# Citadel of the Iron Crown



## Dlsharrock (Jun 18, 2008)

*The Third Age of the Sun*, and long have the sons of _Numenore _struggled against the tides of evil. _The Witch King of Angmar_, Lord of the Nazgul, holds dominion in the north and threatens the diminishing kingdom of _Arnor_. He seeks an end to the age of Men.

In the south, _King Umbardicil of Gondor_ battles to maintain his country's borders against the barbarian hordes and especially the _Wainriders of Rhun_. _The Dwarfs of Moria_ have vanished, and the _Elves of Lorien_, _Rivendell _and _Belfallas _are enshrined, unwilling or unable to help the ailing Dunedain.

Moreover, something evil stirs in the shadows of Mirkwood...

Welcome to The Citadel of the Iron Crown story hour (previously Eve of Mirkwood), Dlsharrock's 3.5ed D&D game set with reverent respect in J R R Tolkien's Middle-Earth. I will try to update this story hour as we close threads and as time allows. Enjoy.

~ The In Game Thread ~

http://www.enworld.org/showthread.php?t=224827&page=1

~ Cast of Characters (In Alphabetical Order) ~

Aerec, Son of Shild, Eotheod horse master, prized in the logging camp for his knowledge and expertise in all matters equine.
Aranel Amandil, Elven ranger/scount multiclass. Native of Mirkwood and watcher of Men's affairs (particularly their harvesting of the trees of Mirkwood).
Aurvandil, Son of Erentil, disenfranchised knight of Gondor and heir to a long line of unseated Gondor knights.
Baran the dwarf and his dog Belly, foreman of the logging camp, responsible for the day to day running of affairs.
Gellion a young orphan, unpopular with other loggers due to his strange ways and love of nature. He idolises Thalion.
Granthan in charge of administration, diplomacy and trade with Lake Town. 
Thalion the Sindar Elven druid, of mysterious background and calling, he dwells in Mirkwood.
Ulfang the barbarian, troubled refugee from Rhovanion who has long sought solace in the bottom of a bottle, and whose newfound courage to face the world is thanks in part to his discovery of a new life in the logging camp.

~ Cast of players ~

Baran - Binder_Fred
Aranel - Shayuri
Aerec - Redclaw
Ulfang - renau1g
Thalion - Fenris
Gellion - Dlsharrock

[SBLOCK=DM's commentary about setting and accuracy (possible/soft spoilers)]
In some ways I'm guilty of Tolkien nazism because I've kept the setting as accurate as I possibly can, keeping in mind that very little available information is reliable, and that even official chronology and history tend to be second or third hand interpretations. Therefore, if my translation of Middle-Earth circa TA1874 (the era we've chosen to play) displays any anomolies, I reserve the right to ignore all and any comments pointing this out unless those comments come directly from John Ronald Reuel Tolkien himself  Game wise, I've done my best, as I have done in transcribing the game threads into a readable story hour. I have absolute 100% respect for the setting and am fully aware the risk I've taken playing a D&D game in Middle-Earth. Hopefully I won't screw it up too badly 

We're playing our game in the Third Age of the Sun, 1874, some six hundred years before the events of The Hobbit, though the location is much the same now as it was in that book with the exception of certain chronological events. Mirkwood has recently become a place of evil, thanks to the presence of 'The Necromancer' in Dol Guldur, a tower on the western fringe of the woods. The Lonely Mountain is yet to become the realm of Dwarfs and Dale is yet to suffer the arrival of Smaug. Indeed, Dale and Lake Town to the south in Esgaroth, are still thriving towns, both seats of power in their own right.

The region around Mirkwood is inhabited by Northmen known variously as Beornings, Eotheod horsemen (precursors to the Rohirrim nation), Lake Men of Lake Town in Esgaroth, Dale Men from the town of Dale in the shadow of the Lonely Mountain and Woodsmen from Mirkwood itself. Other Men who live hereabouts include Rhovanians from the great tracts of wilderness stretching east of Mirkwood. This region is currently oppressed by the barbarian Wain Riders, who control most of the major settlements and systematically pillage and bully the minor ones.

Elves also live in the area, most notably the Sindar Elves of King Thranduil who inhabit the north of the forest itself. Their kingdom used to extend all the way down to the Brown Lands, but since the forest became a place of evil they have been forced north to live a restricted existence beyond the Mirkwood Mountains.

Many great nations exist in Middle-Earth at this time. Gondor is diminished but still retains control of much of the southern civilised lands. Arnor still stands to the far West, though here the Men of Dunedain fight an ongoing struggle for survival and many of their major cities have been reduced to ruin. The cause of this is the Witch King who resides in Angmar, a mountain enveloped realm and home to most of the raw evil infesting Middle-Earth outside of Mirkwood. Moria is a major Dwarf domain and at this time houses most of the dwarfs of Middle-Earth. Its doors are closed to ousiders and the Dwarfs, who rarely venture outside, fear the world above ground may soon be conquered fully by an allegiance between the Necromancer and the Witch King, both seats of power encasing Moria as pincers of evil.

