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Year 2950: Those who Tarry no Longer


Vladim

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Arton of Gram

Arton was caught in horror as the attack began. If he survived this day he vowed to ensure that this particular Alderman of Framsburg would be remembered in infamy.

"Thammegil, we must thin that force before they lay siege to this Inn. Pick off the leaders first. I will call them out as I mark them. When we have sown confusion we should make for the wall away from the gate. We can slay a few more before climbing down the outer edge.

Lady Rodwen flee this place. Tell Thranduil what has occurred here. We will hold the Inn long enough for you to slip away. We will wait by the Carrock, the large rocky island in the Anduin north of the Ford for the next ten day before we seek Elrond's people.

 

Name
Battle
[1] (6,4,5) = 16
tor(3,no) 1,6,4,5
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Thammegil merely nodded at Arton's statement, momentarily stupefied by what he was witnessing.

Snapping out of his shock after a moment that seemed to stretch to eternity, he unlimbered his bow and placed his quiver before him.  Not enough arrows here to do much good, but he'd at least take some of the attackers out before it came to blade work.  He began barking orders at the civilians who were on the roof with them, "Get downstairs now.  Barricade all the doors and windows and find the safest place you can upstairs to hide.  If there are any arrows here, then get them up here.  The more of them we can drop from afar, the fewer there will be when it comes to hand-to-hand fighting.  MOVE."

Drawing his bowstring tight to his ear, he let fly the first of the long hunting arrows he carried.  At this range, it would be difficult to pick out individual targets with any finesse, but the arrows would easily punch through mail and leather, even from here, so he looked for clusters of the assailants and let fly.

 

 

 

Name
Battle
[5] (5,5) = 15
tor(2,no) 5,5,5
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From their vantage point, the companions could see well the slaughter as it unfolded at the market square. The men in red armor were the first to strike: attacking with shocking speed, they made short work of any men with weapons that could protect the helpless. As if that weren't enough, soon the guards of the Alderman were revealed for what they were: walking corpses, animated by dread sorcery. Shambling towards the crowd, they attacked the helpless, spreading terror and panic like wildfire.

There was little to do but watch helplessly, but Rodwen heeded Arton's command, and soon slipped outside, while the others fortified the inn. Thammegil launched arrow after arrow. The undead were an easy target, but even accurate shots did little damage to them. They were, however, enough to gain their attention.

As their enemies converged towards the inn, the defenders could at least take some comfort in knowing that their actions were helping the helpless, creating an opportunity, however brief or small, for some to escape. Wave after wave of undead fell upon Aldor's inn, lumbering clumsily and seeking to gain an entry by any means. They were ungainly, possessed of fearsome strength, and nigh unkillable, coming back after taking blows that would wound a mortal man grievously.

For almost an hour they fought, a struggle that at times was a close affair. But time and time again the undead were pushed back, failing to gain the entry, until at last the red men were forced to join them in aid. At a distance, over the great carnage, between screams and the sounds of destruction, the chilling, insane laughter of the Alderman echoed through the town.

 

OOC

Well done; first wave goes to the company, and I've tried to abstract the fighting. Now the red-clad soldiers join in, so give me fresh rolls-whatever is appropriate (a weapon, battle, awe, anything you think might work).

 

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As afternoon gave way to evening and the skies began to darken, the pair of rangers continued to rain down arrows from the rooftop.  By now, the soldiers had also begun to make a move against the inn, leaving the square relatively unguarded.  Noticing a chance, Arton made a jump across to the next rooftop over, calling back to Thammegil "Now's our chance - we can go for the Alderman whilst they're distracted", at which point he continued to run off to subsequent rooftops in the general direction of the square.

Firing off one final shot, Thammegil shouldered his bow and followed in Arton's wake until the pair of them, now descended to ground level, crouched behind one of the upturned market stalls, shrouded in the lengthening shadows.

Motioning with hand signals only, Arton indicated that they should circle around to attack the Alderman from opposite directions to maximise their chances, and so, the pair separated to find their best access points.

Now alone, Thammegil slunk through the shadows making next to no sound and carefully slipped his sword from its scabbard taking care that the naked blade did not reflect or glint to reveal his position.  Like a cat stalking a mouse, he made his way closer, one small step at a time until he stood almost within striking distance then, without waiting to see where Arton was, he exploded from his position, blade held two-handed above his left shoulder ready to sweep downwards in a long diagonal killing stroke against the exposed back and neck of the town's Alderman.

 

OOC

I'll let Sloth narrate for Arton's attack, but I'm assuming here that we don't get an initial ambush/surprise attack due to Arton's failed stealth roll.

