son of Vidar, who had during Yule, he received a summons from Balin, Son of Fundin, Envoy of Dáin Ironfoot, the King Under the Mountain to be called back to Blue Mountain because the goblins have grown more bold in their attacks.

Arthanar agreed; curious to speak with Dwarves. Long has it been that animosity between Dwarves and Elves had existed; but there’d been efforts to mend those. “I agree,” he nodded. “As I recall, a Dwarf traveled with you all briefly. He had departed before I had any chance to travel and speak with him, which I am saddened by. You have all spoken highly of him.”

“We should not come empty handed to their camp,” Lodin said. “We should bring food.” Lodin searched the edges of the road and found a foxhole. He caught two fully grown foxes for dinner.

After a quick exchange - and ensuring friendly terms - the dwarves greeted the Company to sit with them.

The leader of this band of merchants introduced himself as Borin Flameforge, son of Orin Flameforge. He gestured to the others to his right, introducing them as his brothers, "This is Dorin, and next to him is none other than Forin, and finally there's Lorin. Next to Lorin, is his beautiful wife, Dagrún. We've been traveling from the southern fragment of Blue Mountain on our way to Bree. We had to wait for the rains and snow of Yule to pass. Where might the lot of you be heading? And what are your names?"

"The name is Lodin, son of Brodin, of house Lodin,” Lodin replied. “I am a friend of dwarves among the bardings of Dale. We are currently on our way to Crickhollow to seek out a certain hobbit on the advice of Gandalf the Grey. These are my companions Maethordan and Cirion of the Rangers and Arthanar of Rivendell. With a name like Flameforge, might you be a family of smiths as well as merchants?"

Dagrún took the two foxes and smiled. "Fine meat," she said, as she drew a knife to begin skinning them.

"You will love Dagrún's cooking," Lorin said, his smile emerging from his twined beard. "All of Blue Mountain knows her cooking!"

Dagrún playfully punched Lorin, "Now stop that! You're going to make me blush in front of the new company!" 

Borin laughed and greeted the Company. "Well met!" Borin said, gesturing to a spot near the campfire. "Looks like some fresh meat there! We could go for some of that, as well, if you're willing to share. Game's a bit scarce out here. Could be because of the deep rains of that last Yule. As for coming from a family of smiths - my father, if he were still alive, that is - would scoff that you've not heard of the Flameforge name." He chuckled. "He was a wild one, that one. Always thought his name was widely known. But yes, I know the forges well, myself; learned from my father."

As Borin proudly brandished an axe he himself had forged, the blade glistened under the moonlight and the Flameforge brand is easily identifiable in the upper right corner of the curve of the axe. It is a symbol the Company had all seen before, and Welton, who saw it, winced. Indeed, the Flameforge weapons were some of the weapons that the Company had previously recovered from the ruffians, for whom Welton once served.

Maethordan nodded and said, "Lodin and I have seen that mark before, we returned some weapons from a group of bandits locally to the Captain of the Guard in Bree." He then looked at Lodin, and asked, "We may have something that requires fixing and you may be the person skillful enough to fix it," as Maethordan’s glance then went to Borin.

Borin's amber colored eyes resembled the flickering flames of a forge, his long red hair, braided nicely. His curious glance went from Maethordan to Lodin. "Wait," he said after a moment, "the lot of you - do you know Frerin?"

"Indeed,” Lodin nodded, having just been thinking of Frerin before coming to the dwarven camp. “We traveled and fought together for a short time until Lord Balin recalled him." He poked at the campfire with a small stick. "Just before we met, we had recovered many weapons from the bandits as Maethordan mentioned. Some of which were special. I took up stewardship of such a weapon, Rukhsfelak, forged by Durindem, until I could return it to its rightful owner. While fighting one of Ungoliant's spawn, it broke in two. I must return it to Durindem and take responsibility for what has happened."

"Frerin spoke well of the lot of you!" Borin said, with some awe. "And a spawn of Ungoliant," he shivered. Even her name brought a sense of dread. "Durindem..." he finally said after a moment, after getting the name of Ungoliant out of his mind and heart, "that is a name... I've not heard in a long time. Frerin was looking into Durindem when he and I met in Blue Mountain just before we took to the road. From what he had gathered, Durindem was headed for Moria... and not been heard from since. There are only stories now of Durindem. But Frerin continues to research. And a weapon broken - under such circumstances, it is understandable if such a foul beast you were fighting... I wish I knew such skill but Durindem was very skilled at his craft."

"Moria..." At the mention of it a shiver ran down Lodin's spine.

Borin nodded, feeling the same dread. The stories that surfaced from Moria were dreadful. The once proud kingdom of the Dwarves fallen to unspeakable shadow.

To lighten the mood, Maethordan drew his sword and offered it hilt first and said, "This too was forged by dwarven hands, according to Frerin, and one of the weapons recovered from the ruffians we had battled."

Borin admired the craftsmanship of Maethordan's longsword. "Dwarven make to be certain, but a longsword? Why would they -" He paused. "Ah, here it is. Azanfelak, the gift to the elves." He admired the blade. "It's seen some recent use by the looks of the blade. Some small nicks here and there that look far too clean to have been old." He handed the longsword back to Maethordan. "Intended as a gift of peace to the Elves," his eyes fell to Arthanar, "which, supposedly never reached the elves.  Azanfelak was the creator and had named the blade after him, as in offering himself to the Elves."

Arthanar nodded to Borin, as if answering an unspoken question, "My comrade has used the blade in Azanfelak's honor and slain many goblins and other fell creatures that seem to have risen of late. It is a gift, my kind, would gladly see in his hands, for he has done Azanfelak's gift a great honor."

Borin nodded, then looked at Lodin, who still seemed lost in thought - thinking of Moria. "Many stories come from Moria... many dark things... once the glorious home of the dwarves... now a place feared."

Lodin nodded, slightly confused, “Why would Durindem travel to Moria? Isn’t entrance forbidden?”

Borin whispered the word, barely audible above the gentle breeze, as if speaking its name might call it to them. "Aye, Durin's Bane..." It was all he could say, before he shuddered as if a winter breeze swept through the core of his body. "I will speak no more of it," he finally said more sternly, before extending his calloused hands in front of the fire, as if that could warm the chill that rattled his bones.

Lodin understood; all he had heard - the many stories - sometimes conflicting with one another - all had a common theme - a great evil dwelled in Moria. "Well, next time I speak to Frerin, perhaps there will be better news. In any case, what brings you this direction? Trading in Bree, or going further afield?"

Lorin, seeing his young brother's discomfort, stood. He was the salesman, the trademan, while Borin was the maker of weapons. "Indeed!" he said, with a wave of his hand, emphatically. His hands were nowhere near as calloused as Borin's. "First we will be heading to Bree. Our quick stop in the Shire was just because Hobbits are pleasant enough folk, but don't appreciate a good weapon. A human in Bree named Skyhawk - commands the guards there. He's got a good eye. He was the one who sent a missive that our previous hardware had been reclaimed. After Bree, it is a long trek indeed, to Rivendell, where we've often traded with the Elves there. Lord Elrond is a good elf," Lorin nodded to Arthanar. "He appreciates good craftsmanship. It is good to be allies again. Then from there, whatever we've sold or traded, we come back to Bree; perhaps sell or trade with people of Bree again with things we bring from Rivendell, then back through the Shire - they always seem to enjoy the Elven tokens we acquire while in Rivendell - then back to Blue Mountain."

Dagrún threw the skinned foxes into the iron pot of boiling water, while throwing in an assortment of potatoes and spices. A pleasant smell soon filled the area.

She handed the skinned furs to Lodin. "Your hunt, your furs."

The following morning, farewells and well travels are shared between the Company the Borin and company; Borin and company depart with Dagrún leaving the Company with some meals she'd cooked.

It’d been several more days on the open road, without much more happening before the Company first arrived at the Brandywine Bridge.

As the Company crossed the Brandywine Bridge, and followed the river south, the Company eventually arrived at Crickhollow. The land was green and lush, as one might expect, being a homeland for the Hobbits. Small hills rolled throughout, with some being burrows - or homes - for some of the Hobbits who call Crickhollow home. A hedge ran along the western side, which separated Crickhollow from The Old Forest. Hobbits moved about, some glancing at the Company as they entered Crickhollow. It isn't long before a bounder - The Bounders were responsible for policing the borders of the Shire and ensuring that outsiders behaved themselves - approached the Company. 

"Excuse me!" the bounder said, pulling himself up right. "My name is Moro! Moro Bunce! And I am a bounder! What business do you have here in Crickhollow if I may ask?"

A young, female hobbit came to stand next to Moro Bunce and placed her hand on his shoulder. "These tall folk have probably been sent by Gandalf," she said smiling at the Company, then back to Moro. "My name is Daisy. Daisy Bunce. I take it Cedivar Greenhand's concerns reached the ears of Gandalf himself and he in turn has sent you all to investigate?"

Lodin thought twice about asking for the talking toad, but instead, cleared his throat and confirmed, "Gandalf did indeed direct us here."

Daisy nudged Moro. "Go on and fetch Cedivar."

Moro stood there for a moment, huffed, and quickly (or as quickly as young hobbits can!) dashed down the path.

Daisy winked. "He means well. He's eager to prove himself. There's been a number of queer things going on around Crickhollow - and for once, I think Cedivar may be onto something."

Maethordan smiled at Daisy and said, "Well met, it is good to see the bounders have such good support."

Daisey blushed at Maethordan's compliment. "You tall folk always say such nice things!"

"Do tell; what kinds of things have been happening?" Lodin asked, while they waited.

"Well," she said after giving it some thought, "it's not my proper place to say, you see - I am not a Bounder and this is Bounder business. But Moro is my husband and he's shared much with me. One of the pressing concerns is, several weeks ago, several farms have experienced an unusual event where all their crops have mysteriously died... if that weren't weird enough, the livestock seems fearful of the land. It's near the river, and the river water seems fine so far as we've been able to tell. It's not clear what might be -"

Before she could finish, Moro arrived with Cedivar Greenhand.

Cedivar Greenhand looked over the Company, "All tall folk! For a wizard who loves hobbits, does he know none that could help?"

Moro looked to Cedivar Greenhand. "Well, we know how that goes. Sometimes, the adventure is profitable - look at Mr. Baggins! Sometimes, it's not - just think of Hoplite Glendoodle who arrived just a week before they did! He's blind, he is! Bitten by giant spiders! Giant Spiders! Seems outlandish!"

Cedivar Greenhand nodded, his eyes darting this way and that. "So - Gandalf sent you then? You're here to help? Not just passing through like those merchant dwarves?"

Lodin offered his hand in greeting. "I am Lodin, from Dale, and these are my companions, Maethordan and Cirion, of the Rangers, and Arthanar of Rivendell."

Cedivar Greenhand looked at Lodin's hand, to ensure there was no trickery afoot, then shook it quickly. His eyes follow each person that Lodin mentioned during his introduction.

Cedivar Greenhand is taken out of his thoughts, when Moro nudges him. "Look!" He tried to whisper but could not contain his excitement. "That's an elf!" Moro gestured towards Arthanar with his eyes wide. "Just like Mr. Baggins said! Beautiful people they are! It's a real elf! My stars! I never thought I would ever see an elf."

Cedivar Greenhand slapped Moro's hand down. "Show some manners, Moro! You're a Bounder!" 

Moro gasped and pulled himself upright again, with Daisey smiling and shaking her head at Moro's uncontained excitement.

"Pardon Moro's excitement," Cedivar Greenhand sighed, glancing all about. His voice went low, as if ensuring only those gathered around could hear him. "Tolman Greenburrows - his farmland has been cursed! And we know not why! The land has behaved quite queer - turning brown and even black - as if charred - in some areas! And his livestock? Some of them got sick, but Daisey here is great with herbs - and was able to nurse them back to health! But they won't go near the cursed land now! And that livestock is how Tolman makes his trade! We've checked - Moro, and other Bounders and I - and we can't tell what might be going on! But something isn't right! And when you get there - you will feel it. Something feels different on Tolman's farmland."

"Would someone be kind enough to take us to this corrupted land and we take a look around to find the source of the issue?" Maethordan asked, glancing between the Hobbits.

Now, after a moment's peace, Lodin felt the fatigue of the several days' travel from Bree to Crickhollow catch up to him and sneezed a little bit and wiped his nose.

Cedivar Greenhand stared at his own hand after Lodin sneezed. He then vigorously wiped it on his light, brown vest. "Ah, yes," he said after a moment of examining his hand. "Follow me."

Cedivar Greenhand led the Company to the farmland of Tolman Greenburrows. 

The Hobbit's description of the land was accurate - all around the farmland of Tolman Greenburrows' area - the land was lush and green. However, the fences that mark his land - much of it is brown or black in color. Several apple trees that grew here, now are limp, as if the core of the trees had been liquefied and the apples are shriveled and black. The three sheep that were owned by Tolman were as far away from the 'cursed' soil as they could possibly be. Tolman Greenburrows himself seemed to be trying to rake the land, shaking his head in frustration.

"That's Tolman Greenburrows over there," Cedivar pointed, though it was clear that Cedivar was too nervous to even set foot on Tolman's property.

Maethordan approached the fence and called to Tolman "Mister Greenburrows, may we enter your lands? My colleagues and I are here to lend whatever support we can."

Tolman Greenburrows slammed the rake into the ground a few more times in frustration; then turned to see the Company standing there, and quickly blushed.

"Pardon me! I had not seen you approaching!" He brushed himself off to look as presentable as possible, dirt and grime all over his clothing, in his relentless effort to fix his land. "I do say, yes! Please! Come."

Cedivar Greenhand cleared his throat. "I will wait here," he said, staying on the other side of the fence.

Maethordan vaulted the fence easily and walked up to the Hobbit. He stopped just short and went down on one knee, looked Tolman in the eyes and offered his hand and said " I am Maethordan and this is Cirion and we are both Rangers." He pointed to himself and Cirion. He then pointed to the other two and said "This is Lodin, son of Brodin, of Dale and that is Arthanar of Rivendell". He then paused to give the hobbit time to take it all in and said "Please tell us what happened from the beginning."

Tolman Greenburrows nodded to each person as Maethordan introduced them. "Well, my son and daughter noticed it first - that's my daughter over there," he pointed to a young, female hobbit, in her teens; long golden hair, spiraling down. She's playing with a wood carved toy. "Her name is Primula. My son is," Tolman looked around, "I am not sure where my son is. He's got Took-blood, I swear! His name is Isengar, and he's an adventurous one! Mind is always going, making new fantastic stories! He heard Mr. Baggins share some stories, now he wants to do the same! But I've told him, a proper hobbit doesn't go adventuring like Mr. Baggins! That's the thing of tall folk," he nodded, "like yourselves. So, if Isengar pops up, I will introduce you to him proper. That over there is my wife, Mirabella." He gestured to a beautiful female hobbit, eyes of green hills, hair like the sun captured in her curls. She tended to the uneasy sheep. "My children noticed almost two weeks ago that the soil started to turn brown. Then the apple trees became sickly, then one of my sheep almost died - as if poisoned - but Daisy Bunce - not sure if you've met her - a fine lass she is - she saved my sheep. The others," again he gestured towards his wife, who was tending to the sheep, "won't go near this large patch of land you see before you," he extended his hands outward, and there is several acres of land that now looks brown and black, with sickly apple trees dotting the land. "Thankfully, I've kind neighbors who have allowed my sheep to graze on their lands. I've tried everything - bringing new soil, checking the river. I've not been able to tell what might be causing it. But it did start - this infection, if you will - near the river."

Maethordan moved towards the edge of the river, near where a large mass of the land had been tainted black. He kneeled down and looked at the riverbed, to see if he could see any evidence that the river might be poisoned - he recalled how the Cargûl had hoped to poison Bree’s water supply - had it done the same here? He noticed in the mud, something had been disturbed - a small hole, no larger than several inches had been dug up. But he could not be certain - had this been recent?

When Maethordan looked back - he could see his companions were exhausted from the long journey. Welton, who was not used to journeying as he had often positioned himself near roads as a look out or remained at Gwathpind  - the ruffian base - found the travel between Bree and Crickhollow exhausting. Even the graceful elf, Arthanarr, also exhausted, however, still moved with elven grace, his fine features barely revealing his own weariness, as he approached Maethordan.

Despite his exhaustion, Arthanar touched the soil, his fingers tracing the small hole. "Something vile was here," he said softly, pulling his hand away. "It was not here long before it was moved again." His eyes looked around.

Even as Arthanar spoke the words, Maethordan somehow knew - this ‘curse’ upon the land was not something natural - something foul was at work. Maethordan reached beneath his mail shirt and pulled out what looked to be a small simple chain. He played with something attached to it as he seemed to mull over Arthanar's words.

Despite his fatigue, Arthanar noted the item Maethordan gently caressed and whispered, "That ring in your hand - the one you hold? Does it mean something to you? As a Scholar, I recognize its craft - it is a much older ring - it was named Inzidishadi, the gift of insight, it was said to bestow to those who wear it."

As Arthanar spoke, Maethordan's eyes scanned around him - Primula Greenburrows, the young daughter of Tolman, seemed unusually nervous.

Almostly thoughtlessly, Maethordan replied to Arthanar, while keeping his gaze locked on the young, female hobbit, Primula. "It is an heirloom of my family though I am unsure whether it came from my mother or my father."

"History would say it is from your father - for the ring was used by one of the three Númenóreans kings, to always know, if those who stood before him spoke truthfully to him," Arthanar whispered.

Maethordan removed the ring from the necklace and slid it onto his finger as he walked towards Primula and again went down to one knee and asked, "Did you see anything, or do you know something?" His voice was calm, soothing; he could tell that Primula knew more, and that coaxing her to speak might reveal what burden she hid.

Primula continued to play with her doll, refusing to make eye contact with Maethordan. "I don't know anything." Her voice was strained. She was noticeably fidgeting with her doll nervously. The hole in the ground was roughly the same size of her doll she's holding; though her doll bore no marks of dirt or grime, even in the crevices of the wooden doll that one would expect to see had it been buried; even if it had been thoroughly cleaned.

In a calm voice Maethordan said, "You are not in trouble, but it could be really important that you tell me, is it something to do with the doll?"

Primula shook her head. "It was Isengar's fault! He wanted to do one of his adventures! So he grabbed a stick and he and I went adventuring into the Old Forest! Pappa tells us we're not allowed to but Isengar has snuck past the gates before! And we found - what we thought was an old smial - ! When we went inside, it was full of tree roots from the Old Forest... it felt very strange... I heard something down there... and we found... Isengar called it a treasure... I called it horrible... there was a skeleton down there... in old armor... and Isengar took the necklace it wore - and when we did we heard a loud roar from deep inside the smial. We ran back home. We felt the ground rumbling beneath us the entire time, so Isengar buried the metal figure in the ground but the rumbling didn't stop and the land got sick so ... so..." At this point she had begun to cry. "Today, Isengar dug it up and was going back into the Old Forest and to the smial to return it to see if that stops all of this."

With the truth revealed, Maethordan looked around and then asked, "Can anyone lead us to this Smial in the old forest. We have to get there as soon as possible, Isengar could be in danger!"

“Smial! In the Old Forest? There is no smail in the Old Forest,” Tolman Greenburrows announced.

Cedivar Greenhand observing this all sends Moro Bunce over (still refusing to step on the 'cursed' land himself). Tolman Greenburrows looked at Moro and said, "Isengar has gone into the Old Forest! Into some hole!"

Moro looked shocked, "Old Forest! He's not supposed to go into the Old Forest! Especially not some hole in the Old Forest! We have to go after him!"

Moro looked at Welton, who was sitting with Lodin at the table, and Arthanar who was still at the river's edge observing the soil.

"Your companions look exhausted, Ranger of the North," Moro said, "so I offer my service!”

Arthanar, hearing the Hobbit's vigor, stood. "I am fatigued, but nothing shall stop me if a child is in danger - I shall go."

Welton stood, but his knees gave way. "I am ... too exhausted," he mutters, barely audible.

Primula looked to her father, then back at Maethordan. "I know where the hole is..."

Tolman shook his head. "Draw a map for them."

"The Old Forest moves," Moro turned to Tolman. "You know that. You have my word, we shall keep her safe."

Tolman's mouth opened to protest - but he knew there's no other way. He would now be risking his daughter in hopes of saving his son.

The Old Forest moves. Maps of the Old Forest are useless.

Realizing his break is over, Lodin lumbered over Maethordan, Arthanar and Moro Bunce, imitating the Huorn, Leaftop.

Tolman's wife, Mirabella, went to Welton's side and offered him some food. "You look dreadful," she said plainly, "though I mean no ill from my words. Just matter of fact. Please, stay here and rest. Moro and your other companions will find Isengar - I am certain of it."

Welton took the food and the offer to remain behind, thankful that Moro had stepped up.

They followed the path from Crickhollow to The High Hay - or sometimes known as The Hedge - which was a barrier hedge planted by the Hobbits of Buckland to protect their land from the Old Forest.

Long ago the trees of the Old Forest seemed to have attacked the Hedge by planting themselves right by it and leaning over it. In response, the Bucklanders cut down hundreds of trees to make a great bonfire in Bonfire Glade and burned a long strip next to the Hay on its east side.

Constantly tended to, it was thick and tall, and ran for over twenty miles. At the north end the Hay ran down to the river-bank close to the Brandywine Bridge. Nearby was an opening in the barrier, the North Gate, where gate-guards were posted day and night. From there the Hay wound southwards to the confluence of the Brandywine River and the Withywindle. East of Crickhollow there was a private entrance that the Brandybucks used, which was a brick-lined tunnel under the Hay with a gate of thick-set iron bars on the forest side.

Upon reaching the gate, Moro looked at the two guards. "Have you seen Isengar pass through here?"

The two hobbit bounders at the gate, exchanged glances, and then looked at Moro and shook their heads.

Primula shook her head. "The thing that chased us... it made a small hole in the Hedge... that's probably where Isengar passed through. Whatever it is... it's been moving underground for awhile, I think," she added, fidgeting with her blond, curly locks of hair nervously.

Once past the Gate, inside; the Company observed the familiar sound of creaking wood.

The ancient forest, appropriately named 'The Old Forest' had trees of every size; their branches reaching high, and in many cases, entangling one another, creating a dark canopy above. As the Company moved through the Old Forest - when Moro had mentioned the woods moved - he was not fabricating a tale. Indeed, as Primula led the Company through the Old Forest - the occasional tree suddenly uprooted itself and moved ever so slightly.

Lodin, Arthanar and Maethordan exchanged glances with one another. They knew what these were - they were Huorns, similar to the one they’d encountered in Chetwood, named Leaftop. However, they seemed to be in a slumbering state - almost as if sleep walking - not awakened, as Leaftop had been, and it was not one - but many of them - moving randomly, this way and that way, sometimes only a few feet, sometimes twenty feet, before rooting again. Certainly, the majority of trees here in the Old Forest are not Huorns - but there were quite a few.

Each time a slumbering Huorn moved - Primula paused, holding her breath - for the slumbering Huorn to settle again. "We mustn't wake them," she whispered. After some time, and the sun had begun to set, Primula pointed, "There. There's the entrance... though it's wider now."

As the Company set foot inside - due to the canopy of the trees, and the hole beneath the ground - there was no light and visibility was extremely poor. Moro began to hum a song beneath his breath about adventures he'd heard Gandalf and Mr. Baggins speak of, and the courage they mustered together.

Maethordan strapped his shield to his arm then lit a torch and carried it in his now free left hand.  Then drew his sword and turned to Lodin and asked, "You ready?"

"Shall I take the front?" Lodin stepped forward leading the way, with Maethordan's light at his back, presuming the Ranger’s response.

As they passed inside the mouth of the cave, Lodin’s eyes glanced around, and hoped that this wasn’t the opening to a mouth.

As Maethordan moved to stand side by side with Lodin, he nodded, “Let us do this together,” and he spoke the command to light up his sword. As the Company pushed forward - a chill came from the north. A chill that they had all been familiar with (except for Moro Bunce, who shivered and rubbed his hands up and down his arms, whispering about the bone chilling cold). For the others, they knew what it had felt like - It had the same feeling, the same death-like cold, that chilled down to the core of the body, that no warmth, no fire, no clothing could protect against - it had the same chilling sensation that William brought in Chetwood…

The silence was almost deafening, eerily so; but then the Company heard it… A gentle, haunting moan from ahead. A sense of dread coming with the cold. Unmistakably, some kind of restless spirit was just ahead… “Show yourself,” Lodin commanded.

A ghostly image emerged - "Return the token of our Master," it hissed through its undead lips. Dressed in tattered animal skins, the human’s figure was faintly, transparent, a light blue hue. This was no wight or ghast - this was a phantom.

The phantom before them was the phantom of a Hillman from Rhudaur based on his language and clothing; historically, the Company knew how the Army of Angmar not only had a massive force of Orcs, but they also employed the hill-men of Rhudaur and other fell things that all once  fell under the command of the dreaded Witch-king of Angmar, a deputy of the then-hidden Sauron. 

In the days of King Argeleb I an evil lord of the Hillmen who was secretly allied with the realm of Angmar seized power in Rhudaur where there were few Dúnedain. In T.A. 1409 a great army came from Angmar, invaded and ravaged Cardolan, surrounded Weathertop, burned and destroyed the Tower of Amon Sûl, defeated the Dúnedain and killed King Arveleg I of Arthedain. 

During his lifetime, the father of Arveleg, Argeleb son of Malvegil, was the only King in Arnor that still had Isildur's heritage. As such, he claimed lordship over Rhudaur and Cardolan. The men of Rhudaur resisted this claim, and a captain of the Hill-men of that land formed a secret alliance with Argeleb's enemy, the Witch-king of Angmar. Thus Arveleg grew up in an era of War. The armies of Angmar and Rhudaur laid siege to the Weather Hills, and Argeleb fell. And so, in T.A. 1356, Arveleg became the eighth King of Arthedain.

With the help of the Dúnedain of Cardolan and the Elves of Lindon, Arveleg managed to drive out the enemies from the Weather Hills. Arthedain and Cardolan kept a guarded border along the Weather Hills, the East Road and the lower Hoarwell. This defence was apparently effective, as Angmar shifted its attention to Rivendell instead.

In T.A. 1409, the armies of Angmar and Rhudaur crossed the Hoarwell, occupied Cardolan, and closed in on Weathertop. In a bloody battle, both Arveleg and the last prince of Cardolan were slain. The palantír of Amon Sûl could be saved, however, and was brought to the capital of Arthedain, Fornost.

Evil Men who were subject to Angmar occupied Rhudaur and the Dúnedain of Rhudaur were killed or fled to the west. The Hillmen of Rhudaur were an evil folk, workers of sorcery, subjects of Angmar!

"We are not so easily frightened as children, spirit, maybe your evil has lingered in the place enough and we should purge it..." Maethordan paused to show he was not afraid and then continued "Where is the boy Isengar? If he is unharmed and returned to us we may return the item you have requested. Woe betide you if you have done him harm."

The Hillman from Rhudaur phantom growled, "The child is a thief. My pet will find him and feast on his bones." And with that, the phantom of the Hillman of Rhudaur dissipated into the air and simultaneously, the ground rumbled violently.

Lodin turned to Maethordan. “The phantom spoke as if he did not know where Isengar was. Could he have gotten in without them discovering him? Can you track him, Maethordan?"

Maethordan examined the area to see if he could track the boy or the pet the spirit spoke of.

Knowing the Phantom was a Hillman of Rhudaur, he began to sing and hum a song that spoke of the Witch-King’s defeat, touching Maethordan on the shoulder, blessing him.

As Maethordan examined the soil - two things he quickly noticed. The plants around here were all brown and withering. Something vile was down here to have brought death to these withering plants. In the barren dirt, he quickly noticed a pattern - a long line, with dashes next to it - it looks like a giant serpent.... with perhaps hundreds of legs. Small skeletons of animals lay  scattered about, in the darker corners of the area. Whatever made this path was undoubtedly  enormous - and certainly no beast Maethordan had ever tracked before.

Though this was no beast he’d ever tracked before - there was something familiar about it. The way he imagined it looked triggered a childhood memory of his mother sharing a story with him. She’d shared much with him, Maethordan did not have an easy childhood. His mother died young, he never knew his father; and the stories Maethodan’s mother often shared were things to prepare him for a dark world that waited for him. One such story that now seemed to surface as he examined the tracks was one where his mother often spoke of the sorcery and evil of the Witch-King and what he'd done. 

A power had been seized by "men in secret league with Angmar" during the time of King Malvegil of Arthedain and that "an evil folk, workers of sorcery, subjects of Angmar" killed the Dúnedain in Rhudaur and constructed dark forts in the hills during the time of King Arveleg I of Arthedain.

The Witch-king came from the North, overwhelmed the realms of Cardolan and Rhudaur, destroyed the Númenoreans that lived there, that Cardolan was abandoned and filled with deadly spirits and that "an evil people out of the North, much given to sorcery" lived in Rhudaur "for long."

She told shared a story with Maethordan that Fornost did not fall by normal means. The Witch-king unleashed against the city a terrifying creature that owed him a debt of gratitude. It was this enemy of all light and life that disrupted the defenses and brought them down; with massive mandibles, it was capable of burrowing beneath the defenses of those who stood against the Witch-King. 

The debt paid, it returned to the darkness from which it had been called; but the foul best bore litter, litter that the Witch-King used the Hillmen of Rhudaur trained, manipulated and controlled. The offspring of the nameless horror burrowed beneath the ground, perhaps to strike at lands that still stood or may stand against the Witch-King.

Why had it stopped here? 

Maethordan wondered - could it have been responsible for the massive cave system located beneath Archet and Combe and reached as far as Bree - the Felyadûr caves? 

Primula tugged nervously at her hair, her soft, innocent voice pulling Maethordan back to reality, relieving him of the shadows he felt burdening his spirit. "To the left... that leads to... to..." She shuddered, gripped in fear.

Lodin watched Maethordan track the two trails, and after he pointed to the young hobbit's trail, he started following it saying "The boy takes priority." Maethordan nodded and sheathed his sword and raised the torch to illuminate the way.

