Middle-Earth Role Playing Campaign

"Who are these people?" Araquenval asked Cartamantrix as the new arrivals entered the town.

"Others of our folk," she replied. "We sent for their aid a week ago. Like us, they won't bow down to the Witch-King."

"Are there communities of your folk working with the Witch-King?"

Cartamantrix made a face. "Without a doubt there are. Sell-outs! They lost the way long ago, and started worshipping the dark."

"So that image of a person carved in the hillside represents one of your gods?"

"Aye, the god Hannwn," the chieftain replied.

"But why does he appear to be holding two poles?"

"They're not poles. What look like poles to you are actually a door." She did not elaborate further, and Araquenval did not pursue it.

They continued work on the defenses that morning and afternoon. After removing the carts and barrels from the remaining gap in the north entrance, then Araquenval set up another earth wall a few feet in front, so that any attacker attempting to enter the settlement would have to negotiate a narrow corridor. Araquenval felt strangely tired after creating but one earth wall. Needing to memorize a spell, he used the spell store rune paper he had created a few days ago to store invisibility.

Bauglir climbed the bank to examine the sky. "The weather will not be good," he said. "The sun will shortly give way to clouds, and then the clouds to rain. It would be a good time for an adversary to make an attack." Then he went and worked at the south entrance, setting up two earth walls to narrow the gap in a manner similar to Araquenval's work the night before.

About noon a woman ran out of the moot hall. "Penborran's awake!" she called. Quickly a crowd gathered at the entrance, waiting for the shaman to appear. A few minutes later a very old man, leaning on his staff and burdened down with a heavy cloak, came out of the hut. He was tended by two younger priests, one on either side. The people assembled in front of the hall stood quiet as he surveyed them, waiting for him to speak.

One of the priests at his side spoke first, in Westron. "He has seen the enemy! They are about six hours away, but once the clouds roll in they will start moving."

Now the old shaman gestured and exclaimed something in Dunáel. Then realizing there were strangers here also, he repeated his words in Westron. "Very soon, the mountains shall descend out of the hills and crush us all!"

"Trolls?" asked Luinár. "Trolls are coming out of the hills?"

Penborran did not answer. The priests attending him carefully helped him sit down on the ground, the began giving the ancient man bread dipped in honey to eat. Slowly the crowd dispersed, until only a few people were left at the moot hall. The adventurers stayed behind, sitting around in a respectful circle while he ate.

When the old man had regained some of his strength, Araquenval produced the olorkorna and showed it to him. "Penborran," he asked, "can you tell me anything about this?"

Penborran reached up and touched it. "Great magic!" he said. "Great magic of the other world is in this stone. Where came ye by it?"

"A cave in Angmar, where it had lain lost for a long time." He began to speak of Fael-Linnis and the olorondo, but Penborran turned his attention away from him and looked instead at Dennenor.

"I've seen you," he said. "You've walked about. Above the hills--I saw you, and wondered who it was. You are a walker, too."

"Yes," the Elf replied. "Yes, I have seen things as well, with the aid of the stone."

"You flew above our village!" said Penborran earnestly. "What manner of being are you?"

"I am but an Elf," Dennenor replied, not knowing what else to say.

Then Penborran suddenly looked at Araquenval again. "You are accursed!" he cried. "Ah! What have you brought to our village?"

"What is my curse?" asked Araquenval.

"You need help. Bad spirits. Perhaps I can help, but it won't be easy. Strong. Very strong. My vision is that, without help, you will be dead within a month!"

Bradlegar gasped at Penborran's statement, but Araquenval remained calm. "Perhaps it was something in that parchment we retrieved from the wolves four days ago," he said. "It affected Mîriel very badly."

"I'll have to think on this," said Penborran. "It's not going to be easy. It won't kill you immediately, but you will start to notice it very soon."

"Do you notice anything strange about me?" asked Luinár, realizing she, too, had cast a spell on the parchment.

"Not aside from the obvious!" the shaman declared after gazing at her briefly.

Dennenor asked, "Would we be able to work our spirits together, with the aid of the olorkorna?"

"You come with me," said Penborran. "We'll have to talk about this stone." His attendants helped him to his feet, and together with Dennenor they entered the moot hall. The others remained outside, regarding Araquenval warily.