I'm also assuming a forward stance for Thammegil's first round as that seems to fit the narrative best (also nets me an extra success die)

 

Name
Opening attack (Sword)
[5] (2,4,4,2) = 17
tor(4,no) 5,2,4,4,2
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Arton of Gram

With the patience of experienced hunters Arton and Thammegil moved through the desolate city. Separating, to hopefully draw the guards in two directions, Arton made his way to an overturned stall of cookware. Thammegil was barely more than a shadow to Arton's eye, and he knew where to look. The Alderman was only a few yards away. Arton could taste the vengeance he intended to wreak upon the man. And so it was that his desire for vengeance was his downfall. Slipping beneath a cart, Arton's foot caught a tin pot and knocked it against the cart wheel. It sounded like an alarm bell to his horrified ears. The guards turned, uncanny in their ability to pick him out from a single sound. He could not reach the Alderman now, but he could draw the guard. Standing tall he let loose a cry.

"Alderman! Meet your fate wretched slave!", charging Arton sent a double overhand blow towards the skull of the first guard....

 

Name
Sword Attack
[2] (5,3,3) = 13
tor(3,no) 2,5,3,3
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A handful of red-clad warriors, about a dozen in number, turned to face Arton as they heard the tin pot fall. Even in the unfolding chaos and the screams, the sound was noticed, and with snake-like speed they surrounded him, eyes burning behind crimson, visored metal helmets. The ranger could expect no quarter from evil men such as these, if indeed men they were, but as he let loose his cry and swung his sword, cutting a wide arc, he diverted the attention of most away from himself and towards their Alderman...

...but it was too late. Taking advantage of the ruckus, Thammegil had slipped past the others, and had managed to get into striking distance. The Alderman wore a great hauberk, but his neck was exposed, and as Thammegil's blade sliced past it, the man turned to face him, no longer laughing madly, but with a look of terror frozen on his face.

He fell back, clutching his bleeding neck. The wound looked grievous, and perhaps with time or an infection it could still claim his life. But before Thammegil could follow up, the Red Men surged forward, seizing him, as they had by now seized Arton.

 

OOC

Ok, so let's do it like this: I am too lazy to run this as a proper fight, but I still want to give Thammegil a chance to one-shot the Alderman. That roll was a hit but not a piercing blow, but most RPGs don't do assassination well. So let me just roll a 1d12 and decide from the outcome:

  • On a 9, 10 or 12 (Gandalf), the Alderman is slain, either instantly or soon thereafter. The guards then take you into captivity.
  • On a 1-8, he is grievously wounded, but the guards interfere before you finish him off (and again, you are taken into captivity).
  • On an 11 (Sauron), as above, but the guards beat both of you into submission (lose 3d6 endurance).

I hope that seems fair and interesting!

Edit: A 2. Post editing in progress... done!

Feel free to post reactions, if you want. In my following post, I will narrate the journey to Dol Guldur in broad strokes, so I'll be compressing lots of time in a few paragraphs.

 

Name
Fate of the Alderman
2
1d12 2
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His blade came down in a sweeping two-handed arc from above his left shoulder and down to the right.  It should have been enough to cleave the Alderman in two, but at the last possible second, something caused the man to turn and step back just enough so that the blade instead sliced into his neck.  Enough to open it, possibly enough to kill the Alderman, but not enough to end it right there and then.

Thammegil took all this information in but a moment, but alas, as he closed the distance and pivoted his wrists to come back on the upswing, he felt blows raining down upon his back and his arm, red-gloved hands reaching out for him with inhuman strength, pinning his arms and toppling him over.

As he fell, he could see iron-clad feet moving in with kicks and blows aimed at any exposed part of his body.  He struggled, trying to pull himself free, but then, from the corner of his eye he saw the sole of a boot descending upon his temple.

All went black.

 

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Soon after Thammegil fell, Arton was seized by many, and forced to bear witness the unfolding tragedy. The Alderman, injured or dying, was carried far out of sight, towards one of Haycombe's many buildings, by a retinue of the red warriors, and was never seen or heard from again. As for the rangers, they were spared, despite their daring deed, but that was hardly a mercy. Most likely, the enemy reserved for them terrible tortures and a slow, excruciatingly painful death, but in those first days after the sacking of the town, they simply shared what fate had befallen the others.