Ascending a small, three foot ledge, to the left - the torch light illuminated a massive fell-plant in the center with slithering vines that moved ever so slightly, as if composed of hundreds of snakes. The torch light illuminates Isengar - moving very slowly to the southeast of the massive plant. When he spotted the Company, he quickly held up his hand, but said no words.

Primula whispers, barely audible, "It detects vibrations."

Arthanar was familiar with smaller plants that operated similarly; plants that would have what appeared to be teeth on the outside, though they were in truth, merely firm portions of the plant, and would lay open, waiting for insects to step inside of its maw, before snapping shut - but these plants were small - no bigger than one’s hand, and relied solely on devouring insects.

Lodin got a flask of oil out and readied to light whatever this monstrosity is on fire if needed. "Only in an emergency, the fire will quickly consume any oxygen.  We must make a hasty retreat." Lodin pondered to himself how they could have thought this was a smial, shaking his head.  The imaginations of children.

Maethordan frowned when he looked at Lodin and gestured towards the north end of the passage which seemed to be free of plants tendrils and then carefully, slowly and silently moved after Isengar. However, Maethordan's over-confidence betrays him - the slithering, snake-like vines move with snake-like speed as well, lashing out at Maethordan! One quickly wrapped around his ankle, and through his armor, he felt wooden tendrils pierce his flesh, and felt something - not poison, but something foul, dark - like a necrotic sting!

Seeing Maethordan wince in pain, Lodin brought his blade on the vine that had wrapped itself around Maethordan. His blade cut deep into the vine, but did not sever it. He watched in horror as black ichor poured out of the vine. “Free him,” Lodin pointed his blade to Maethordan as he moved across the floor, to get to Isengar.

A second tendril lashed out at Maethordan, and it too, found its mark, injecting him, yet again, with foul, necrotic toxins. His body shivered uncontrollably as he felt the foul magic course through his veins. As Lodin returned with Isengar, another vine lashed out at him, striking his arm, and he too now understood the pain Maethordan felt - as tendrils sprouted, injecting him with the necrotic toxin. Primula, seeing those that had come to help, clearly in danger, drew her wooden dagger and plunged it into the vine that had wrapped around Lodin!

Moro quickly moved to aid Maethordan, using his short sword to cut at the vine, while Arthanar complained that he needed a better melee weapon, and began to pummel at the vines using his staff. Isengar, drew his wooden dagger, and also stabs at the vines; and after a moment, Lodin and Maethordan are freed and retreat back.

“We should take the children back,” Maethordan said, holding his leg that would not stop bleeding. 

“Then come back and finish this business here,” Lodin agreed, looking at his arm, which almost looked as if it had been burned - the same blackness that now ran up Maethordan’s leg, the same blackness that tainted Toliman’s farms. Both he and Maethordan were sickly from the necrotic toxin or whatever the fell plant had injected them with.

The Company was able to successfully retreat from the fell hole; and upon reaching the Gate at the Hedge, were greeted by Daisey Bunce who rushed up and hugged Moro. "You should have seen it!" Moro huffed. "A foul thing - foul! A plant that lived and preyed on flesh! There were smaller animal skeletons scattered about!" Daisey gasped in horror, but was thankful to see both Isengar and Primula safe.

She looked at Moro. "Someone is waiting to speak to them at Tolman's home."

The way she said someone was ominous - and she did not expand on it further. Even after some prodding. Upon reaching Tolman's smail, Tolman and Mirabella rushed out to embrace their children. Tolman seemed about ready to scold Isengar when a voice from inside his smail said, "I heard you went on an adventure young boy."

Stepping out of Tolman's home was an older hobbit, who appears to be 75 years old, or so. He puffed on his pipe. He had curly brown hair, brown eyes, slightly pointed ears, and big, hairy feet (and no shoes!) He wore green velvet breeches, a tan waistcoat beneath, and tan jacket, with a dark green hood and cloak. Isengar's eyes went wide, "Bilbo Baggins!"

"That's right," the elder hobbit smiled and took a seat. "Now, you're too young to be going on adventures, Isengar. I was fifty - fifty! - when I first went on my adventure! You are what? Ten?"

"Thirteen," Isengard corrected, proudly.

"Thirteen," Bilbo puffed on his pipe. "I barely remember thirteen. Feels so long ago. And when I went on my adventure, I was in the company of thirteen dwarves! Fighters, like these here," he gestured to Lodin, Maethordan and Arthanar, "who accompanied me - or rather, I accompanied them! If it's adventure you seek, young Isengar, it will come to you. Until then, you should not venture out into the Old Forest."

"I did it," Isengar admitted, "and pretended it was Mirkwood, because of the adventures you spoke of in Mirkwood."

"Well, the Old Forest has dangers of its own, as you have seen."

Isengar nodded. "I need to return this." He held out a small, black, metallic figurine that looked to have been an ornament on a necklace. "Ever since I took this from that hole... there's a monster down there... that burrows and digs... and it's what makes the land sick. If I return it, perhaps it will slumber once again."

"Whatever it is, it is for adults to figure out. Why don't you leave it with us?" Lodin said, extending his hand out to Isengar.

As the metallic figure - blacker than anything the Company had ever seen - almost as if completely devoid of light, and banishing any form of reflection, despite its metallic texture - as Isengar handed it to Lodin, a flash happens before Lodin’s eyes - he sees the figure of a human, whose features were shriveled, a large, black crown, black as night, on his head - the blades of the crowns, long, and pointing up, like rows of swords. Black robes flowed around him.

"Take the spawn of the Crawler of the Pit, Zerikahn. Take the Hillman of Rhudaur named Alligarius with you. He has trained the spawn. Burrow far and deep beneath the towns that stand against our master. We shall strike them from beneath, just as we did Fornost. None shall stand before our Dark Lord."

The vision ended, Lodin’s body was cold and shivering beyond reason.

Lodin gazed down at the metallic figure and he knew; if he wanted to, he could close his eyes and embrace the Shadow this figurine emitted and learn more; but at what cost? Quickly, he threw it into his satchel. 

Lodin turned and faced the young male hobbit. "Isengar. Did you see visions when you touched this? Did they hurt you?"

Isengar shook his head. "No. I had no visions. It did hurt me," he showed Lodin his hand, and there was a small cut. "But that was just the metal."

As Arthanar tended to Maethordan’s leg, Lodin said firmly, "This 'trinket' cannot remain here. Whatever that creature is, it is venomous and is seeking this totem of its master, the Witch-King." Lodin shared his vision with the group. "Shall we see if any eagles are near to carry this away? I fear it will attract more trouble."

Isengar, clearly racked with guilt over unintentionally having started this. "What if the beast below follows the great eagles? And destroys more farms?"

Arthanar nodded at the boy, as he tightened the last bandage around Maethordan’s leg, then looked to Lodin. "Believe it or not, the boy speaks with some wisdom. We should recover, and see if the beast comes for it tonight and if not, tomorrow, return to the hole and find it and destroy it. Whatever it is. Then yes, call upon the great eagles to take the trinket far from here." 

"That is exactly my concern, that it will come, and we won't be able to rest before it does. We can hunt it either way, but I'd rather it be on our timing, not the creature's." Lodin said, plainly.

Maethordan, admiring Arthanar’s work, already the pain in his leg was subsiding, knew this token to be a trinket given to the Witch-King's most trusted - and often - most vile agents. His mother spoke of such agents - the ones who slew the Dúnedain were often rewarded with such tokens - so that other soldiers understood their importance and strived to earn such tokens themselves. The token is old - ancient - and said to be - according to your mother, forged of Mithril, and burned in the hottest of flames, to take away its color and shine, as it was shaped and forged.

