No-one tosses a dwarf!
Old Forest Road
The ancient, rutted road continues its meandering through the thick and dark wood. Around you the trees are tightly packed, bole to bole, and scarcely offer any passage off the beaten path. The wood is quiet and almost strangely calm around you.
The warm air fits well with the mid morning. The grass covered road generally heads east and west, and appears to be well-traveled.
Thin beams of sunlight shoot down through the narrow boughless path above the road.
Obvious exits:
Broken Gate, NorthWest, SouthEast, NorthEast, East, and West
Real time is: Mon Aug 04 14:57:41 2008 - Weather in the Beorning realm is: CLEAR
Elendor time is: Mid Morning <10:53:03 > on Hevensday of Summer - August 9, 3044
Early morning and first light is just barely thinking of paling the eastern sky in predawn. Most folk are still sleeping but a few are just beginning to stir. Morning cook fires are being rekindled to break fast before ponies will be harnessed and folk will once more begin to move deeper into the forest.
In this early gloom a man stands, already awake and watchful. Lith is silent, litening to the predawn muted sounds of the wood and watching the still dark gloom. The man has his harp packed and instead has long bow to hand, strung and ready to use. Not quite like the normally jovial harper.
The land beneath Mirkwood's boughs is never silent. Always there is the rustling of leaves, the creaking of branches, the faint twittering of birds. But now, for the sharp of ear, those noises are joined by others. The cracking of a twig. The chirrup of a blackbird's alarm call. And then, unmistakeably, a footfall. Someone - or something - approaches from the west.
As Mobeorn had promised, there had been no trouble all night from the west. Nor had the orcs bothered the travelers from any other direction, but there is still a sense in this forest, always, of being watched. Behind Halla, quiet soem distance in the west, a large shadowy figure approaches. Man? Bear? Mist in the forest shrouds it too much.
The grey clad man with the rent leather armour shifts his weight almost imperceptively, cocking his head very slightly to better capture sounds. Left hand reaches back to draw forth a long arrow and lay it lightly over the bow. Keeping his voice low, the man says, "Mobeorn... best let the dwarves know. Something is coming from the west."
From the west of course could be a good thing, but one should be careful. Without turning his head, voice barely audible, the man adds, "Two legged I think." To clarify that what is cloest isn't one of Mobeorn's kind.
"Bloody trees..." a raspy voice utters beneath Odor's breath, his axe unslung and resting in ready hands as he stands at guard beside a cookfire that is just beginning to smell like a fish smoker. His lips smack noisily in the crisp morning air, salivating at the game it plays with his pallete. A soft squish here and there as his boots sink under the impressively broad dwarf's weight into soft earth "Bloody mud..." The weapon is set, haft first into the muck as he reaches for a pouch. Unfastening the string that holds it closed, he draws out a handful of dried shredded weeds. A little something brought from Bree. A smile crooks to his mouth, and he raises it toward his nose, drawing in a deep breath. Its then that a large droplet of moisture, hanging precariously overhead finally falls, splashing over his treasured pipeweed and a long tendril of hot air rushing out his nostrils as he begins to shake with rising rage. "Bloody rain!"
Perhaps the murmur of speech carries through the trees, if not the words or their import. Within the woods, a half-glimpsed shadow freezes into immobility for perhaps a dozen heartbeats. Then from between two trees a human figure emerges. It is Halla: axe in hand, shield slung at her back and bulging canvas satchel hanging heavy at her side. Alas, she is an imperfect woodsman. She does not look behind her.
Mobeorn, however, is not behind or near Lith. No, deep in the night he disappeared into the dark woods and hasn't returned. And now, behind Halla, the figure breaks into a trot, emerging from the mists--it's a man. "Hail folk of Durin!" the man calls--he's not yet up to Halla, though. "Don't shoot the aid we bring from Grimbeorn."
Ranol is only just waking up, crawling out of his tent and standing. The huskarl runs a hand through his short-cropped black hair, matted from sleep, and looks around sleepily. He spots Odor first and offers a polite, "Good morning, cousin." Ranol slept in his armor, the leather looking to have been repaired so many times it ought to simply be replaced. He's only recently recovered from a nearly fatal wound, and is still looking lean because of it.
The bow that was half raised in the man's right hand, arrow fletching held by the nocking in his left, is eased back down. Lith raises his low tenor voice in greeting, "Hail friends of the Laird. Come into the camp and be welcome!"
A glance back over his shoulder as the tall man hears some of the dwarves rumbling, "We have company."
The Beorning woman stiffens, then relaxes as a man's voice is heard. "Did you have to sneak up behind me like that?" she complains, half-turning to see who it is.
