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#5518251 Jan 19, 2012 at 09:37 AM
Founder
432 Posts
The dwarf sits at the bar in Needlehole’s lone Inn, The Boggy Frog, and looks around him, pulling on his pipe thoughtfully. It’s a small place, with a large common sleeping area upstairs and maybe one or two private rooms – if you’ve enough silver that is. He does, but chooses not to sleep in such quarters; he has a cot upstairs with his Axe brethren. It’s not a bad place, and the company is good enough - mostly Khazad traders from his Blue Mountains, and a fair number of hobbits. But the Frog is nothing compared to the Ale Hall below-ground in Thorin’s Halls, which itself is nothing compared to the Pony in Bree-town. Now that was an Inn! Outside of its role as a trading post, he can’t imagine why anyone would reside here in Needlehole, seeing how this bog (mentally nodding to the Rushock) is huge and swarming with annoying wildlife.

With that thought, he puts down his pipe and draws out his vial of black ink, which is getting low. He’s not sure where he’ll be able to re-supply – Michel Delving may be a good places, seeing how it’s the largest hobbit community he knows of, or maybe Stock, so close to Bree-land. But Stock is far off, and he’ll have need of more ink ere he reaches the Baranduin.

Picking up his pipe and relighting it (and ordering another ale), he begins to scrawl in it again with is little wooden dowel.


We sit now in Needlehole, having crossed the Lûhn and left the mountains of my youth behind. Tis a decent place, with decent folk. Many longbeards are here, having crossed the leagues between Thorin’s Halls and the Tower Hills, or heading west to our mountains. Master Ulfar oversees those that reside here. I’ve also seen a few Dourhand as well, and hear that they have a camp out north of the swamp. Ulfar has mentioned some troubles with them – harassing traders, robbing of hobbits, the like – this sits not at all well with me, however, and am of mind to do something about it.

I will see what my companions say when we breakfast together in the morning.

If we do not tarry here, though, I am unsure which route to take. I believe the road out of Needlehole heads due east towards Hobbiton, but there is little reason for us to visit that small community. The Ivy Bush is a fine Inn, tis true, but the folk there, country hobbits they are, are shy and would be wary of such a troupe as ours. We may instead make for Waymeet, and trading ground of sorts. All to be seen.
A bit of old Dwarven word-craft, taught to me by Iorak, my Grandsire:

"The orc, the orc, the orc is dead!
With my axe, I clove his head!
The day is done, the beer nigh gone
One last drink, then off to bed!"
+0
#5569625 Jan 29, 2012 at 08:38 PM
Officers
64 Posts
A young dwarf, the same that was sent to Khazgur stumbles across the entryway of the Boggy Frog, panting, chest heaving and by the way the poor lad is standing suffering badly from long hours on pony-back.
Spotting Oaric he staggers over, swallowing a deep breath even as he bows low.

'Message for you Lord Oaric from Khazgur'

He holds out a scroll tightly bound and sealed in burgandy wax with a K rune shot through by a bolt of lightning.

The message contained is written in a neat and precise hand oddly, although perhaps not as odd as all that on second thoughts.

Cheiftain Oaric, I hope this finds ye in decent health an' wi' beer tae whet thy whistle an' baccy fer thy pipe!

Mysel' an a group o' the Kin hae done as ye asked an' looked o'er the road tae Weathertop. We met at the Southern Stables in Bree an' split intae three groups tae test thon road.

Vemal an' Anduneth went as ane tae chetwood tae investigate rumours o' brigands near the road, Fin led others by way o' the rangers path through wood an' hill an' mysel' an Idoneah took the remainder through the Marshes o' Midgewater. We met then at Candaiths' encampment tae say what we hae found.

Vemals group reported that thon brigands be a poor lot, bad aff fer gear an' starvin'. Desperate men. They hae a leader an' be nae far fae the road at a'. They be unlikly tae attack a strong force but may seek a lighter group fer food an' coin.

Fin reports several camps by way o' the rangers road, orcs maistly an' some goblins as weel. They inflicted losses as they came through that way so the numbers be thinned out. Iz had a wee bit o' an accident but Fin can tell ye o' that. Those Orcs bore the mark o' the white hand Fin hae said.

Lastly by way o' the marshes an' close tae the Road. There be a goblin camp there alsae an' they hae pots o' flame. The marshes hold the usual critters but spiders in grave amounts. Still t'is the greenskins that cause issue an' the marshes nestle a goblin camp like a canker!. O'er the hills behind the Forsaken Inn ye find Amon Sul ringed wi' greenskin camps as weel. All o' the white hand.

We fought up Amon Sul, all o' us an' went through it like orange juice through an upset gut. The summit fer now is clear but the sheer amount o' greenskins is far mair than a tribe or twa down fae the mountains.