Lothlorien is the Noldor Elven enclave east of the Misty Mountains and there are other Elf lands such as Belfalas, the Gulf of Lune (home of the Falathrim and the famed Elven shipwright Cirdan) and Rivendell, home of Elrond, an Elf of old and keeper of The High Pass.

Mordor, once the realm of Lord Sauron, lies largely empty and abandoned by the orcs and goblins of that banished evil. Long has it been since Isildur, son of Elindil the High King of Gondor, cut the One Ring from Sauron's finger and smote his ruin upon the battlefield of Dagorlad. The One Ring is thought destroyed, or lost. Nevertheless, Isildur's heirs fear it not, for there are greater evils massing and greater threats.

Chief among these are the barbarian hordes of Rhovanion, Wainriders, charioteers and thugs who have raped, pillaged and burned their way across the settled lands of the east and enslaved all who fall under their rule. To the south also dwells the threat of barbarian Men, dark of skin and mind, Men who fear no force for good and would see the downfall of the last great nations in Middle-Earth.
[/SBLOCK]


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## Dlsharrock (Jun 18, 2008)

*~ The Logging Camp ~*

Credit for this idea goes to Binder_Fred who plays Baran.

In Mirkwood Mountains lies the starting point setting for our story hour, the logging camp of Brethilost (so named by the Elves of Mirkwood, meaning 'tree town'). The camp stands upon the slope of the mountain side where the falls of Dôlanthir create a short, fast running river stretching from the fringe of Mirkwood to the southern end of Lake Esgaroth*. The camp harvests trees from the woods, works them into manageable logs then sends them down river to Lake Town where they are used for building, firewood and so on. A number of the logs will also end up in Dale where they are used primarily for firewood in heating the furnaces and ovens of the town and keeping the residents warm during winter.

The camp is roughly circular, strewn over an area of about 60,000sqft, and consists of sturdy, wood frame tents (most of these set up alongside the river and around the perimeter of the camp) and large wooden buildings constructed on stilted platforms or, more rarely, on stone foundations. Movement in Brethilost consists of either trekking uphill, scrambling down, or tracking sideways along the steep slope. There are odd areas of flat ground, but most of these are reserved for storing or working logs.

At the heart of the camp is a large circular kitchen and eating shack, one of only four permanent buildings, alongside which stands a chuck wagon and its associated canvas awnings. The other three permanent buildings are the forge and furnace with its tall stone chimney, the foreman's hut, and the stables where work horses and one or two riding horses are housed.

During the winter months large iron stoves are used to heat the bigger tents and the wooden structures, while braziers are set up outside for workers to keep themselves intermittently warm during work breaks. Stacks of canvas covered wood chocks line the exterior walls of the permanent buildings all year round, but are replenished with gusto in the autumn months. 

*You won't find this river in any official capacity. It's been invented for purposes of the game.


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## Dlsharrock (Jun 18, 2008)

Part 1 - Burglars In Brethilost

The thrush espies the world from afar and above, an expanse of woodland from horizon to horizon, a sea of swaying green, though in this dusk the colour is more of muddy hues and a deep darkness there dwells in the heart of the trees. The bird glides 'neath emerging stars, then drops on a falling thermal, a breeze ruffling his wings and tail feathers. He banks aside and down like a dart toward islands of stone rising from the swell of trees; mountains, and they rise up to meet him amid the green. On their shoulders a tributary stream, a waterfall and tranquil pool where oft before the thrush has bathed and sung.

He drops unseen and alights on the branch of a tree just short of the rushing falls, where he surveys now the realm of Men. A camp hidden within the mountains, a place of sturdy wooden huts and canvas tents. The buildings stand on platforms raised against the steepness, while all about stand stumps of trees and debris. The tents are upon the banks of the river, and from them come palls of smoke and the smell of cooking food. Groups of Men gather hereabouts, surrounding pots and spits, or speaking softly in the shadows, the glowing embers of their pipes and bonfires casting light across their beards and whiskers.

At the heart of the camp is a round hut made of stone with a thatched roof and a skewed chimney. A light flickers in one window and from within comes the sound of voices. The thrush watches as five shapes, dark and fell, creep across the camp then sneak one by one through an open window at the rear of the building.

Three figures presently start walking towards the front of that selfsame hut, gravel softly crunching underfoot.

"Elf has been at it again," loudly grouses the foremost, a Dwarf surrounded by the clink of tools, the smell of singed leather. "Says Urander never should have cut that patch by the great oak! Says she has to - reconsider - the yards we were going to add to Matto's skidtrail!" Somehow though he's grining, the shocking blue of his eyes shining with reflected firelight. 