The red men bound them all in chains, and the company-Thammegil, Arton, Elhadron and Bláin-found themselves together with those they had encountered at the inn: Aldor, Geb, Haleth and the elf Rodwen. They were forced to march south for many days, under the harsh commands of the red men, whose tongue sounded like a bark to Northman ears. Many amongst the young, the old and the infirm could not keep up, but their masters cared little, and they whipped them mercilessly. Those who fell were left to die where they lay. Some amongst the others thought them the luckiest.

More than a thousand prisoners had been taken. Less than half survived the grim march south. The Easterlings drove their slaves quickly, using long horse-leather whips when necessary, but they were not needlessly cruel. They did not torture their prisoners, nor made sport of them. The days passed quickly, like a moment of horror drawn out endlessly, and before the companions knew it, they passed the Gladden Fields and turned towards Dol Guldur. But as the slave caravan passed through the Narrows of Mirkwood, the Easterlings were met by a column of orcs, and the slaves were handed over and left to the tender mercies of the latter.

All were weary by the time they lay their eyes upon the Hill of Sorcery. Old Aldor, the innkeeper, had fared particularly badly, suffering from a terrible fever and a wracking cough, barely clinging onto life. The prisoners were quickly driven into a dark tunnel that ran under the forest, into the vast and labyrinthine dungeons beneath the hill.

They vanished into darkness.


spacer.png“A spirit of despair – it has entrapped us all in sorcery! It will consume us if we cannot defeat it!”

The companions stirred, slowly awakening. Soon, the vision of Irimë faded, and as they looked about them, they could see no trace of her presence. But they had all seen her in dream, and she had seemed as real as this place.

Their dwelling was a lightless, noisome pit, as it had been for days now. All their equipment had been taken from them, as had that of those four from Haycombe who had been thrown in this hole with them. They were certain that they were deep beneath Dol Guldur, the dreaded fortress of the Necromancer. The cell was cold and partially flooded with foul water that stung the skin. Only a single door controlled the entry, locked from the far side by their captors. It was only opened by orc-guards, when they deemed it necessary to throw in a few lumps of moldy bread or bowls of some grey gruel. In the distance, the companions often heard screams and the sounds of lamentation from others that now shared a similar fate.

 

OOC

This is going to be the last set of scenes before the conclusion of the adventure. Everyone is Weary. Although the other PCs have faded to the background, I will roll for them when there are skills that they can cover.

Everyone gains +2 Shadow (Dread). You can attempt to roll Valour to reduce the number of points (1 on Success, 0 on Great Success). Take a moment to roll and describe what your character is doing before I post the next scene.

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When he had awoken, Thammegil found himself bound and thrown in with the rest of his companions and those he had met from the Inn.  He worried as to how they could escape their fate, but the chains binding him were too strong to be broken without tools and he found himself unable to slip free of the shackles.  Resigned, he listened to the hushed conversations that ebbed and flowed around him, learning piece by piece what had befallen the town.

It was not long before all the captives from the town (and there were many) were forced to march south in a long train of humanity.  Their captors driving them hard, mercilessly, those unable to keep up the pace, released from their bonds and left to die or survive where they lay.  After many days and nights, they were handed over to a band of Orcs under the eaves of Mirkwood and driven on by their now less than civil handlers until they saw before them the dread tower of Dol Guldur.  Thammegil's heart fell.  He knew that this could spell the end for all of them, even in this dream that was more than a dream.

Still, knowing that this was not real, no matter how it felt, gave him some little measure of hope, alas though not enough to counter the dread feelings that threatened to overwhelm him.

That was then.  Now, what felt like several days later, he lay in the dark, dank cell into which they had been thrust.  He'd spent his time trying to tend to the Innkeeper who was suffering badly at the hands of a fever.  He managed to keep the man clinging on to the edge of life, but did not know how long his ministrations would allow the man to survive, with no medical herbs to hand, and only rank water to feed the man's thirst, things looked excessively bleak.

But still, despite everything they faced, Thammegil realised that none of them could do much from this cell in which they had been thrown.  He'd looked around the walls and doors and all he could conclude is that they were deep beneath the tower and the hill upon which it stood, so the chances of digging their way out, by hand, were slim to none.  All they could do now was bide their time until an opportunity presented itself.  That, or death took them one by one.

 

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Arton of Gram

Arton's first memory after the beating was of rough hands forcing him to stand. He made eye contact with Thammegil who was walking. Arton presumed the Alderman still lived for the guards had not summarily executed them. They were alive for now and no doubt bound for some wretched dungeon or possibly a southern thrall market. The group was too large for any other purpose.