"I was the first one to touch that metal tube," said Bradlegar.

"What did that message say?" asked Bauglir.

"It read, You can run, but not far enough," Bradlegar replied.

"Perhaps there was more to that message than what was written on the parchment," mused Bauglir.

In the moot hall, Dennenor and Penborran sat down on the floor in front of each other, the olorkorna on a mat between them. Each with one hand on the stone, they concentrated on making a vision. For a brief moment it seemed to Dennenor something was there, and different from what he normally experienced, but then it was gone again.

"Your mind is on the battle," Penborran told the Elf. "Go out there and come back after the fight."

"Would you like me to leave the olorkorna?" asked Dennenor.

"Aye. I would like to look into this matter more."

By late afternoon low clouds had rolled in, a heavy black mantle that obscured the tops of the hills and brought a fine, misty drizzle. Still more reinforcements arrived, bolstering the defences. Most clustered on the bank at the north entrance and gathered torches, while others outside set up bales of straw, intending to light them once the battle started. A low, sonorous chanting arose from the moot hut immediately behind the entrance; from time to time Mîriel could distinguish the voices of Penborran and the three mistresses of the cauldron.

The Swithlings donned their armour and mounted their horses, joined by Luinár, Dennenor, and Rhôn. In anticipation of the battle, the Northmen were in a boisterous mood, drinking, laughing, and singing snatches of warrior songs. Kronos arrived on the scene with his horse and a magnificent battle axe, wearing chain mail and a look that could wilt flowers. At Luinár's invitation he joined the ranks of the riders. Behind them several women and boys wet down the thatched roofs of the buildings. That done, they put down their buckets and disappeared somewhere into the village.

"There are not many bows among the defenders," Bauglir said to Luinár. "Perhaps you should distribute your crossbows."

"I would prefer to keep them for backup," she replied.

"They would be more useful at work here than being carried around and doing nothing."

Luinár agreed, reluctantly. Finding three people who were already carrying bows, she gave each one of her crossbows. She told them they were to be fired first, and then they should switch to their own bows. Then going over to Bradlegar, busy applying jegga to three of his arrows, she wished him luck, kissed him, then returned to the Swithlings. In the increasing darkness she cast a shadow spell on herself, and seeing this, Kronos cast the spell on Dennenor and Rhôn also.

The clouds thickened further, deepening the gloom yet more, turning the afternoon to twilight. The chanting in the moot hut droned on. Then at last the silence broke with the sound of horns and drums in the distance. The long wait was over. All eyes turned north, and from the hills came the forces of the Witch-King. Some two hundred Orcs, carrying torches and the standards of Mount Gram, ran through misty rain, while in their midst walked fourteen heavily armoured Trolls.

But the people watching their advance mostly ignored the Orcs and even the Trolls, for their attention was seized by the creature in the centre of the horde. Twenty-five feet tall it was, dressed head to foot in plate armour, carrying an enormous two-handed hammer. It was a prince among Trolls, a gigantic Olog. Swiftly it strode along within the mass of Orcs, moving with astonishing speed toward the shocked village.

"The mountains have come down out of the hills," said Luinár.

Lief looked at Luinár. "Yah, why don't you just go out there and challenge him to arm wrestle?"

"What are the odds?" she asked.

"One gold piece for you. Fifteen for the Troll."

"I recommend a change in strategy," said Araquenval. "I have stored an invisibility spell, and would use it on you and Dennenor and Rhôn."

"I like the idea," Luinár responded. "We could sneak out on to the battlefield and attack from behind." She walked her great horse a few feet away from the Swithlings, and Dennenor and Rhôn followed. Moments later they vanished.

"Now Bauglir," asked Araquenval, "would you cast an invisibility on me? I do not wish to cast the spell myself, for there are others I would do: I intend to fly over the Olog and suggest it attack its own troops."

Bauglir considered the request. "It will work. I have rested, and can cast the spell without undue strain." To the amazement of the defenders watching them, Araquenval slowly floated up from his horse and disappeared.

The approaching force slowed. The Trolls fell back, letting the Orcs go in front. Defenders collected on the top of the bank, each with a half dozen spears at the ready. In the village, pipers started playing, and one by one the defenders began to shout in time to the music.