The big yellow dog just trots besides them, much more interrested in looking around and about than in anything her two companions are doing.

"Bah! Pay her no heed" states the Dwarf's exact opposite, a tall, wide-shouldered man who looks more hewn from rock than grown of flesh and blood, "if it were up to the elf maiden, we'd have no trees to cut and no food on our plates, I know berries and nuts just ain't appetizing when you could have a nice cut of venison." He licks his lips imagining a haunch of venison over an open flame. He reaches down and scratches the dog behind the ears as they walk.

"Pay her no heed? She's confounded king's messenger, Ulfang." The foredwarf suddenly chuckles, a teasing sound in the gathering gloom, "And She of flowers is deadly hard to ignore, my friend. As you'd know if ever you'd actually tried."

The tall man named Ulfang chuckles as well, his naivity in the camp affairs is sometimes painfully obvious.

"Aye, that's probably right. I just never get involved with all that diplomacy talk, it's much better just worrying about keeping all the boys fed. Hells, you eat enough for three men Baran." Ulfang says with a wink, tossing a light jab his friends way. As they walk, the Rhovanian thinks how things have improved lately as a result of his friendship with the dwarf. He's not sure why Baran took it upon himself to help pull Ulfang back from the brink, but whatever the reason, he's thankful, even if he doesn't say so aloud.

"_Somebody's_ got to work in this camp," grumbles the Dwarf in reply. He distractedly pats the hard roundness of his stomach : he *is* getting bigger, despite all the smithing, the constant camp repairs, the untangling of human mistakes and short-cut taking. Seems even his mind, his speech is getting more human than ever he'd have imagined... Hum.

The pair have arrived at the sturdy hut awarded to the camp foredwarf. "The Wainriders," he says, their thoughts rolling down similar ruts as his hand falls on the handle to his front door, "how are their wagons built?" It's a blow and he knows it, daily struck; but skin doesn't harden under caress. The dwarf holds open the door, watching the Ul boy take it in.

Ulfang's eyes glaze over at mention of the Wainriders, but he quickly blinks the reaction away. For a moment he seems angry, but then the stern set of his mouth softens into a wry smile. "Maybe we should sample some of that fabled dwarven ale I'm sure you got hiding around here Baran and I'll tell you all about it." He enters the hut, knowing that the dwarf is as likely to give him alcohol as Ulfang is to discuss the construction of the Wainriders wagons.

That squeezes some wry amusement from his companion : still... tender, it seems. Well, "The Nogrod of old, now they say _their_ char-"

Suddenly there comes a crash and the sound of cursing voices from a room at the rear of the hut. "-riots." Surprise bliefly flickers across the Dwarf's features... and then he's charging his own door. Seconds later a heavily callused hand sends the planned boards banging against the outer wall. "What is going on in here!" he roars, feet planted.

It's not any of the loggers he knows though. No indeed : Ulfang and Baran are just in time to see five short figures - each wearing loose black robes to knee length tied at the waist, possibly with black belts, or maybe rope (either way hidden under folds of fabric) and cowls to cover their heads, black tights on skinny legs and black curly toed boots on their feet - scrambling through the back window. Caught unawares and unnarmed, Ulfang races across the room in an effort to snatch the trailing leg of the last burglar. Belly the dog barges past and races behind : now *this* is exciting! Only Baran remains planted in place, teeth clenched, sharp blue eyes wide and drinking, madly engraving the deep runes of dwarven memory.

Ulfang's hands fall on empty air and the intruders escape into the dusk. But not lightly does their pursuer take this defeat, and in a flash Ulfang decides to give chase, knowing that dark figures creeping in the night cannot mean any good. He leaps through the window and continues to chase the men as they make for the fringe of the woods. Baran watches, as if in a daze, then his eyes alight on something on the wall and his breath catches, a new flame kindles in his eyes. He follows Ulfang, yelling as he goes "THIEF, THIEF, THIEF!" 

The thieves are running right and therefore so is Baran, ripping off his tool-ladden apron as he goes. One thing _was_ missing you see, one thing out of place in the entire hut. The parchment of his fathers, a meagre heirloom brought forth from the halls of Moria, torn from its place upon the wall. One half still remains, hanging defiled from the uppermost wooden roller, attached well enough to the stone to resist the clumsy grasp of a burglar. The other half is gone.

Outside, a cry goes up and several workers at the camp are alerted to the five black clad figures dashing toward the fringe of trees.


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## Dlsharrock (Jun 18, 2008)

Normally, Aranel thinks to herself as she wafts through the underbrush, I could have retired by now. The thought has a wry tinge to it, but she finds she doesn't really mind. 

Dusk seems to shrink back from the fringe of the trees, preferring the remains of the day beyond and the cowled oil lamps of Men to the denseness of Mirkwood. In the woods dusk quickly becomes night. Out here, near the edge, and on the steepness of the mountain side, the trees are tall and straight, ferns and firs swaying gently in the breeze, the air filled with the scent of pine. Not much further in the trunks become thicker and firs give way to older, darker trees whose branches seem to reach out one to another like enfolding arms. 