Arton set about doing what he could to strengthen the other captors for the trial ahead. They must bond as brothers and look out for each other. To that end he provided what physical aid he could at night, cleaning wounds and giving words of encouragement. Every physical injury was an invitation to infection which would sap strength and hope.

"Our enemy may have possession of our bodies, but he does not yet possess our spirit. Keep faith with your friends. Remember that denying our enemy what he seeks is it's own victory."

In the dank dungeons, when the howls of the tortured echoed, Arton sang the ballads of his people, to remind the captives that they were not alone and some among them refused to yield.

 

Name
Valor check
[9] (5) (weary) = 14
tor(1,yes) 9,5
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Time was a strange thing in this new reality. Perhaps not surprisingly: in the darkness of their dirty cell, they had no sun and no moon by which to tell apart day or night, and to reckon its passing. But even memory now functioned in queer ways: for it was impossible to recall the entirety of their experience in the dungeons. Only particular scenes stood out; everything else felt same and repetitive and, perhaps worst of all, dreadfully boring.

One day, Arton begun to hum an old tune. He had done this before, though it had seemed to have no impact on any of the others. But now, something strange was slowly beginning to happen. As the quiet music reverberated through the tunnels and filled the dungeons, it was picked up by others, the countless prisoners who lay in cells beyond the darkness, and beyond their own prison's barred door. Perhaps they had at last learned the melody, or perhaps they had grown too weary and too desperate to care about the orcs' punishment. Whatever the reason, the tune was amplified, until all mouths sang or hummed in solidarity; a brief moment of hope and connection in this otherwise isolated existence. Even the orcs did nothing about it, as if they had not noticed this act of quiet rebellion. 

spacer.pngBut alas; though the song had lifted their spirits, it could not heal poor Aldor. The old innkeeper spent his days lying on the floor, too weak to eat or drink what little the orcs threw at them. He had barely made it to Dol Guldur alive, and day by day, his fever was consuming him. In the first days, when they were still new to the place, Haleth had told this to the orcs; gleefully, their guards had marched into the cell and one had poured a vile brown-orange liquid down his throat, calling it medicine with a laugh. It only made the old man convulse and vomit, but it did not break his fever.

After that, Elhadron begun to spent all of his time with Aldor, only rarely leaving his side. The elf was a healer, but even so, he was no miracle-worker. He tried as best he could to make Aldor more comfortable, but even he knew that he could not delay death for much longer...

 

OOC

If you are helping to heal Aldor, give me a Healing roll with your next post. Add a bonus d6. 4 successes will be needed to help Aldor cling onto life for a little longer (greats count for 2, extraordinaries for 3). I'll roll for Elhadron (and maybe Blain) below.

In-fiction, each PC that helps with healing is spending many hours each day with Aldor.

Good luck!

Edit: That's an Extraordinary success for Elhadron. One more success needed. I'll leave Blain out of it for now, as he seems no great healer.

 

Name
Elhadron Healing
[10] (0,6,4,6) (weary) (favor) = 26
tor(4,yes,favor) 11,10,3,6,4,6
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As the days and nights passed, measurable only by the growing of his hair and beard, Thammegil wondered bleakly, what was to become of them.  He was surprised that their captors had not yet been to take any from their cell to interrogate or otherwise torture for their own sadistic amusement.

He spent his time trying, along with Arton, to keep everyone's sprits buoyant, to keep the flame of hope burning no matter how weakly - and arduous task given how each day they seemed to be staring more and more into the abyss.

When he was not trying to spread what cheer he could, he spent most of the rest of his time assisting Elhadron in ministering to the stricken Aldor.  The Innkeeper's condition was worsening, and it seemed that he was barely clinging on to the edge of life.  Some part of Thammegil thought that it would be a mercy if the Innkeep were to slip away into oblivion.  At least he would be spared the ravages of what was likely to come.  But tend him he did, for that helped to lend hope to the others sharing the cell.

 

OOC

So, I'll make two rolls for Thammegil here ... one against Enhearten to see what comes of his attempting to spread cheer and hope amongst the rest of the prisoners, and one against Healing to see how his assistance with the Innkeep is going. Both are favoured skills.

Well ... looks like he's managed to spread much cheer amongst the prisoners, but done sweet F.A. for the Innkeeper (in fact, may have actively done him harm given that he rolled an eye...) [edit] Looks like the die roller is bugged since the Eye shouldn't have counted (plus I forgot the bonus d6.  Therefore, the actual roll should be:  5 + 4 + 5 = 14 (which is still a failure since his TN is 15 for Heart based skills. Ho-hum.

 

Name
Enhearten
[ᚵ] (6,0) (weary) (favor) = 16
tor(2,yes,favor) 11,12,6,3
Healing
[𐍈] (0,4) (weary) (favor) = 4
tor(2,yes,favor) 5,11,3,4
Adding the extra bonus d6
5
1d6 5
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Arton of Gram

Aldor's condition worsened by the week. Arton's sense of time was skewed, but he had made a point to count the "meals" for the first few weeks after their arrival. When his throat needed a rest, which was often he sat beside the old man. Sometimes tending him while Thammegil rested but more often, working alongside his brother Ranger. If felt like the only resistance against their captors which he could commit. They would keep this man alive as long as they could.

"Aldor take another sip of the water, I don't need it."

 

Name
Healing
[𐍈] (6,5) (weary) = 11
tor(2,yes) 11,6,5
Forgot to add the bonus d6
10
1d20 10
This is the actual bonus d6
2
1d6 2
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spacer.pngThe days passed, sometimes slowly and sometimes quickly, each new one indistinguishable from the yesterdays and the tomorrows. And the old man's condition worsened as they went by. Nevertheless, they persisted. With nothing left to do, the entire company and all the others spent long hours of their days tending to poor Aldor, and that act alone forged unity and gave them a purpose-something dreadfully lacking in these cold and miserable dungeons.

As if by some miracle, the innkeeper's health stabilized after many weeks; he was still plagued by fevers and nightmares, but when he was awake, he was doing better. "I expected the orcs to be the ones to torture a poor old man." he would comment bleakly at times, when the companions would offer him their own share of moldy bread, with a sense of gallows-humor that the surroundings and predicament greatly helped to cultivate. He would then smile, and take the food, showing that he only meant it in jest, and even the boy would light up for a while.

After that, he begun to improve, slowly, and to speak more and more. Still old, still weak... but now he helped others cope, with his age and wisdom, and the mere fact of his betterment was enough to start rekindling a small measure of hope.


spacer.pngThen one day, the door to the cell opened, revealing not orcs but a tall and handsome Woodman bearing a tray of food.  Good food: not the gruel and orc-bread that the company had for all those weeks been consuming, but meat and roasted vegetables and good ale. The man introduced himself as Annatar and placed the tray on the floor, before them.

Then he spoke his words of temptation:

"There’s no need for you to suffer down here. The Master of this place has many Men in his service – aye, and Dwarves too, and other folk. Kneel to him, accept him as your lord, and you shall be given a place of honour in his service. Think on this offer, friends – it is better to live than to die, is it not?"

And then he left, leaving the food behind, but as he stood outside the locked door, he added: "I shall return tomorrow – give me your answers then."

 

OOC

Ok, with the help of Elhadron & Blain, Aldor clings to life, and the first challenge is successfully completed. Now for the second one: feel free to RP here, and I will do the same for the NPCs. When everyone feels ready to move on, we can do so. Enjoy!

It may not be apparent, but mechanically I ruled that Thammegil's succesful Enhearten check made another Corruption test unnecessary. So it did have some impact.

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The recovery of Old Aldor, the Innkeeper cheered Thammegil no end.  It also helped to lift the spirits of the others in the cell with them, dissolving the veil of despair that had begun to settle upon some of them and rekindling the flame of hope in their hearts.

When the Woodman, Annatar, walked in bringing decent food and drink, everyone was surprised.  Thammegil listened to the man's speech as he set down the tray and paused at the door, promising to return on the morrow for an answer.

As the cell door closed, Thammegil shot up and placed his ear against the rusted metal and listened carefully, noting the slow tap-tap-tap of receding footsteps echoing from without.  When he was satisfied that there was no-one eavesdropping, he spoke up before the others. "Friends, do not be tempted by the Woodman's offer.  We all know the shadow looms long over this place, and worms it's way into the hearts of those who would let it.

"He asks the question as to whether it is better to live than to die.  I would temper that as to whether it is better to die on our feet than live on our knees.  I, for one, would gladly sacrifice my own life rather than live under the corruption of the Shadow for even one moment.

"Remember the Aldorman.

"Remember what happened in the town.  Would you rather end up like those abominations?  That, my friends, would be your eventual fate if you take the offer given."

He knew that his attempt would likely be in vain, but he had to try to persuade them not to succumb to the Shadow, for he knew that if they did, then all was lost.

 

OOC

No sense in making a roll for this.  Persuasion would be the attribute to roll against, but the TN is 17 and Thammegil has no pips in there, so along with being weary, there's pretty much zero chance of success.  Still, we'll see what the RP brings out...

 

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