Be on thy guard.

Khazgur Splinterstone of the Grey Mountains
+1
#5638158 Feb 13, 2012 at 09:16 AM · Edited 6 years ago
Founder
432 Posts
[Note: this occurs prior to the Axes' departure from Needlehole]

Oaric reads over the note, his brow furrowing. After going over it a time or two, he rolls it back up, and slips it into his pack. Further digging in his pack around yields a small wrapped bundle of dried and salted meat, his almost-empty vial of ink, and his nub of a wooden dowel. Chawing down on the venison, he begins to scrawl:

Received word from Master Khazgur today concerning his scouting of the eastern road. His news disturbs me, but for why I do not know. He reports on brigands, goblins, and orcs encamped near and around Weathertop, and that the few roads through the area are beset by enemies. This I expected. But what troubles me is this “White Hand” born by the orc and goblins. I know not this marking, but its implications – as a uniform, suggesting organization and direction from a higher authority – is worrisome. Are the paths eastward being harassed and closed for a reason? Who would deign to do so?

I fear we will find out soon enough.
A bit of old Dwarven word-craft, taught to me by Iorak, my Grandsire:

"The orc, the orc, the orc is dead!
With my axe, I clove his head!
The day is done, the beer nigh gone
One last drink, then off to bed!"
+0
#5638690 Feb 13, 2012 at 11:13 AM
Founder
432 Posts
Sitting on the ground, the dwarf pulls his pack to his lap. Looking around, he sees his sleeping friends – well, those that do sleep. The elves stand outside, talking quietly among themselves and watching the moon, as is their nature. Again he thinks they are strange folk, and try as he might he’ll likely never understand their ways.

A shuffling sound to the right calls his attention; he looks, and sees the profile of Molly, Longo’s milking cow. Inwardly smiling, he thinks on his current place: here sits Oaric, son of Aorik son of Iorak, of the Line of Ilmarik, metalsmith of Thorin’s Halls, and leader of the Iron Axes, holed up in a hobbit’s barn and sharing his sleeping quarters with a cow. Aye that Longo Burrow is a good fellow, and he has been quick to share his food, though he has been paid well, Oaric is not quick to forget.

He chuckles as he pulls his journal and vial of ink to him, now nearly empty. He curses that he forgot to refill it in Michel Delving, but their passage through that town was hasty, and no vendors of scholarly goods could be found in Waymeet.

Longo Burrow’s Farm
Tuckborough in Tookland, The Shire
Fall 3018

We find ourselves now encamped by the generosity of Longo Burrow on his farm. We’re housed in his barn, and await now an assault by brigands on the Smials, as the local hobbits call their hill at Tuckborough.

We left Needlehole not long ago. On behalf of Ulfar, we went to scout the dourhand encampments north of Rushock Bog. Many of them we slew, thanks in no small part to the sharp shooting of the Ladies Osdis and Nicolaa. With their numbers were thinned, we searched one of their campsites, and in the bag of one such dead dourhand, we found what looked to be reports of brigand and goblin movements through the Shire, and mention of an attack on Tuckborough Hill.

With Master Finneaus as our guide, we decided to hasten to Michel Delving to report these tidings to the Bounder Shirrif there. ‘Ere long we arrived, though weary and tired, for the Shire is a large place. We spoke with Bodo Bunce and Mayor Whitfoot in the Town Hole, and worried they seemed, for they had heard recently that some brigands had moved into Old Odo’s farm along the Stock road near Woodhall. Our aid was requested and gladly given to the Bounders, and we were told to seek Longo Burrow near Tuckborough, for he is the current owner of that farm, though long ago he abandoned it.

When at last we arrived at Longo Burrow’s farm, he informed us that his cousin had indeed espied brigands camping at Old Odo’s place, and that more were moving in from the southeast. With the information from the report found on the Dourhand, we decided to camp nearby, as it is feared that the brigands would move on Tuckborough shortly. Master Finneaus negotiated for us to remain here on Longo’s farm, rather than out in the open or in the woods. And while Molly the Cow makes for a poor host, tis better then sleeping under the rain.

