(Archive) The Strange Adventures of Numandil, Naerdil, and Huan 4

April 9, 2000

Numandil aka Indilzar
Naerdil aka Aearwen

Fangorn Forest

You seem to have come amidst the deepest part of the wood. It seems to close in upon you as you walk along, keeping your path tight and every footfall seems to be dampened by the stuffy air. Thankfully, the daylight sun beams across the forest and your path is just barely shown for you.
Obvious Exits:

Numandil appears from between the eaves of the forest.
Numandil has arrived.

The low snuffling sound of a hunting hound can be heard pacing through the forest. Yet even more obvious is the words of a Man as he speaks through the trees, "Come Huan! Long should we not tarry in the halls of the Fangorn. It is like to no wood that is in Gondor and I would not spare my nephew the wonder of this place. Already strange things have we seen, and not the least the guardian of the trees." The great hound does not look back. Rather he paces forward, nose to the ground sniffing out a path between the trees.

Ah! Golden fire signals the breaking of day Anar, Ariens' care might well rise high though, high aloft and o'er the serried ranks of trees unnumbered: o'er Fangorn the ancient, the ghost-forest, the Entwood (as 'tis known by yon folk southwards). Lofty are the trees, all oak and birch. Willows'n beech are a ways behind now, being removed westward of the Limlight and a ways from the Entwash of course. Those river trees which might seem fair in any light none such here there are, this being no spritely elven wood to dally in, all steeped in wights and evil magicks so 'tis said: such that, though the light of day may kindle the world without all in flame and fire of golden light, none of that comes hither (being lost in the woods' canopy as it is) By that, there's earthbound clouds of mist and fog all carpeted upon the forest floor, such as defies the eyes and sends the senses all awry. Underfoot, the path goes ragged and near-indiscernible whatever fools as ventured in most surely shall be lost.

The hound cries on a sudden and then the man stops. "What is it Huan?" he says approaching. He then touches a mossy tree, "Tis a strange pace, and fair in its way. Very old. The White Tower seems new-built compared to it."

Creeping in the mist, in the eerie silent still of the mist in the clouds that ring around the trees, man and hound all alike: there's movement to be sure, though, not a noise is to be heard by it, nor a scent to be smelled no animal comes here, mayhap not even worms into the sodden soil whereon lies detritus from uncounted autumn falls, rotting and reeking. Be it by the fog or magic both, one might not see that movement, only... sense it drawing the eye towards some shifting shadows there, or there. Spinning the peruser round to lose him in the fastness of the wood the air seems suddenly heavier, the trees all closer roundabout than once they did, with evil shadows looming 'twixt their boles.

Naerdil has arrived.

"Oh Fangorn's shadows!" cries Numandil aloud. "Yield thy wide halls and here a man in his need to see! Will you not let us look upon your timbers so fair or the rinds so bright that have been here since the days before dawn? Who now shall guide us from this place? Companions lonely upon the road." Naerdil douses his lantern. Alysandra says, "hmmm.. no suggestions then?"

Almost... almost as if they had ears, one might think (verily, or seemingly they move by the wanderer's words) the trees draw up, not so menacing now: light filters through their gnarled boughs to touch upon the leaf-strewn floor, there to betray a path untrod for countless centuries by the feet of man nor beast, as even creatures here seem scant for fear of whatever's hid within the awful shadows 'twixt the trees, else in the mountainous things of themselves. The path leads either east or west, though neither direction would seem a better choice that t'other.

"Truly now that is most strange," says Numandil. He then calls behind him, "Naerdil! Naerdil! Are you there?"

A gruffness, deep and low can be heard in response to the call of his kinsman, "Yes, I am here uncle.", says Naerdil, "where ever, -here- is." A striking of limbs against a broad chest rises loudly as the footsteps of the younger Nimothan move quickly towards the sound of Numandil's voice.

"Good," says Numandil. He then pauses, "I think maybe we are lost and maybe even Huan's keen nose will not guide us out." At that the great hound looks indignantly at Numandil. Numandil then says, "Look at yon path and tell me what you think. Have you by chance spoken with the Tree-man again?"

A deep sigh of exasperation sounds as Naerdil looks first hither and thither, neither path seemingly of good choice as the trees seem to block all exit from the forest. "Nay. I have not spoken again with the willow tree. He fell into silence and no other word did he speak." Standing quietly he glances at the two given directions and says, "Let us choose the path that leads us to the East, will that not lead us from this dark, forboding place?"

From the westward path... or is it the eastward way? (Without the sun to mark one from t'other, that'd be a guess) Word of voice comes a-rolling down, along and through the tunneled bough-arched road old as the earth it seems, rumbling and hissing... mayhap it is just that: and the ground seems to shiver, as well it might with a quake. But. Ever the noise draws up closer, ever clearer seeming at that. What odd tune is this one that is sung? It has no words as one might discern, but it's an odd rythm to it... one that compells the feet to march in time, even over and despite the minds efforts to stay their walking.

Numandil holds up his hand and says, "Wait. There is something, or some one, drawing nigh."

Uncle!"...."Uncle!", hisses Naerdil in the darkness of the forest, "That sounds not like anything we have seen before. This place is more frightening than words can describe." Stepping back a few pace, his whispers again, "Call my name so we may at least face ....face...", his voice falls off and a loud "oooph", can be heard as his body falls to the ground.

"Silence my young lordling!" says Numandil with a smile, "Do not panic. The voice is not fell, and I do not think that there is evil here. Yet be wary still."Something comes indeed!

Of old tales spoke of titans, greater than twisted trolls greater by far: tall as trees in darkest wood, strong and lithe and slender though, fair even as the fair folk when the world was young, before moon and sun or night and day when still Orome's horns sounded deep in the darkling woods of middle earth, those who walked the forests long ago.Out of the mists it strides, on long-shank legs and mighty feet it walks yards in a step, untiring too... a giant man one might think it, but for the rainment in which its clad, for that is of a tree with bark and knots and knob-knucked fingers on its dextrous hands, a beard like a bushel bristling out of what must be its face. But for its eyes and the noise of its passing, one might not know it were there a great ruckuss it makes, caring not for stealth perhaps... but they eyes! Great discs of eldritch light, veined and sparkling colours indescribable, 'Hoom!' It booms with mighty voice from mouth with ruddy lips of polished hide, 'Hoom-boom! Hum-ta-boom, ra-ta-la-boom...' With each mighty footfall it intones another word, heedless of the ones it nears heedless for reasons one might never guess, mayhap it sees them not, nor even cares. Or thinks them friends for living past the huorns and shepherds both... at any rate, it draws up close even enough to touch the men and their dogs with its great, gripping hands before it stops, staring silent at them.

No sound comes in answer to Numandil, save the noise of the forest around the two travelers from Gondor.

Long moments drag by until there is movement and a grunt as Naerdil struggles to his feet. His hand rises to the lump on the side of his head, "Ouch." No sooner is that from his lips and a great ruckus is heard, sounding much like the old willow tree from a few days past. A twinkle of silvery grey eyes rise as the head of Naerdil tilts back to take in the height of the massive tree, "You walk as well?", a laugh sounds as he turns to Numandil, "Do you wonder if the old willow could move about as well?" Perhaps the blow to the head has addled the young man as he stands before the tree, amazed, but all fear is gone from him as he beholds this wonderment. His questions flow from his lips like water bubbling through a brook, "Where you here before men? Do you have a name or shall we address you as.....hmmmmm, what type of tree would you be?" Walking a step closer he peers at the bark of this tree, "Much different from that of the willow. How interesting." His youth showing as a grin curves the corners of his mouth as his eyes hold the ancient ones before him.

Long time does it stand: this tree-thing, long time as trees are wont it stands unmoving and unmoved and watches the two, (and their canine companion, mind) long, long, long time it seems... without a word it /watches/, stroking its long -almost twiggy- beard, staring with eyes that pierce the soul with their depth and sharpness, stabbing like knives yet deep as oceans in themselves, one might lose themselves therein for the wait, but lo! It laughs, and the very earth rejoices at the noise of it, like spring after winter it seems, water whetting drought and it seems the listener that all laughter and voices are pale by the comparison, and the laugh is terrible catching. 'Ho-ho-ho-hooooo-now, what's this?' Quests it of a sudden in booming voice, 'Ah-hoo, but I'll be asking the questions, thinks-me...' A squint narrows down his giant eyes, 'Hum, but what're these we wonder, hmm? Ah... not elves, no...' It seems the giant speaks the workings of his mind, 'Oh, nooo... gnomes we would've seen -hoom- yes, firstborn we could've seen a league away. Ha! flighty little secondborn then... do not look evil, no. No /axes/ and /fire/,' As seems enough he says, 'Hmm, but the Huorns didn't crush them... so, yes...' A long finger is extended, pokes gently at the chest of the foremost man, (though gently enough to nearly bowl him over) 'Speak up! What's your names, hmm? Walking into my wood without permission... you're lucky -she's- not around, -hoom- yes, no... no manners these days.'

Glancing at Naerdil for a moment Numandil then says, "I am called Numandil son of Nodroth of the House of the Nimothan of Anorien. This, is my brother's son, Naerdil. We were journeying northwards and desired to look upon the wood. I hope you do not mind us trespassing?"

Huan the hound sniffs the air about and after another look at the ent now seems content to just pace about, nuzzling the roots of trees.

The silence of this tree thing before bears not upon the curiosity of Naerdil as his head bends first one way and then the other, trying to figure out -how- this tree arrived before them. As the voice of the tree booms out again he jumps in surprise and then gives his total attention to the words spoken. As the tree reaches out with a -finger- to poke at his chest, both arms flail out as he backsteps twice before he catches himself.

Silent as Numandil introduces the both of them, he speaks up again as curiosity bids him to ask, "She? Begging your pardon, but what should I address you by. Mister tree or Lord tree sounds so out of place in the middle of the forest. I should think a thing of beauty such as yourself should have a lovely name." Tilting his head to the side he again glances up and down the bark of this tree, capturing every nuance of its bark and limb to recapture in his journal.

'-hoom- now, slow down... yes a pretty little name you have, no mistake.' Sayeth the lumbering thing: 'altogether too... /hasty/ though, enough to put me back to sleep. But no! No more questions from you... not now, why? You think I'd tell you my right name? Ohh, there's power in names.... names can control and command, hmm. Ah! But trespassing? Oh, not too bothered about that... no, no. Only if the trespassers are... /hmph/' Nameless evil seems implicit at the last, 'You'll be shown out, though... no visitors come in. Well, humm, they do come in but don't go out... wake up the huorns with steel and flames and meet a hasty end, you see... and those that leave they call mad, for what they think they saw.' Upwards curl those ruddy lips, smiling a smile so broad as to bisect that wooden face, but it speaks no more thereafter.

Turning to Numandil, the younger Nimothan looks puzzled as he asks, "Too many questions put them back to sleep? Do you not find that odd, but then, when you think of the beauty of the silence in the forest...I do suppose our voices must grate harshly." Sighing deeply he walks around the massive tree, his right hand reaching out to tenatively touch the bark of the tree, "He could not be more correct in his last words, were we to tell of this story to many, we would be locked away in the deepest dungeon." A fond laugh slips from his laugh, bubbling with amusement, "I rather like the way they speak, that -hroom toom-, it kind of rolls from my tongue when I repeat it."

*note - log supplied by Longlimb*