Occassionally a slender beam of moonlight, lucky enough not to be caught in the tangled boughs above and the matted roots below, stabs down thin and bright. But this is seldom, and as any who work on this side of the woods would know, more seldom still further in. Black squirrels (who never seem to sleep) watch from branches above and scratch their tufted ears. Their bright eyes are like marbles amidst the glimmering green of leaves and their dark shapes are eery holes within deep browns of branch and twig. 

Queer noises come from the depths as quiet settles. Grunts, scufflings and hurryings in the undergrowth and among the leaves that lie piled endlessly thick in places on the forest floor, telltale sounds of uncanny creatures none can see.

The forest at night has a beauty all its own, though perhaps beauty only an Elf can appreciate.

The circumstances that led to the necessity were less than auspicious though. The Men of the logging camp had taken from the stand near the old oak. Perhaps, as they claimed, it was merely a mistake. After all, Men lacked good eyes for night work...and Aranel believed it was most likely done at night, when there were long hours she did not range and keep watchful eyes on the lumberers.

So now she had to make sure there were no further mistakes.

From the thinner, younger trees of the forest skirts she can see the firelight twinkling like a fallen star amidst the endless rolling brush and earth that rises up into the mountains behind. The sounds of laughter and bellowing can be heard, though faint even to her ears. Aranel pauses for a moment, wondering if they would act differently if they knew she was lurking nearby. 

She is comely to the eyes of Men; fair skinned with dark mysterious eyes and dark hair which she keeps in a single braided tail when out and about. In Thranduil's house she lets it down and appears in a gilded gown of green and gold with garlands of flowers in her hair. Here she wears a tough leather jerkin reinforced with tiny metal ingots, each one painstakingly crafted with images of trees and flowers in relief. Though leather, by long and patient tanning and working, it has the suppleness of cloth yet can resist tearing from thorn and branch and even knife if struck a glancing blow. Her breeches are lighter, of a finely worked cloth, strong as heavier fabric, but slowing her not at all, and dyed a deep olive shade that with the brown of her jerkin makes it simple to hide among foliage and brush. In a case across her back is her Elf-craft bow and a quiver. At her left hip hangs her sword, at her right her other quiver. She carries little in the way of supplies, for she knows much of how to gather what she needs when she needs it.

The moment of quiet is shattered by a loud cry of THIEF, as clear to Aranel as if it had been shouted in her ear.

So now they steal from each other, as well as from the wood?

Curious, she creeps closer to the camp to see what new game is afoot.


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## Dlsharrock (Jun 18, 2008)

Ulfang is hard on the heels of the five burglars, hefty feet pounding the ground. He's coming, and they know it. The trailing thief makes the mistake of glancing back at the thudding sound of the great barbarian's approaching feet and Ulfang gets a quick look at the face under the cowl. A Man - or so it seems - but one with pinched features, large round, terrified eyes and a youthful, softness, though this is no child. 

"ONE WEEK OF WAGE TO WHO CATCHES THE ROTTEN SONS OF WARGS. THE SORRY, MISBGOTTEN BASTARDS OF LOWLY -" comes the yell of the Dwarf bringing up the rear.

Most of the camp's residents who are witness to the chase just watch proceedings in a dumb way, hardly believing what they're seeing it seems. Baran madly and repeatedly points at the running thieves, shouting all the while, "MOVE THOSE FEET, YOU SLAGGARDS! MOVE, MOVE, MOVE! GELLION! MORBIEK!" he snaps, spoting those worthies open-mouthed by the edge of the camp, "CUT THEM OFF! NOW!"

Most. But not all. Aerec, known to many in camp as the Horsemaster, is rubbing down Stumpy, the plow horse turned logging mule. 'Next month', he muses, 'I'll be doing the same thing, and probably five years from now. Is this really what mom wanted when she made me promise to stay here?' With a start, he realizes that even that line of thought, and that very question, are exact repeats of his revery yesterday. With a quiet curse he stows the brush and moves to gather Stumpy's blanket. 

His movement is interrupted by Baran's call from across the camp, and Stumpy is destined for a chilly night. Aerec drops the blanket without a glance at the horse as he charges toward the foredwarf's hut. He is spurred on by Baran's promise of reward, although an added energy comes from the implied promise of adventure.

"Who are we chasing?" he asks as he catches up to Baran, just in time to watch the odd barbarian try to tackle a small cloaked being. Once again, he lets his thoughts set their own pace. 'I don't know what this fool is doing, but I sure don't want to be left out.'