Maethordan shared this knowledge with the Company, then asked, "Would we be able to break or mar it, or even remake it into something else? Perhaps that would help break their hold on the area?"

"If it is indeed composed of Mithril," Arthanar noted, "marring it or remaking it would be difficult without a dwarven forge or great flame."

Lodin turned to Moro, "Is there any place nearby that is solid rock? It won't be able to burrow there or ruin any more soil. We could keep it there for the time being."

Moro gave it some thought. "We do have a large storage room that is made of stone!" 

He escorted the Company to the storage facility. Inside, there were preserves (jams, pickles), root vegetables (potatoes, carrots), pipe-weed, and extra furniture (mugs, vases, board games), much like a big, well-stocked pantry and attic combined, reflecting their love for comfort and food.

Lodin found an empty table and placed it there. Maethordan looked at Lodin and Moro, “I will camp here inside the storage. Should the beast come, I will alert all of you.”

Lodin nodded and followed Moro and Daisy, sleeping peacefully in their smial. Arthanar slept beneath the stars, while Welton continued to sleep at the Greenburrows.

As Maethordan lie on the stone floor, using his recently purchased materials from Bree to be as comfortable as possible, it took him some time to get comfortable - and even as he began to drift to sleep, he thought he heard rumbling - but it was unclear if it was the fell-beast, the trinket, or his imagination playing tricks on him, yet somehow, perhaps because of the presence of the Hobbits, as Gandalf had said in Bree - he still awoke, refreshed.

For Lodin, Daisy and Moro offered him ample food, and after several bites, the exhaustion kicked in and he too slumbered peacefully.

The following morning as Hobbits began to move about and sing, the Company saw Welton sitting at the table near the Greenburrows farm - he did not look rested. It was clear now to Maethordan, that it had not only been the long journey from Bree to the Shire that Welton was not accustomed to - a heavy burden lay on his spirit. Maethordan approached him, “What ails you?”

Though looking far less haggard than he had when the Company arrived in the Shire; Welton still did not look well. He cleared his throat and spoke hoarsely, as if perhaps he had been crying for long periods and shared, his eyes watering again, "My apologies. The shadow weighs heavy on my heart. My mind thinks of Fred and Harry Stoneacre - Fred, who died cursed by the Wight, William Stanwick... and Harry, consumed by Thlingril and her spider-kin... I think of Torwald Farsong, slain by the Cargûl in such a cruel fashion... decapitated... his body pinned to a tree, his head cut and placed on a tree stump to stare at his desiccated body... I think of all those that died defending Archet... I think of those Rangers who died going into Chetwood to track down William and Thlingril ... and here I am, undeserving of the fortune to be spared... I was no better than Fred and Harry... or Torwald... we were all a part of the Broken Hand... I even owe my life to the beauty and grace of an elf, such as Arthanar, who saved me from the giant spider's lethal venom... it nearly killed me... and worse so, our hobbit companion, Hoplight, who also survived, but lost his eye sight... but I did not.... I was again, for reasons I can not fathom, spared... These visions have haunted me, caused me to toss and turn relentlessly... I can not shake them from my mind, for guilt forces my eyes open, to see it all, and robs me of sleep... ironic, I know, to be robbed of sleep... when I spent most of my life robbing others... perhaps that is why I have been spared."

Maethordan nodded and said, "While I cannot relieve you of your guilt for your previous life, I can tell you that it is good that you feel it. It means that you have not fallen so far, it means that you can redeem yourself. Please if you are not well please stay here and recover. We will be good to walk this path without you until you do so."

Welton nodded to Maethordan. "I will stay here. I will help protect the Shire, should the beast come this way." 

Moro stepped up, "I will finish this business with all of you, then. Rest, human." Moro patted Welton on the hand. "Daisy has some food that will help you feel better."

Moro looks to Maethordan, Lodin, and Arthanar, "Let us end this business and seal that hole when we're done!"

Daisy clearly looked very concerned about Moro, but her eyes brimmed with tears of mixed concern and pride.

Lodin looked to Daisy and said, "Fear not.  We'll look out for him.” Then Lodin winked at her like he would a child out of habit, but then turned away with a look of horror on his face when he realized it.

Diasey blushed and got a scorned, but playful look, from Moro, before she took Welton's hand. "Come now, rest. I will get some proper food in you! All that road-traveling food just can't be good for you!" She giggled, glancing back at Moro playfully.

Moro frowned, sarcastically and looked at the Company. "I am fairly certain Daisy has the blood of a Took in her, with how mischievous she is!" Moro then smiled at Lodin, "Though I don't fault you for winking. She is greater than any treasure from dragons or dwarves, I say!"

Lodin blubbered something inaudible under his breath.

Bilbo stepped out, and puffed on his pipe once. "I saw your weapon you carry is broken," he said to Lodin. "I have this," he drew a short sword from his backpack. "It's not Sting, mind you, but it's a fine weapon given to me by the Dwarves when Smaug was defeated."

The short short was fine Dwarven craftsmanship. "It has a rather keen blade, does it not?" Bilbo held it out and it gleamed in the rising sunlight.

"Once this business is done, you can return it. And if you need someone to fix that weapon you have, speak to me after this business. I know some Dwarves," he smirked, "who may be able to help you."

Lodin accepted the weapon with a bow. "I will return with it shortly."  Lodin paused and chided himself for his choice of words.

After some time, the Company returned to the Old Forest and the hole. Glancing to the left, Lodin looked at Maethordan. “You said the creature’s tracks go north, and not left.” He glanced balefully at the tunnel to the left. "That vine isn't going anywhere.  Let’s deal with it last."

Maethordan nodded. "You are right we could burn that on the way out." He kneeled down to carefully examine the beast’s path and followed it north. Moving through the cavern, Maethordan pointed - where the creature had gone west - but then doubled back and had gone in a southern direction. In that direction, an eerie chill lingered - again, reminding the Company of their encounter with William in Chetwood.

“I suspect another spirit,” Maethordan whispered, “of some kind.” He paused, “If it is the beast we track that has caused this chill, I know that it primarily feeds on the minerals found in the soil, but does need to feed on meat occasionally.” Maethordan looked around nervously and edged forward and made a shallow cut on his left hand allowing the blood to hit the ground. Thinking that if the blood of the spirit's old enemy ran in his veins it may draw the beast out. He whispered and his sword lit up, a beacon of light, in the darkness.

What lumbered forth is no foul, fell beast of dark sorcery.... Rather a Wight, a ghostly figure of a man, in black armor… His neck clearly had been snapped in his previous life.... His cause for death… Lodin immediately recognized the Wight as Zerikahn, the agent of the Witch King from the vision he’d gotten from holding the trinket.

With a spurt of energy, despite his fatigue, Lodin rushed forward, the short sword Bilbo had given him, gleaming the reflection from Maethordan’s light, and the blade struck true. The Wight hissed and reeled back, surprised by the courage of the living. Moro Bunce, inspired by the courage of others, ran forward, with his own short sword and struck the Wight - though his blade struck true, it did not seem to damage the Wight as much as he’d hoped! The Wight suddenly seemed to move with quickness - invoking unnatural fear to those gathered around.

Arthanar, not accustomed to seeing the undead, until recently quickly fell to the Wight’s fell-magic; his eyes rolled to the back of his head and became cloudy, as his mind slipped into a prison of mental anguish and fear. Lodin too fell to the fear, his mind suddenly tracing a few moments back when he’d watched as the blood dripped from Maethordan's hand, beckoning whatever from the fog... the fog swirls around Lodin now, became crimson in color and then once again, he is consumed by the memory of William... and the time his world seemed to shift into another time... where family lay dead at his feet as the Dragon burned the city he’d grew up in down to the ground... 