A bit of old Dwarven word-craft, taught to me by Iorak, my Grandsire:

"The orc, the orc, the orc is dead!
With my axe, I clove his head!
The day is done, the beer nigh gone
One last drink, then off to bed!"
+0
#5723029 Feb 29, 2012 at 02:31 PM
Alumni/Inactive
6 Posts
Illonthos pauses for a moment outside the barn, trying to recall everything that happened during the skirmish at Tuckbourough. If he is going to give Master Oaric his report, then he will make sure that it is as right as can be. Though there is not much to tell this time—at least compared to how their last attempt to free Tuckbourough went. A smile flits over his features as he recalls the hobbits’ simple thanks. Of course, they will aid Free Folk with or without promise of reward, but it is always nice to know that the Iron Axes are appreciated. The elf’s thoughts are suddenly interrupted as Shield-bearer, his trusty horse, gives him an impatient nudge to the back and snorts.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get your rest,” he chuckles, affectionately rubbing the horse’s muzzle. With that, he adjusts his grip on the reins and leads Shield-bearer inside. The barn is much the same as when he first saw it. Molly the Cow lets out a moo at his approach—indeed, the cow is not the best of hosts. But hay and a noisy cow are far better than sleeping in the open.
“Master Oaric?” he calls. “Are you in here? I bring tidings of Tuckbourough—and they are much better this time!”
+1
#5733264 Mar 02, 2012 at 11:23 AM
Founder
432 Posts
Oaric listens intently to Illonthos’ tale, smiling upon hearing that the fearsome half-orc Filzof has finally fallen under the axe blade. Smoke swirls from his pipe as he listens to the story, of how the three elves, Illonthos, Rawore, and Arullia, the Lady Dunrian [OOC note: I don’t remember Dunrian’s race :)] and that southern mariner Iæn slowly made their way through that Hobbit hill, defeating waves of goblins, dourhand, wolves, and brigands of all sorts. Not one hobbit was lost, which made him even happier.

After Illonthos departs, he sits down again next to the straw-bed and the hobbit lass lying there. She is pale, sweating unnaturally, and clearly ill… an ill-fated blade had taken Lhilly on the arm during the failed first assault on the hill. While it looked innocent enough, it festered shortly thereafter, and it is unclear if this was simply infection or possibly some nefarious southron poison. Worriedly looking at her, Oaric sighs.

No Axe has yet been lost along this journey, though it would be foolish to think they would loose no one on such a long adventure. Turning his thoughts away from the dread of loosing an ally and friend, he thinks instead of a conversation he had with Longo yesterday and what can be done to save the little lass.


“Ayup” Longo had said, “Few o’ them hobbits out near the ol’ Brandywine know their medicines, living on the eaves of the Old Forest like they do. Heard tell of a distant cousin of one of my farmhand’s sister’s husbands from out Stock-way that he knew of a few Brandybucks who’d like-go into the Forest in search of plants, flowers, and mushrooms for their concoctions. Mayhaps you’ll find what you’ll need there-abouts..”

Settling down for a bit of rest, his final thoughts before sleep takes him are of Stock, the bridge, and the Old Forest… a place of shadow and danger, he’s heard tell, and he’s loathe to enter under its eaves, but will do so unhesitantly if it means Lhilly’s recovery…
A bit of old Dwarven word-craft, taught to me by Iorak, my Grandsire:

"The orc, the orc, the orc is dead!
With my axe, I clove his head!
The day is done, the beer nigh gone
One last drink, then off to bed!"
+0
#6017957 Apr 24, 2012 at 04:18 PM
Founder
432 Posts
The scent of roasted fish fills the small inn, wafting towards the Dwarf’s nose and making it wrinkle in disgust. He mutters something about sea vermin, then drinks deeply from the chilled brass tankard just set before him. Nodding in appreciation towards the drink, and the hobbit lass who delivered it, he sets to the task before him. He dips his sharpened wooden dowl in the small vial of black liquid (newly acquired here in the village of Stock), and puts it to the paper of his journal, beginning to scrawl words across the paper:

Long we have been in this Hobbit town – Stock it is called. Tis a pleasant place, and has allowed those of us here to fully heal our hurts. It is one of the last Hobbit villages we’ll see for long, for as we cross yonder river, we’ll be leaving the Shire and entering the man-lands of Bree. It saddens me to pass out of this fine country, but our road lies eastward, and my heart yearns to see yon Misty Mountains.

The lass Lhilly seems to be fully healed. The brew made from the flowers we were able to find in yonder forest was ample to enough to heal the poison in her, and we’ve a small stock in reserve for future use. We will leave Stock well.. stocked, you could say.

The dwarf chuckles as he writes the last bit, and pulls again from the cup before him.

So into Bree-land we go. We shall depart shortly, and follow the road eastward. I am told it is an easy enough journey, though tales of brigands are heard in the ale-hall of this inn… though what journey lacks rumor of such things? Our numbers will protect us, surely, if not the might of our axe-arms. For the forest was a grim and dreary place, and there I’ve seen trees move of their own will, and the beasts attacked us unprovoked and under malicious thought. Aye, I am loathe to return to it.
A bit of old Dwarven word-craft, taught to me by Iorak, my Grandsire:

"The orc, the orc, the orc is dead!
With my axe, I clove his head!
The day is done, the beer nigh gone
One last drink, then off to bed!"
+0
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