Down at the entrance where the Swithlings were assembled, Lief barked an order and his men dismounted and secured their horses. On foot, they assumed a wedge formation and made a shield wall, then began striking their shields with their spears. Luinár, Dennenor, and Rhôn slipped unseen out of the village, riding carefully in a circle west and north.

Araquenval flew to the Olog, now throwing Orcs in the directions where they would be needed in the fight. Casting his suggestion spell, he hinted in Morbeth, "Your troops are unfaithful! They should be punished!" The giant Troll paused and looked around. His eyes narrowed. Then, without warning, he raised his huge hammer high in the air and brought it down on the head of an unsuspecting Orc in front of him. The unfortunate creature disappeared, obliterated by the attack.

"Orcs of Gram! Treachery!" cried Araquenval in Orkish. "The Trolls are attacking us!" More than a dozen Orcs heard the cry and turned to train their weapons on the Trolls. Down crashed the Olog's great hammer again, squashing another hapless Orc. The Trolls looked curiously at the Olog, wondering at their leader's sudden desire to make pancakes out of their forces. Some arrows plinked off their armour but they paid them no notice. Finally, remembering the reason they had come this great distance, the Trolls turned back to the village and lobbed the rocks they carried.

A dozen small boulders sailed through the air toward the bank, but fortunate for the defenders all fell short, landing in the no-man's-land between the ditch and the army. Other Orcs, further out and unaware of the mutiny brewing within their ranks, lit arrows with torches and fired. More a targeting shot than a real volley, most fell short and others flew too far, but some lucky ones landed on the thatched roofs of the village's buildings. Precautions taken earlier were successful: the straw did not catch fire.

Back at the bank, Bauglir cast a cold ball directly on the Olog. Then he quickly ducked down behind and began preparing another, dissatisfied with the spell. Although he could feel it had struck the Olog and most of the Trolls surrounding it, to him the spell appeared to have little effect.

Nearby, Bradlegar noticed the bewilderment of the villagers at the sheer size and ferocity of the forces the Witch-King had sent against them. But the Hobbit was unafraid: immense though it was, the Olog simply did not measure up to Corlagon. Taking the breldiar he had received so unexpectedly from Bauglir the night before, he loaded a jegga poisoned arrow into his bow, took careful aim, and fired. The arrow planted itself into the Olog, but the giant creature seemed unaffected by the poison.

Realizing he was too far down the bank to fire decent shots at the leader, Bradlegar decided to move closer to the entrance. Since it would be foolhardy to walk along the top, he slipped down the bank back into the village. Doing do, his eyes caught the image of Hannwn carved in the hillside. He looked at it in wonder: the image seemed to have come alive, moving a bit from side to side, almost beckoning.

The pipers suddenly stopped their playing, while in the moot hut the chanting began to build.

Mîriel watched in wonder as Bradlegar careened and almost fell down the bank. Realizing the breldiar was affecting him, she fired a hasty arrow at one of the nearby Orcs, then followed the Hobbit as he weaved his way along the base toward the entrance. Just as he was about to walk in front of the gap, she grasped him firmly, turned him toward the bank, and pushed him up. The Hobbit struggled to the top. Mîriel got there first and fired again into the fray, felling another Orc.

Dennenor was now in position behind the Witch-King's forces and charged one of the Trolls, slashing it with Ristalókë. It fell to the ground, its unthrown boulder crashing down on top of it. Luinár went for the Olog. Only halfway there a Troll lumbered into her, breaking her invisibility spell. But her charge was not affected and she came up behind the Olog and struck. The towering creature turned around, eyeing Luinár upon her horse. She wheeled around and galloped off, swiping at another Troll as she sped past.

Now Rhôn ate both kathkusa and zulsendura and rode in to the battle; aided by the potent herbs he swiftly killed a couple of Trolls. Dennenor felled another. Planting its feet wide apart, the Olog quickly sized up the situation and roared at the Trolls to attack the riders. Four of them moved into a offensive line, a pair on each side of their leader. But others kept their attention on the village, pulling another round of boulders out of sacks they were carrying.