Elsewhere Aurvandil, self labelled knight of Gondor, steps out from his tent, sword drawn, when he hears the cries of "Thief!" issued from the dwarf smith's tent. He runs to Eredren and leaps into the saddle, praising himself for not taking it off yet. He then gallops off after the bandits, hoping to cut them off. "Ulfang, take him down!" Aurvandil shouts as the giant of a man closes with one of the trailing thieves.

Ulfang grins as the rearmost burglar looks back a second time, and he relishes the fear he sees in its eyes. Spurred on by the mounted knight's encouragement, and with his great, powerful strides, Ulfang closes the distance quickly and launches himself at the smaller man attempting to tackle the enemy and hold him until Baran can catch up. With a primal roar, he leaps into action.

The barbarian and the trailing burglar go down, the large human's arms wrapped like pincers around his foe's waist, the bulk of his body crushing the burglar into the ground. "Aaiieiee..oof!" the burglar cries out, face pressed down into the grass as Ulfang (with no great effort) attempts to pin him, "mff, mf, mfff". The burglar reaches under himself, presumably going for some hidden weapon, and Ulfang attempts to counter the move by shifting his bulk and tightening his hold. 

Ulfang manages to pin the burglar's wayward arm. "Mmf!" Aerec dashes by and Baran comes running up behind the barbarian and his floored quarry. The burglar turns his head sideways, eyes rolling to take in the face of the huge Man wrestling him. "Aarrrkkkaag! Great oaf! You're crushing me!" He coughs and splutters, then his expression changes, becomes softer, more pitiable. Tears roll down his cheeks. "Mercy!" He sobs breathlessly, "I begs you, doesn't hurt me any more. Doesn't do anything spiteful! I've got it. I have. I've got it. You can have it back, it's in my handses. Just doesn't bruise and batter me any more. Pleeeease!"

"I'll handle him." The dwarf piles in, grabbing for flailing limbs, for thinness of neck. "You go!"

Aerec runs on, leaps over a fringe of low-lying bramble at the edge of the forest and follows the next burglar in line, attempting to duplicate the barbarian's action, hoping those others will turn to help their captured cohort.

But there is no honour among thieves and the remaining four burglars do nothing to help their fallen companion. Instead they continue to run for the treeline, though now all four are glancing back over their shoulders and both Baran and Aerec are afforded a good look at their faces. Three, it would seem, are male, one is almost certainly female. All have flat, broad cheeked features and large, frightened eyes. The resemblance to some kind of Elvish/human hybrid is uncanny, as is the child-like softness of their skin and expressive eyes. Other than their clothing, and but for the fact they were caught red-handed, these five don't look like natural thieves at all.

Aurvandil's horse thunders past Aerec, and slams mightily into the rearmost burglar, sending him flying into a bush of prickly bracken edging the slope near the treeline. The horse gallops on, Aurvandil hauling back on the reins and drawing his steed short of the dense treeline. The horse rises on its rear legs, forehooves kicking out at the air, nostrils flaring. Then it falls back onto all four hooves. In the bushes, Aurvandil can hear the fallen burglar groaning. 
The others, meanwhile, are still dashing for the trees, Aerec closing on them at full speed. He struggles to time his attack well but misjudges the fleeing burglar's next step and stumbles to correct himself, unable to grab the thief. With a curse, the awkward youth rights himself and continues chasing the fleeing burglars. 'This is no way to chase anyone down', he thinks to himself. 'What I need is a good, fast horse underneath me. Then they wouldn't stand a chance of getting away'. So caught up in his frustration is he that he barely ducks a low branch in time to save himself a serious headache. He quickly glances back to see if Baran or any of the others are behind him.

Some lengths behind, Ulfang scrambles back to his feet and attempts to see where he can best help. Aerec has stumbled on the edge of the treeline. Moments later he vanishes into the depths of the forest. Aurvandil is turning his horse, staring pointedly at a spot amidst the bracken. Of the other burglars there seems to be no sign. Evidently they have fled into the woods.

"Filthy Dwarf!" The burglar's sobs switch to indignation once again, "let go of my necks and handses!" The rage breaks, a shuddering of shoulders and back as Baran increases the pressure "Aaaaaugh, please don't hurts me. Just let me give it back. I doesn't wants it anyway. I doesn't wants it!"

Actions and words, thinks the dwarf, not slackening a hair's breadth. Anger, in fact, calls for a tightening, the cracking of bones, but they do so look like children of men... and he's never been a violent man. Now if he can only see how the others are.

Aurvandil turns his horse beneath him and trots back to where the fallen burlger lies. He dismounts quickly and lays his sword across the thief's throat. "You will sit still until my help arrives, or I will kill you". The burglar's hood has fallen back, revealing a female face, similar to that of the other intruders. Soft and broad cheeked but with pinched nose, and chin, all framed by tight ringlets of brown hair. Her lips are painted with a bright scarlet dye of some sort and a strange curly rune is scribed in black ink upon her pale forehead. Her eyes are closed and a gash on the left side of her head is bleeding. Aurvandil can see blood on a nearby rock. A curved dagger with a wooden hilt and leather scabbard is visible, hooked through her belt...


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## Dlsharrock (Jun 18, 2008)

"What's going on there?" Bellows Granthan, a large and officious member of the camp and one of several who are approaching now. Most who know Granthan know he secretly desires Baran's post as foreman and has a high standing with traders in Lake-Town and Dale. The Man strides purposefully toward the Dwarf and his fallen quarry. His great belly and obnoxious air preceding him. 

Two others are also running over, Gellion, a pasty faced lad, full of courage but considered by most at the camp to be something of an oddity (his greatest crime being to fraternise with Elves, even though by this trait has a talented healer become known to the camp and saved many of its Men from wounds or poison - Thalion being his name). 

Ahead of Gellion comes Belfalor, a tall sinewy Man of sharp eyes, fussy ways and long legs. 

Neither these two worthies speak as they come. Granthan speaks enough for all: "what's all this noise of thieves and who in the four climes of Esgaroth left that work horse unattended? I'll flay his backside with my belt!"

The 'who' in question barges his way through bush and branch, thorny twigs and nettles slashing at his face and hands, uneven ground and tangled roots threatening to trip him up as he runs. Ahead, through the dense green and growing darkness, he can still see the three burglars, dashing with greater ease than he through the trees and bushes, weaving between trunk and branch and blending in their dark clothes with the shadowy background of the forest.

Aerec listens for sounds of others following him, but all he can hear is the sound of his own noisy passage through the undergrowth and the staccato beat of his own heart pounding in his ears. His pursuit slows and he watches with no small frustration as the burglars escape. The ease with which they disappear so soundlessly into the depths of the forest is almost supernatural. In their stead is left an eery stillness.

'Flay his backside with my belt?' Baran narrows his eyes at the approaching Man. "You do that," he says, teeth tight, not looking. "In the meanwhile, make yourself useful and get -umph - I mean - grab some men and check the rest of the camp. We may have rustlers about!"

His blue gaze finds the eyes of the other two in turn, "Gell, you get us some rope, fast."

Gellion nods urgently "yes foreman Baran!" then dashes back the way he came.

Belfalor, young Aerec just shot through the woods, he'll need your help."

Around this gathering group Belly, Baran's loyal labrador, circles and barks excitedly.

Belfalor stops near the Dwarf and stares toward the treeline.

"Go!" The dwarf insists.

"The horsemaster returns, without triumph" Belfalor says simply, indicating, with a nod of his head, Aerec emerging from the forest.

"Ah," admits the foredwarf, "so he does."

Aerec is disappointed. He knows that pursuing the burglars further into the woods would prove dangerous and likely fruitless, but he can't shake the feeling of failure. 'Oh well, at least we chased them off, whoever they were. They won't soon be back', he thinks to himself.

As he approached the edge of the forest, he heard the exchange between Baran and Granthan. 'Great, just what I need. I answer the dwarf's call and I'm going to be blamed for it. Besides, I know more about horses than that blowhard knows about his own backside. Stumpy is just fine, and there's no way that plodder is going anywhere. We could leave him out for a week and he'd still be in the same place as long as there was food and water close by'. 

With a scowl and the stance of a man ready to be challenged he approaches the group. "The others got away, I'm sorry to say. I think there were three more of them, but they were so small and fast that I can't even swear to that," he notices the dwarf grappling one of the burglars. "What do they look like when they're held still?" 

Baran shows him, though "still" is not a word he'd have used. "Good run, lad," he shoots as an aside, "Beat _me_ by quite a few bowshots. Hold QUIET!" That last downwards : it's getting barren hard to speak over the din coming from the thief's seemingly small mouth.

And from the other sides comes an even bigger mouth.

Granthan stares at the burglar. "What unnatural thing is this? The shadows of Mirkwood conspiring to take form? Walking among us, the colour of night no less!" 

"Very little walking, Gran" happily grouses the dwarf, now that things are once more under control, "mostly dashing, and wriggling, and savaging properties not their own."

Meanwhile the captured thief continues to sob and beg for his life, and so Baran squeezes closer, muscles bunching : "Quieter, I said," this time gentler, close in the ear. "Later. Later is the time for talk."

Granthan's eyes switch from the burglar to the approaching Horsemaster, "and you" he points, "if you dare leave your duties again you'll pay for it with this season's wage, maybe next season's too!" There's a sideways nature to the fat man's admonishment. He stares, but his eyes flick away from Aerec as though nervous of the other's obvious strength and potential.

Belfalor catches Aerec's eye and shakes his head, silent yet eloquent: 'take my advice lad - don't react.'

Baran just looks, interrested. If he had a hand free, he'd have scratched his ear.

Elswhere, ropes are soon forthcoming and the female thief is bound. Given the sheer number of hands now gathering around this is no difficult feat. 