While in the thralls of fear, the Wight took the opportunity to take his two handed sword and cut it across Lodin’s chest; but in Lodin’s mind, it’d been the claws of the large, red dragon, that burned the town of Dale to the ground… vengeance for the murder of Smaug…

Reality blurred in and out of reality for Lodin, as the visage of all that transpired fictionally melted with truth. He swung wildly, keeping the Wight’s attention, in hopes that Maethordan could struck the foul undead down.

The Wight invoked the song of horror - the same kind that William had once used in Chetwood - familiar with it, Lodin quickly reached for his trumpet and began to blare it loudly, uncaring if it was playing musical notes properly, it’d all been in an effort to do a heroic moment of drowning out the Wight’s song, which he had successfully done, sparing the Company from falling to into its vile slumber.

Maethordan almost dropped off with the Wight's song but with a blast of the horn he came back to full wakefulness. The wight seemed to be distracted by Lodin and Moro which Maethordan took full advantage of, his shining blade biting deep with each hit. Finally as Lodin distracted the Wight Maethordan struck low impaling the Wight on his shining blade. The Wight cried out…

The Wight extended his hands, his broken neck, dangling listlessly, the phantom essence rapidly dissipating into the fog, which settles down, the cold, unbearable feeling of death, easing, as Arthanar comes out of his stunned condition - the look on his face, showing that he saw some unspoken horror while stunned...

Still, with the Wight gone... a great sense of ancient evil remains... and now with the Wight silenced... not too far away... repeated clicking sounds can be heard, and it is eerie as it echoes through the caverns...

You come to a small, five foot ledge to scale... and beyond, in the darkness, the clicking of what is clearly mandibles grows ever louder... and a roar fills the cavern...

The nameless beast can sense its master's trinket is close...

"Well, it sounds like it is just up ahead. Is everyone ready? I'll go first. It probably knows we're here, but we should at least try to be stealthy."

As the Company scaled the small, five foot ledge, pieces of rubble break away and echo in the cavern. With Maethordan's weapon's light extinguished - the cavern before you is vast and dark. Then there was a violent gust of wind, as something - this nameless beast - burst from the rubble on the floor, from which it lay in wait - its green, glowing eyes the only sickly illumination now visible!

A small rock, from somewhere behind them, flew - in an effort to hit the beast, but had struck Maethordan on the back of the head. As a small voice, from behind shouted, "I am so terribly sorry! You climbed up just as I threw that!" It had been Isengar’s voice!

The fell beast - something that seemed to be a cross between a scaled serpent, with a thousand legs, like a centipede, mixed with a scorpion with massive claws, and some mammal that had massive tusks, roared forward. It had tried to use its tusks on Maethordan just as he scaled over, but the rock to the back of the head had toppled Maethordan slightly and perhaps, in the end, saved his life. The beast, then used its claw to try and grab Lodin, who was still prone, and easy to grab - but Arthanar, with his elven grace, used a heroic moment to slam into Lodin, with spared him from the creature’s full grasp - but it had still managed to strike Lodin, but it was clear it could have been far worse, had it not been for Arthanar.

But the surprises continued - the giant tree, trapped down below suddenly moved - it was a Huorn! The massive tree behind the Crawler of the Pit... a tree, who had lines of black and green going through it, as if poisoned... moved… It was indeed a Huorn... though, it was clearly ill and dying... now lashed out, seeing there is a chance to destroy that which it had come here to kill...

The Huorn had snapped the neck of this fell-beast’s true master with a root... but this... this nameless beast had been too much... too evil... the dark sorcery that forged it tainted the Huorn and created sickly, carnivorous vines throughout the caves... Growing... Expanding...

The Huron’s two roots slammed into the nameless beast, and the beast roared! Long had it believed the Huorn, the slayer of its true master, had been subdued into dark sorcery - and to now see it fighting again!

Standing up, from having saved Lodin, Arthanar sang the songs of the fall of the Witch-King, and inspired Lodin, as he himself drew Spider-Bane, and fired a shot, though as complicated as it was, being so close to the beast, Arthanar’s elven grace persevered as the arrow struck true.

In the end, the fell-beast fell to the Company. Maethordan moved in close and as it raised and plunged its teeth and claws to strike at him, he leaped up plunging his sword through its pallet into its brain. It slumped to the floor and Maethordan had to leap back to prevent being crushed.

As the black ichor of blood bubbled out of the crawler's head... Maethordan, was overcome by a sense of peace... a sense of vengeance... that he could not wholly explain...

The dying Huorn spoke, "I... sensed... their evil... beneath... the Old Forest... so... long ago... waited... until... it made a burrow... out... to hunt... and entered... I was young then... a sappling... I managed to kill... the trainer... and.... the beast's master.... but the beast itself... of such foul, dark... sorcery... I could not... and so it enslaved me... and the corruption of its presence.... has spread into me... and there... I slumbered.... until I felt the presence of another sapling...."

A root struggled to move, and gestures to Isengar.

"When he... took... the trinket from the master... and awakened it... and I... once again... now, my roots, long have they... grown... tainted and fouled by the beast... you must bring that which I dread... the most... and end me... I must be burned... for my roots continue to spread... only fire will cease what I can no longer... control...."

Maethordan nodded and confirmed, "We will burn it all, flames will cleanse."

Sad that it must be done, Lodin swore he would remember him. "What is your name?"

The Huorn groaned, "By your tongue... I would have been once known as... Greyroot..."

"If we see any of your kin, is there any message you would like us to convey?" Lodin asked.

The Huorn groaned, but gave no answer for a long moment.

Lodin could feel as though it had been struggling to keep from the vine infection spreading.

"I am... sorry..." it finally said. "... I sensed all of you... I could not stop... myself... I am sorry..." 

Perhaps, those were the words that could be shared?

Lodin looked sternly and directly at Isengar. "Come here boy.  If adventure is what you seek, come see the bad with the good."  Lodin then inspected the body of the crawler's true master, rather than its trainer. Speaking to Isengar. "Is this where you found the object?" Lodin pointed to the body.

Isengar nodded. He pointed; the corpse was long decayed, the armor, black and colorless, a broken necklace dangled around the neck. "I... I couldn't let you risk your lives for me... I had to come... help..." the young hobbit replied, bashfully, staring at his hobbit feet.

Moro stood there, shaking his head.

"Though your intent is noble, you are just a boy.  Do not carry burdens beyond your years. Moro, please watch him." Lodin said.

Moro heaved a deep sigh and grabbed Isengar by the ear.

Lodin followed Moro and Isengar out of the chamber. "We should search that northward path before we set this place ablaze."

Venturing to that chamber - Lodin could see, this was clearly where the fell beast - when it needed to feed on meat - primarily brought its victims in the form of deer, rabbits, wolves, and other wildlife by the looks of things… Moro Bunce and Isengar, waited near the passage that leads out, not wanting to subject the young hobbit to piles of bones.

After finding the feeding chamber, Lodin got some oil out and was ready to light the vine on fire when Maethordan arrived after lighting Greyroot on fire. Immediately, as Greyroot was ablaze, the entire chamber began to rumble - just as any living thing reacts to being burned alive - Greyroot thrashed - and in doing so - his roots, that had run deep for many years in these tunnels, began to pull the cavern apart. “Run!” Maethordan shouted.

Just as the cave begins to collapse, Moro sees a large stone, just above Isengar come loose, and uses a heroic moment to pull Isengar out of the way, so that it only slammed into his shoulder. 

As the Company tumbled out of the cavern, coughing, from being further back... the ground shook and quivered, and soon, the hole collapsed, and smoke poured out from the few remaining cracks... after a moment, the ground stopped shaking and Greyroot finally knew a peace he was long robbed.

Seemingly unaware, in the Old Forest, the other Huorns, from time to time, moved, aimlessly walking short distances, as if in a dream-like state.