"And I should think so too," she calls out in the direction of the camp as she lets her feet take her there. "Brought something to add to your breakfast. Roots for the pot, more journeycakes ..."
'Wasn't rightly sneaking up on you--if I /had/ been sneaking up on you, you wouldn't have known it,' Mobeorn grins as he catches up with Halla. He peers at her more closely, though. "
"There is bugger all good about this morning, cousin..." Odor grunts bluffly back to the waking Ranol. The pipeweed ruined, it is thrown to the ground with great gumption. "I am stiff, my boots are sodden through...my beer has soured and now this forest denies me even a smoke!" he kicks at the mud where the discarded weed lies, glaring around at the wood. "Give me a hundred dwarves with a hundred axes and a hundred years and I will cut it down. Let us see the rabble of mindless orcs hide then..."
Ranol smiles easily, more amused by Odor's grumblings than sympathetic. "One more night without attack is welcome enough by me, cousin." His blue eyes wander towards the Beornings, one in particular catching his attention. He lifts a hand in greeting towards Halla if she looks his way.
Seeing that the new arrival is Halla, Lith inclines his head to her and slips his arrow shaft back into his quiver. Grey eyes slip past her to Mobeorn returning to the camp from further back.
One of the dwarf's grumblings though distracts the man who looks back into the camp, "You might be wise to keep such thoughts to yourself, sir. There are elves in this wood, if I am not mistaken, who might take very unkindly to such wishes. Orcs are enough to be plagued with. Perhaps it is not wise to seek to rile others as well."
So saying, the harper looks to Mobeorn - for that man is more familiar with what lurks here than he.
Halla hmmphs, and gives Mobeorn a sidelong glance. "
It seems the comment about cutting down the forest has also raised Mobeorn's ire, the hair on his arms actually bristling. "I think that cutting down this forest would not sit right with me or my kin," he growls. "It was not always dark it will not always be so. And aye...' he nods briefly to the harper, "there are elves here, when they care to show themselves, which is rarely."
It's only the mention, in Eothrik, of honeycakes, that changes his mood. "You have some of those?" he eagerly asks Halla, speakign in Westron.
"Eh?" Odor looks up, rather bleerily from his complaining toward the thin woman, and then to her companion. "Elves?" he inquires, although it is hardly uncommon lore. "All the more reason to chase them out of the treetops...perhaps a good shaking, instead of chopping should do the world of good? Or failing that..." Odor leans upon his axe, raising a well soaked and muddied boot into the air. "Perhaps you can convince your wretched wood to stop destroying my things!"
Ranol watches the exchange between his kin and the others, staying out of the argument. He sniffs appreciatively at the cooking breakfast. "Do you need help eating all of that, cousin?" He asks with a small grin, moving to sit down, slowly drawing his blade as he fishes out of whetstone.
A small huff of breath, hearing the unnamed dwarf. The dark haired man leans lightly upon his long bow, tip placed upon his boot so to keep it out of the soft mud, "It is your choice to come through the wood. There's always the Grey Mountains to the far north, and then east to your mountain - should you prefer."
The suggestion is made in a perfectly civil tone, accompanied with a charming smile.
Halla grins briefly at Mobeorn, then clears her throat. "Hush. Just a few." At Odor's next words she snorts, rather more loudly. "If you didn't surround yourself with dead things the forest wouldn't try quite so hard to rot them," she retorts in the direction of the grumpy dwarf. A perfect matched pair, those two.
At the harpers words she frowns, shaking her head.
"I should prefer" Odor declares with a deepening of his voice, sounding very much like a schoolmaster, as he lets his axe rest upon his chest, both hands join together at the thumbs and a puppet bird is made to flap, swooping down. "That the eagles themselves should swoop down and carry me from this damnable bog, into a nice dry mountain hall, where I can drink bitter beer until I can no longer walk and smoke my pipe until I cannot find the door for the fog. In peace and bloody quiet!"
The question from Ranol draws his grumpy attention toward the other dwarf and a knowing smile curls onto his lips. "Oh you're welcome cousin..." he looks, casting a narrowed, grinning pair of eyes toward the Beornings. "Its rabbit stew."
Odor's continued grumpiness finally does draw a laugh from the bowman. Lith is amused at least, with the other's attitude and chuckoles, "Fair enough."
The harper's own stomach growls then at the mentioning of food items brought, and the cooking fire warming something that might be soup. The tall man sighs, "I respect your people's customs Mobeorn and Halla, but forgive me if I pine for a good meat stew." Ah well.