The tall, gangly youth named Gellion rubs a hand across his mouth and stares wide-eyed at the girl on the floor. "Is... is she... dead?". His questioning eyes slide over Ulfang (pretty much a stranger to the youngster), and alight instead on Aurvandil the knight, with whom Gellion has had passing cause to work in the past.

Aurvandil seems aloof, however, and appears to ignore the youngster's query, or perhaps not to hear him. "Take the rest of your rope to the foredwarf" he orders. Gellion's face reddens and he shuffles nervously from foot to foot, wondering if he has spoken out of turn. He is about to do the knight's bidding when there comes a rustle in the bushes; little more than what would be caused by a light breeze, but the Men of the camp are unnerved by the burglary and all eyes dart toward the treeline. When they look back to their own numbers, Aranel is standing just inside the circle of light from the torches they hold. Her dark eyes flick over most of them, dismissive and quick. Most of the Men shrink back, eyeing her with suspicion, even fear. Gellion, ever the odd straw, gazes upon the newcomer with unconcealed admiration.

Aranel's generous lips curve into a wry smile.


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## Dlsharrock (Jun 19, 2008)

Aerec's back stiffens, and his unyielding eyes meet Granthan's, but he heeds Belfalor's unspoken warning and looks away, making sure to let his gaze linger just long enough to make it clear it's his choice. "I'm sorry. I heard a shout for help, and knew the horse would be fine," he replies to the big blowhard, not bothering to use Stumpy's name because he knew Granthan didn't even know the horses had names. "I would wager a week's wages against yours that he hasn't moved a step since I left. He's thoroughly cared for, and all that needs doing is putting his blanket on. I thought the matter of thieves in the camp more pressing." As he finishes, he lets his gaze sweep back in Granthan's direction, but pointedly looks over the fat man's head, somehow giving the appearance of avoiding a superior's gaze, but simultaneously showing his disdain.

Granthan's eye twitches slightly "Oh, you did did you?! Well now, we'll soon see what... what... WILL SOMEBODY SHUT THAT CONFOUNDED DOG UP!"

"The lady of the woods," Belfalor suddenly says, jerking his clean-shaven chin toward the treeline where Aranel the Elf maiden has appeared. He physically grasps Granthan's wide shoulders and turns him in that direction. 

Granthan's attention is suitably diverted, "gah. What does that leaf breeder want now?" He stalks off toward Aranel, Aerec temporarily forgotten.

"He is an ill tempered man," Belfalor puts a friendly arm around Aerec's shoulder when Granthan is gone, "I saw your quick feet young horsemaster. You were fast. Well done." 

"My lady," Grathan bows and grins widely before the now advancing Elf. He finds himself backing away as she doesn't slacken her pace for him. "Ah what wind of grace and fortitude brings you to our shores this evening? It is a rare pleasure indeed..."

"Is it a custom of Men to discipline their children by asking Dwarfs to sit on them? If so, it is a wonder Men ever stray."

The smile fades when she comes close enough to spot the male burglar.

"But stray they do. What passes here?"

Gellion is hustling behind the Elf, rope in hand. He passes this to the Dwarf, that the male burglar may also be bound. Baran does a distracted job of it, eyes frankly searching his thief for one thing, one object... Hands join eyes as soon as they can : That long shape tucked in his belt? No, a sap and darts wrapped in leather (*poison* darts?) -- he looks up to the thief, shakes is head, disapointed, before returning to it. That bulge in his tunic maybe? Yes? yes? "YES!" The dwarf squeezes the prize in his large hands, relief flooding his veins. The heirloom, his sister's memory... they are SAFE.

"See? See? I tolds you. I tolds you I had it! I told truly!" whispers the burglar, now well and truly restrained. Small eyes glitter in the pale disc of his broad face, some kind of mischief shifts across his features like a shadow. 

"Seems the forest produces thieves as well as food for our axes," Baran finally responds to the Elf, somewhat excited by his find. 

Aranel frowns. "Thieves? Are they Men? And you say they ran -into- Mirkwood at night?"

The elf moves fluidly forward, glancing around at the Men of the camp again, then fixing her gaze on the burgler unfortunate enough to be pinned by a Dwarf.

"Three more at least are now in your domain, lady elf; but this one- " a hand falls heavily on his thief's shoulder, propping him up so his feet barely rest on the ground "-this one and I have some discussing to do. My hut?"

"Now look here," Granthan wags a finger, "we need to discuss..."

"Why...you're not a child of Men at all, are you?" For the first time an expression other than mild disdain touches Aranel's face as she sees the features of the thief. "What brings you so far from home, little perrianath ?"

The thief lowers his head, so that his eyes peer at Aranel from beneath the ridge and shadow of his brow. A sly grin, teeth firmly together, completes the expression. "Not the Elf's business."