The chanting in the moot hut was building rapidly: Penborran, Cliatha, Boann, and Maeve all now were singing together, the attendants joining in. The pipers began playing again, and on the bank the Hillmen started screaming insults at the Orcs. Reaching the top of the bank at last, Bradlegar noticed with some surprise that the giant Olog had turned around and was now facing away from the village. Taking a non-poisoned arrow from his quiver, he fired and struck it.

Out on the field of battle, Luinár reached for one of her crossbows, and in dismay realized she had left all three with the villagers. Sword in hand, she charged the line of Trolls protecting the Olog, striking one as she flew past. Two of them swung at her but only one managed a minor hit; Luinár simply shrugged it off. Dennenor charged in right behind her, striking the same Troll Luinár had hit. Lance in hand, Rhôn galloped in from the other side, but his horse suddenly shied and a Troll struck him. His lance fell to the ground. The woodman rode off, cursing and reaching for Trollfist.

Orcs in the front line fired a second volley, and this time the shots fared better: many of the defenders on the bank were struck. More burning arrows landed on the roofs, but still they did not ignite. In came another cluster of boulders, but again most fell short, landing on the bank and rolling into the ditch.

The chanting in the hut reached a crescendo. Everyone inside was now crying out short, harsh words: the women first called one word, and it was repeated by the men, then the women shouted another and the men repeated it also. Taking their cue from the hut, Brodigern and Cartamantrix lifted high their spears cried, "Charge!" An enormous clap of thunder boomed over the battlefield, then defenders broke out in yells and screams and as one streamed over the top of the bank. Through the ditch and on to the field they charged, throwing spears and crashing headlong into the attacking army. Maneuvering expertly around the barriers, the Swithlings joined the charge, their wedge slicing clean through the Orcs to the Trolls in back.

Bradlegar struck the Olog with a third arrow. Out on the field, Luinár paused on her horse, choosing her next target. "What are you waiting for?" barked Kronos, riding up to her, his axe glowing an eerie blue in the gloom. "Charge them!" And with that the Dwarf galloped toward the line, cleaving a Troll with his glowing axe and sending it crashing to the ground. Luinár followed, taking another run at the Olog. But this time the giant was ready for her. Down came the huge hammer, striking Luinár's plate armour with a resounding clang. Feeling as though a mountain had truly fallen on top of her, Luinár struggled to stay on her horse as it hurried away.

Bradlegar saw the vicious attack on Luinár. He cried her name, then fired again at the monster. Dennenor rode past the line, striking one of the Trolls, while on the other side the Hillmen fired a second volley of spears into the Orcs on the other side. Disregarding the men now in the battle, Bauglir jumped up and cast a cold ball on a knot of Orcs near his position. A couple fell at once; several more would freeze to death by the time the battle ended.

Still flying invisible over the battlefield, Araquenval cast a master of kind on a Troll standing near the Olog. "Kill the Olog and become leader yourself!" he suggested. The Troll considered this for but a moment, then responded with a grunt and struck its leader with a club. The attack did little more than jar the Olog, who turned and stared at the Troll in irritation. Araquenval quickly suggested to his Troll that it run and kill Orcs now, and it turned around and happily began mashing at Orcs about its feet.

A safe distance from the battle, Luinár quickly ate her gefnul, waited a moment for it to work its curative wonders, then rode straight back to the Olog that had almost killed her. But despite her charge and the fact the creature seemed to be momentarily distracted, Luinár could not seem to take advantage, and made only a minor hit before retreating once again. But she did note with satisfaction no less than four of Bradlegar's arrows planted in its body. Two more Trolls from the rear defensive line fell to Kronos and Dennenor. Indeed, it was a line no longer, for only the Olog was left. In came Rhôn for it, but again his horse shied. Too close and too slow they came to the giant, and down came the great hammer on Rhôn. He flew off his horse, head and helmet smashed, breaking his leg as he crashed to the ground thirty feet away. Miraculously he survived the monstrous assault, and still conscious but in desperate pain he lay on the ground and took gefnul.

Watching the battle from the bank, it appeared to Mîriel the Hillmen's charge had stalled. The Orcs were well armoured, a good match for the Hillmen's primitive spears and poor discipline. Many now had taken out scimitars and axes. But overhead things were different: the rain had stopped, and now the clouds were thinning, losing their frowning blackness. Further out, Luinár saw the Olog flinch from Bradlegar's fifth arrow, so she charged it again. But once more her attack was off and had little effect.