Leaning his bow against his own shoulder, Lith begins to draw out his pipe and pouch. May as well have a pleasant distraction while waiting for camp to be broken.
That last does it--even if the so-called rabbit stew smells more liek fish. With three quick strides, Mobeorn crosses the camp, his long arm reaching out to try to snatch Odor by the back of his tunic or armor. "And I," he bellows, "would be happy to give you a personal escort to the top of the carrock where you can spend the rest of your life waiting for an eagle to escort you! Or perhaps you'd like to swim your way down the Anduin! That can be arranged too!"
Ranol begins sharpening his sword, methodically dragging the stone along the edge. "Aye, I agree with you there, Odor.." The huskarl says softly, not thinking much of the bickering until Mobeorn is suddenly losing his temper. He looks up sharply, frowning at the Beorning man.
Halla watches open-mouthed as Mobeorn strides past her. Her ill-humor seems to fade away as she watches her countryman in action. She lets out a grunt of approval, then turns her head to survey Lith. "You sure? Could always toss /you/ in that cook-pot if you like."
The pot goes flying without much resistance, the frame that held it falling over and the hot water setting out the fire in a puff of smoke. Height has its advantages, and thus Mobeorn is readily able to seize Odor's tunic. However it has its weaknesses too. Sturdy hands grip tightly around the axe haft, and a strategic upward swing is directed between the large manling's legs. "Nobody tosses a dwarf!"
Oh yes, there's a howl or a roar of pain in response from the large Beorning man--and there's also an instant, instinctive reaction--dwarf is lifted like some small twig on the ground and then thrown far from the injured Beorning--or at least Mobeorn tries to throw Obor halfway across the woods before he drops to his knees in pain.
"Oh for goodness sakes!" Says the harper, giving up on his pipe and tobacco, stuffing them quickly back into his belt, "Are not orcs enough? Mobeorn!" Taking his long bow back into hand, the tall man moves as though he might attempt to discourage such horse play... only to see the unnamed dwarf crack Mobeorn a hit with his axehandle that is surely aimed to ... no please.
"Oh now, that's done it." Lith says softly, coming to a standstill.
Ranol rises to his feet quickly, growling in anger as the situation elevates. "Stop it!" He orders in a sharp tone, the Huskarl glaring at the both of them. "Save it for the orcs."
There's a satisfied grin that crosses Odor's bearded mouth as the sound of cracking rises eminates from his mark. It is quickly replaced with an expression of shock however as he finds himself lacking footing, and it takes a second to register the fact that he is flying through the air. A good ten feet, which is sure to be a record in the dwarf-toss, Odor lands flat on his back with a large squelch, axe sinking into the mud beside him, as he slides back another several inches. A loud groan lifts from the ball of mud and hair that is Odor.
Halla hesitates where she stands, clearly reluctant to approach the combatants. She is silent now, neither egging on nor discouraging.
Mobeorn, though, is in no mood for words of peace--or for that matter, words at all. He staggers to his feet--glares at Obor, and then heads off across the road and into the woods on the other side.
A prostrate dwarf is an intringuing sight, arms splayed out to the sides like some kind of strange bird incapable of supporting its own weight in flight. The large dwarf arms fold inward, gloved hands digging into a thick mask of mud that covers Odor's eyes, and throwing the excess to his sides as he blinks to clear bleary vision. With a great huff, he pulls himself up to sit. And rather than glare, or shout...he laughs. It starts as a low chuckle, then rises to a deep, resounding bellowing laughter. "You're alright, lad!"
Ranol isn't laughing, unfortunately. The huskarl looks quite angry. He watches in silence for a long moment, but the fight is over now. He settles down again, going back to sharpening his blade. If it were -his- clansmen, well.. words would be doled out. As it stands, Odor is Barazin, and Ranol is not.
A sigh escapes the tall archer, "Well, you are probably glad for the soft footing now." Lith turns away to glance after Mobeorn but makes no move to go after the other. Instead, the harper looks to Halla, "If folk are going to make any attempt to respect your ways, you really need to try and respect theirs in turn. We aren't in the Beorning village now, friend."
Trying to be neutral, but perhaps really stuck in the middle, Lith moves off to wait for camp to move on. Meanwhile, he finds a tree to lean against where he can keep an eye and ear open for things moving outside of the camp - at least on the north side of the road. He draws his pipe out once more and begins to load it with a bit of the pipeweed Frarin had kindly sold to him.