"It's best not to bother them," Moro warned with a whisper. "There's stories about one of their kind, much deeper in the Old Forest that is said to lure the unprepared with song and causes them to sleep... so that it can easier devour them!" Moro gulped hard and his eyes widened, fearful that might have awakened one of the Huorns.

"We should return to the Shire," he added after a moment. "They've surely realized Isengar is missing again." Moro turned to Isengar. "Your father will scorn you!"

"I know," the boy sighed.

As they walked back, Lodin got out his whetstone to sharpen the blade he'd borrowed before returning it to Bilbo.

Upon returning to Crickhollow, the entire settlement had already heard of the heroic deeds of the Company (mostly through Isengar - who may have exaggerated some of it - including his own involvement) as well as Moro Bunce (who told the tale, far closer to the truth than Isengar's version). There were ropes strung about, lined with candles and lanterns that swayed gently in the night wind. Hobbits were dancing here and there, others smoking their pipe-weed, while others simply stood around and talked and laughed. A few gave uneasy glances at the strangers, but clearly there was no ill-intent in their nervous glances - merely the idea that Crickhollow may have earned the attention of something evil, but they were still - nervous as those few may be - quite thankful to hear how the Company had all taken part in the slaying of some foul, giant beast!

Moro Bunce and Isengar, both exclude any mention of the Huorn, fearful that the slumbering Huorns of Crickhollow might learn the fate of one of their own - not to mention, the entire Hedge was built because it was said the Old Forest - undoubtedly the Huorns - often encroached on Crickhollow land. Maethordan helped with the more technical parts of the stories (the tracking and the description of the enemies) and drank but other than that stayed on the periphery of the celebrations. He spoke a soft and silent prayer for the Huorn that they burnt hoping that it finally had the rest it deserved.

Daisy and Moro danced hand in hand, laughing, gazing lovingly into each other's eyes. Daisy - clearly proud of Moro, and Moro - glad to have lived to see another day to glance upon Daisy's beauty. Lodin spent most of the evening wondering at the little folk, observing.  There was a time or two when he was asked to dance and he even tried once, but afterwards politely refused as the size difference was just too much.  Instead, later into the evening, he joined with the other musicians and lent his trumpet to the music.

Even Tolman Greenburrows looks content - not once did he scorn his son, Isengar - for yet again - going into the Old Forest.

He departs early to sleep and recover his wounds. While he sleeps there is something there from his past lingering… As he drifted to sleep, he thoughtlessly spun the ring on his finger that he’d been wearing on his necklace. Arthanar had said it was a magical ring - something about Insight… his mind slowly slipped into dreams. It was there, deep in his sleep, he saw a tall man. He stood inside a cabin, towering over a woman - a beautiful woman. Maethrodan’s mind focused. The woman was his mother.

“Do you know who I am, woman?” the man barked, cruelly.

The woman looked as if she’d been punched or slapped, but she did not cower from the man. “You’re a murderer and a coward, Númenórean! Go back to Umbar.”

The man titled his head. “An educated woman. That is almost difficult to believe.”

“Your women may not be educated, but I am of the Dúnedain, and I am all too familiar with your ilk,” the woman sneered. 

“Ilk,” the man repeated the word. “I like you speak it with such dislike. If you are so educated, then you must know the history of my people.”

“I know that your kind has sought power over men and the other races and free people of Middle-Earth,” she said. “I know that your ilk are cowards, fearful of death, and envious of the Eldar.”

The man tilted his head again. “You impress me, for a woman.”

“I seek not to impress you,” she snapped back. “I bide my time until my eyes can find a weapon to run you through with.”

“You think you could slay me?” the man laughed. “While it is true, we have long sought to slay the Dúnedain for our master, Morgoth… can you imagine what the spawn of a Dúnedain woman such as yourself and a Númenórean man such as I?”

“The thought churns my stomach,” she growled. “I’d much sooner beg for death.”

That night, she begged for death and death did not come.

And though, when she first discovered she had been pregnant, she thought of ways how she could undo what’s been done - including taking her own life - in the end, she could not, and when the child was born, she could only love it with all of her heart.

Elsewhere, after the celebrations died down - which wasn't until almost sunrise, Moro and Daisy Bunce were sitting at the table at the edge of Tolman Greenburrows' land, along with the Greenburrow family - and among them, emerging from one of the other smails, was none other than Bilbo Baggins, who enjoyed his pipe.

"You will make a fine Bounder!" Moro Bunce said, smiling, and ruffling Isengar's hair. "I will happily sponsor you! However, you must listen to your father and get the idea of adventures outside of your head! We hobbits don't go on adventures!"

"Well," Bilbo puffed on his pipe. "Most hobbits do not."

"Bilbo," Toliman sighed.

"But Moro is quite right," Bilbo added with a coy smile. "I did not go adventuring until I was much older. Should you have a strange wizard come knocking on your door and send thirteen dwarves to ask you to go on adventure - perhaps then, go! But until then, you should listen to your mother and father." Bilbo chuckled at the memory. "That crazy wizard Gandalf," he said, shaking his head. "Had not seen him in a long time! Then there he is - rapping on my door with that gnarled staff of his - telling me to bring one of the weapons suitable for one of the Bardling-kin that I got from the Dwarves to Crickhollow. Didn't explain why, but I see now it was needed."

"Thank you for the blade.  Here it is, sharp and as good as when you handed it to me." Lodin said, handing the short sword back to Bilbo, hilt first.

“A trade then,” Bilbo smiled. He pulled a rolled parchment from out of his pocket. “This came for you this morning, Lodin, son of Brodin, while you were still sleeping. It came from the Dwarves of Blue Mountain.”

The parchment reads - 

Lodin -

May these words find you in good spirits. I have done much research into Dirindem, son of Thorroum. All the records I have found show that he had gone to Moria. From what I have found, he had returned to Moria in hopes of uncovering more Mithrill. He grew tired of working with inferior metals. However, there is good news to be had. I discovered that Dirindem had an heir - however, it was a daughter named Vírún. It took me great effort to find her - as it would turn out, because of her father’s actions of returning to Moria, he was looked upon with great shame, so Vírún had gone into hiding to be away from the shame her father had brought down on her. She, like her father, is a great smith. I spoke as to what happened to your weapon, and she said she could fix it with just a small amount of Mithrill. Now that said, Mithrill is very hard to come by, and only exists in the Misty Mountains - specifically Khazad-dûm (Moria). Perhaps if you encounter some Dwarven merchants, inquire with them if they might have Mithrill with them in some form, and perhaps that can be used to help reforge your weapon? Vírún is here in Blue Mountain, but do not ask for her by name - ask for me and I will take you to her.

With regards and burning forges,

Frerin Stonecliff, son of Vidar

____________

DM Note:
This session, while in the cave system I have everyone something I developed called a “Heroic Moment.”

Heroic Moment.  This only lasts for the time you are in your current situation (in these caverns). Once you depart the caverns, the effect disappears.

• if you attack and miss - you can choose to Hit and do Maximum damage instead;

• or if you fail a savings throw, you can choose to pass (and if it is an area of effect save, this would allow the others to also save successfully, in the event anyone else failed!)

• or if someone is hit by an attack (whether spell or melee), you can use your Heroic Moment to half the damage they have taken

This is a one and done "Charge." When you use it you must write up how it looks like/works. Just for flavor!

This is in honor of J.R.R. Tolkien's Birthday on Jan 3!

When I remember, and I can find the original source, I also like to link credit. The Hobbit’s storage art I used - the artist is Artist Credit: Matěj Čadil - the ar can be found here: https://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Category:Images_by_Mat%C4%9Bj_%C4%8Cadil