Now Dennenor charged the Olog. But it was still reacting to Luinár's attack an instant before, and with a blow from its enormous hammer sent the Elf flying from his horse. Dennenor crashed to the ground a few feet from Rhôn, one arm and the other shoulder broken. Behind him the skirmish raged on, Hillmen engaging Orcs, Swithlings and Trolls battering one another.

In behind an Orc flew Araquenval, stunning it with an off-the-cuff shock bolt. But the army's troubles were only starting. "Looks like it will be a sunny day after all!" shouted Bauglir from the bank. As he spoke a yawning gap split the clouds in two directly over the battlefield. Sunlight poured over the area.

"NO! NO!" cried the Olog, as if by mere words it could undo the powerful magic of the Cauldron. They died as Bradlegar caught it with an arrow in the back of the neck. Blood spurted from the huge Troll's mouth, and it toppled forward, crashing to the ground as Dennenor scrambled out of its way just in time.

And the Trolls still alive turned to stone in the brilliant sunshine, and the Swithlings broke into song, and the Orcs turned and fled the way they had come. Outward from the stony statues of the Trolls fanned the Swithlings, attacking and chasing the fleeing Orcs. The Hillmen howled in elation and slew many. In the midst of the rout rode Kronos to where Dennenor and Rhôn lay, and there he planted the handle of his axe into the ground. Even in the glare of the sun the axe blazed with blue light, and so much did the Orcs fear it that they turned aside and ignored the wounded enemies that lay there.

The Swithlings returned to the village and mounted their horses, then rode off in pursuit of the retreating Orcs. Mîriel ran out to her fallen comrades. Quickly she assessed Dennenor's and Rhôn's injuries.

"I can fix you up right away," she said to Dennenor. "Rhôn, you will have to wait a few minutes. I need to brew something." She called to a passing fighter. "You! I require wood and a fire. Also water and a pot to boil it in."

Kronos turned his purple bearded face to her, surprised at her order. Seeing she was serious, he hurried to the village, returning in a few minutes with an armful of wood and a pot of water. A minute after that he had a fire burning and the pot in the midst of it.

Mîriel set Dennenor's broken bones and gave him edram to knit them back together. But he refused the gefnul, saying he needed not the healing herb and it should be saved for another day. Removing his armour, Kronos sat down on the ground beside the Elf and for the next several minutes concentrated on a regeneration spell to cure the warrior's bruises.

Mîriel turned her attention to Rhôn. Blood streamed down the Wose's face, making to difficult for her even to assess the damage done by the Olog's hammer. As gently as she could she removed the tattered helm, then washed away the blood with warm water. Putting an arunya root into the water, she let it brew for a few minutes, then gave some to Rhôn. Groggy as he was from his injuries, with the aid of the potion he was unconscious within a minute.

Now that Rhôn was out, Mîriel asked some men to hold down his limbs to prevent him from thrashing about. After setting his broken leg, she set to work on his face, realigning the bones as best she could. Then she put two edram mosses into his mouth. Even though fast asleep, Rhôn methodically chewed on them, and the herbs went to work rebuilding the shattered bones. The people who had gathered about looked on in wonder, for Rhôn's face seemed to come back together of its own accord. When she was satisfied her efforts had been successful, she cast a heal spell to take care of the general battering, and followed it up with a regeneration.

"Lief the Lucky! Lief the Lucky!" cried the Swithlings as they rode in triumph back to the village. Not a single one of their number had been lost battling the Trolls, and in the rout that followed they had killed most of the fleeing Orcs. In the village a jubilant crowd had gathered around the moot hut, calling out praises for the shamans inside. Although they had not been seen at all during the battle, those outside knew it was their work that had opened the clouds and cut short the fight.

One of the men who earlier had attended Penborran emerged. He looked tired and drawn, as though he had been labouring hard for several hours. Immediately the crowd fell silent.

"The fight inside has taken a heavy toll," the priest announced. "Many of our number were picked up and shaken violently by an unseen force. More than one did not survive. Boan seems to have been attacked in her mind, and currently is in a deep sleep."