Halla stares at the laughing Odor as though he were a madman. A black scowl is on her features, and when Lith speaks the full force of that scowl is turned on him. "No, we aren't in Anduin village now. We're in the Forest, where shadows dwell. For the sake of your damn stomachs you'd risk having us two fighters down?" She turns her focus to Ranol and his as-yet-unnamed companion, her gaze sharpening. "You folks /want/ to make it back to this Mountain of yours, or shall we just holler for the goblins now?"
"Bah!" Odor exclaims, as he sets the axe haft once more itno the mud and tries to bring himself to his feet. It is a failure, and he goes sprawling into the mud again. "There's no shadow a good, dwarf-made lantern can't brighten up...and no evil that a good dwarven axe cannot cleave." his second attempt is more fruitful, and despite some slipping and sliding, and what might very well be the first example of a dwarf doing the splits, he begins to find firmer footing. "Now where'd that big fellow go? We need to settle this the old fashioned way...with a drinking contest."
Ranol lifts his blue eyes to Halla, "It's over now.. " He says calmly, his anger dissipating quickly now that the situation has resolved itself. He lifts his voice a bit, seeking out Odor again. "Cousin, save the drinking for when we are out of danger. The Beornings are here to help us, we should be appreciative." The huskarl is attempting to smooth things over and turns his attention back to the woman, "It's good to see you again, Halla. Come to see Grishnakh for yourself?"
Halla's hot words to not raise anger in the Ranger in turn. Lith glances up from his pipe, "It is not I who attacked another, Halla. I meant only that perhaps it would be wise to curb tempers, here, in this place. Are we all not here for the same reason?" But the harper intends it as a retorical question that needs no answer.
A glance to the dwarves, "That is not to say that what happened was not earned. And admittedly, no harm has come of it." A flicker of a smile, watching Odor try to put himself back to rights and being a good sport about it, at least.
"'e cannot take a joke, is what's what..." Odor grumbles quietly, his firmer footing now found, he wipes as best he can the muck from his weapon and stomps noisily back toward the gathering, he looks to Ranol. "And I am! I am! I forgot which way was out days ago...but I would like to be home and dry the sooner the better, and the Beornings I think would like the same...by the way, the fish was done about half an hour ago." he nods toward a raised cluster of stones, covered with peice of waxed cloth to keep the water off.
At Odor's earlier remark, Halla's mouth twitches despite herself, and she snorts at the dwarf. "You'd be flat under the table before he was even swaying. Do us all a favour and save it for another day, eh?"
To Ranol she shrugs. "Figured my axe could do somethiing more useful than split wood. It needs a little more vigorous excercise, you know." She attempts a wink. Lith's question is not answered directly, save by a sigh. "Suppose you folks can have some of these." She opens her satchel, and pulls out some a handful of flat-baked journeycakes. And," her hand hesitates, "I'll set some aside for Mobeorn." If the cakes for her absent countryman look different, rather more golden and moist, what of that?
"The Beornings are here of their own accord, when they could be back west in their homes." Ranol says to Odor with a small shrug. At the mention of the fish he nods, grinning again. Then he looks back to Halla, "It seems I will forever be in your debt." He rises to help himself to one of the journeycakes, too polite to tackle Odor's fish before the Barazin has some himself, first.
Moving to the fire to find a taper to light his small, Breemade pipe, the dark haired man smiles to Halla, "There's a kinder heart. Bless you." And in a moment, squatting by the dwarve's fire, Lith gets his tobacco lit. He stands back up, holding the bow in the crook of one lanky arm while he draws upon the pipe. Sweet pipeweed smoke begins to scent the air, curling upwards. Dawn light is brighter now.
Still, he can't help a glance to the fish. Glancing at Odor, the Dunadan adds, "I'll trade you a pipeful of weed for one of your fish. They smell delicious." Fish -and- journy cakes wouldn't be a bad breakfast.
"I didn't ask for his help..." Odor grumbles under his breath, reaching now at his slowed pace the extinguished campfire. The ranger's offer is one that draws a broad grin to the dwarf's mudcaked face however. "Aye, now 'that' is a fair trade..." a hand moves from his axe-haft to wag a finger in the air. "Mind its a full pipe though! Dwarves have hearty appetites." he sweeps this hand toward the cooked brekfast. "Dig in, dig in. It'll only get cold left on its own."
Halla looks quite embarrassed by her sudden popularity, and for once she has no biting remarks or tart rejoinders for Lith. She watches his trading attempt with a shake of the head. To Ranol she nods. "I'll remember that someday, I will."
Her journeycakes are rapidly disappearing, and soon she's left with naught but the portion for Mobeorn. "Suppose I'd better go and see if our log-tosser's hungry," she mutters, sighing. "If he doesn't want to be found I'll be straight back.