"Your fellows ran into the Mirkwood," Aranel tells the little bandit as Baran hoists him up. "That makes it my business."

Ulfang, Aurvandil and those who gathered near the edge of the wood arrive just then, Ulfang carrying the bound and unconscious form of the female bandit over his shoulder. He deposits his 'cargo' on the ground next to the other bound thief and looks over to Baran. "So what we doing with 'em?"

"That is not for you to decide" Granthan insists, "we need to discuss..."

"Yes? And what would you like to discuss?" Aranel straightens, fixing Granthan with an expectant stare. A near inaudible chuckle comes from Baran.

"Ah, aha," Granthan writhes, "just to welcome you to the camp, as ever, my lady. T'was not to you that I wished to discuss.. ur.. that is, I welcome your part in all talk of course, but t'was with foredwarf Baran that I wished to discuss what is to be done with these... ur," he wags a hand vaguely at the two thieves.

"Information is next on the list, I thinks, then Justice will have to have a hand.." Baran grabs Ulfang by the upper arm and squeezes, "and then I've got to start earning that week's wage I owe you and the Van lad!"

"I speak not for Ulfang, but you owe me no wage," says Aurvandil who has arrived with his horse in tow. "As a member of this camp it was my duty to intervene. I am just glad I could be of service. Now, if you will excuse me, I must attend my steed who is perhaps more agitated by the event than I. But please inform me when you have appraised the female thief's wounds. I regret harming her so and her fate concerns me. Pray, foredwarf Baran, if she awakes; please offer my apologies for that cut on her head." The knight leads his horse away, looking troubled.

"Something I said?" Never could quite get into this one's mind.

Abruptly Aranel looks at Baran, "Is there proof of thievery?" she asks in puzzled tones.

"Could say that," nods the dwarf, scratching at his beard, "from my own hut no less." Sort of a sobering thought, that... "Speaking of warm, non-windy places...." He grabs 'his' thief and slings him over his shoulder without further consulting.


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## Dlsharrock (Jun 20, 2008)

The burglars are taken to Baran's hut, the conscious thief struggling, squirming and shrieking the whole way. "This has worked for you in the past, I take it?" Is Baran's response. 

Granthan is diverted by Belfalor who keeps him talking outside while the others take their prisoners inside and bind them to chairs.

Gellion slips in behind the last person to enter the hut. He keeps a low profile in the shadows near the door.

Once the pair are seated the conscious thief pays his unconscious cohort suprisingly little heed, barely acknowledging her presence. Instead he seems primarily concerned with his own comfort, conversely yelling and ranting or begging for compassion.

"It's a wonder the race survived. Gel? Could you go close that window in the back, make sure nothing else's been disturbed?" Baran gently, softly, lays the savaged ârchent on the table, out of harm's way.

Gellion starts, surprised to be addressed (probably hoping not to be noticed). "Y... yes foredwarf Baran," he hurries sideways, knocks over a random stool next to Aerec (who hops sideways to save his shins), picks it back up with an apologetic bumbling of words which sound something like: 'sorryairecdintseeit' then hurries to the back room.

Baran shifts part of his attention to the elf, "'Pery a nath' was it, lady of vinca?"

"We of the wood call them Dorn Perrianath," Aranel replies, the word slightly trilled in the Elvish manner, quite unlike Baran's butchery of it. "They are to all accounts a gentle folk of hill and burrow. Full of mischief but without malice. The Men of Gladden call them Hobbits. Stoor Hobbits."

She frowns at the cursing, pleading figure...a puzzled frown like someone trying to work a cipher or read an ill-understood tongue.

"What is it they stole?" On impulse Aranel moves forward to get a better look at the female bandit.

Her face is downturned, framed by curly hair, so Aranel must bend and look up at the stoor hobbit's face from underneath. She looks terribly pale, the thick crimson blood trickling from the wound on her head at stark contrast with the ashen colour of her skin. She's young, with the same broad cheeks, wide brow and pinched nose and lips of her companion. On her head has been scribed some kind of rune. When they were bringing the girl in the rune looked like a tattoo, maybe just ink or paint. But now it stands proud on angry red welts, as though the character were carved into her flesh and the result had scabbed over.

Suddenly the Hobbit's eyes open. They don't flicker or open slowly and with confusion as may be expected of one emerging from a groggy state. They open instantly and fix Aranel with a cold stare. The iris is yellow, with a tiny black pupil. The edges of the whites of her eyes are blood-shot.

Even as Aranel watches, the yellow fades, replaced by shining blue. The girl blinks. Realisation seems to settle on her face and she starts to sob softly, avoiding the gaze of any in the room, especially the male Perrianath who is now glowering at her.

Aranel recoils instinctively, feeling as if cold water had just been splashed over her. There was only one place she knew where such dark magicks as this lurked. But -why-?

She returns her flinty gaze to the Hobbit male, meeting him glower for glower.

"Show me what was taken."


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