He stopped speaking. There was an uneasy silence. Finally one of the villagers asked, "What about Penborran?"

"Penborran is not well," said the priest quietly. "He was the centre of the struggle. At the moment he is asleep, and we will check on his condition in the morning." The priest turned and disappeared back into the moot hall, his unpleasant task completed.

The gathering dispersed, for even now the sounds of pipes and revelry could be heard from the common beyond the moot hut. The great bonfire was built high once more, and the victory celebration began in earnest.

The party was wilder than the night before. With a victory over the Witch-King's forces now a fact, the Hillmen sang up and drank up a storm. The pipers played wild tunes, and the men and women sang wild songs and danced wild dances. Abandoning any pretext of sobriety, Lief and the other Swithlings consumed a small ocean of beer, and sang and danced and roared until they fell down.

In the midst of the clamour, Araquenval and Bauglir were approached by people asking them to join the regional council, for their spell casting abilities were unlike anything they had ever seen. Bauglir, himself rather worse for wear, stared down one of the villagers and asked, "How many people do you control?"

"We dinna really control them," came the reply. "We're a confederacy of six or seven tribes."

"How many people?" barked Bauglir.

Two of the Hillmen conducted an animated conversation. "About five thousand altogether," said one after a couple of minutes.

"And can they row?"

"Can they wha?" asked a Hillman, not knowing where the conversation was leading.

"Can they row?" cried Bauglir. "Can they handle boats?"

"Boats? Ach, nay! Horses we use for carrying goods. Boats are Elvish things!"

"Then I cannot join your council. I will be raising a fleet, and I need men who can row and can handle boats! You people are unsuitable!"

"As for me," said Araquenval, "being an Elf, I am not prepared to take an active part in the leadership of men. My calling is elsewhere."

"If you want to start taking care of men," said Dennenor to Araquenval, "you would have a job forever."

Rhôn-Hari-Rhôn and the purple bearded dwarf Kronos spent some of the evening talking in a corner of the common, away from the general commotion. Like Luinár, Rhôn was interested in knowing whether Kronos would be coming south with them.

"Me?" shouted Kronos. "No! I'm staying here! These people need all the help they can get! They still need armour and decent defences! Besides, some friends of mine are coming up here to help. Orest! Roddy! It will be good to work with them again!"

"If village can survive them," mused Rhôn, waving a hand to one side of his face.

Kronos laughed. Then he looked at Rhôn and asked, "Why do you keep doing that?"

"Moth," came the reply. "Moth has bothered Rhôn-Hari-Rhôn since battle."

"A moth?" cried Kronos. "I don't see anything flying around your head!"

Some distance away, Bradlegar was receiving much attention. Many of the villagers on the bank had seen his shot that had brought down the Olog, unaware it was merely the final blow. At almost every opportunity Luinár proposed a toast to him, rasing a mug and crying, "Bradlegar! Olog slayer!" Although unused to this sort of attention, Bradlegar relaxed, smiled, and packed away as much food as the villagers brought before him. Luinár awed the crowd with tales of Bradlegar battling fire-casting priests in Angmar and dragons in the mountain passes.

Dennenor's ears caught the word "dragon." Threading his way through the throng, he approached Luinár and reminded her in Sindarin that it might be unwise to let tales of dragons, and especially their treasure, be spread about. Indeed, Bauglir now was keeping a paranoid eye on their hut, intercepting anyone he saw walking near it.

"Lief!" called Luinár when she saw him stagger over to their area. "We'll be heading south in a couple of days! Won't you join us?"

"No, fair lady," he said. "There will be work for us here in the future. The Orcs, they will be back, seeking revenge for their loss. And we will be out there on the front lines to greet them!"

The party ran all night, but Luinár, Dennenor, and Rhôn all retired early, still feeling the effects of the Olog's hammer. Dennenor rested as best he could, then spent the remainder of the night on the bank, watching the area for Orcs. With Luinár gone, Bradlegar made merry for a while, then also returned to their hut. Bauglir convinced Araquenval to stand guard at the hut entrance while he slept, for he did not want any of the revellers coming inside.

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Day 31: The Passing of Penborran

Day 29: A Town in Trouble

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Based on events played to May 08, 1998. Accesses since September 30, 1998: