Modest_Proposal

The thought crossed Cecil's mind... what if he saw no anchor? Would they leave this place? Would they be satisfied? Ernstyr was an experienced hunter and knew the principles. He would not spare a good path.

"If a rabbit can climb it, we will find it." He stared at Barin a little longer than he should have before moving beside Ernstyr. "Let's go."

Cecil’s attention blurred in the monochrome haze. So broken and mean was the fortress that it could hardly be parted from the hill itself. Its walls were like a crown of jagged teeth through the mist. He wondered what empire had built it and why. Perhaps the land here was fairer then, like when his ancestors fished these rivulets. Only something hateful could have built it now. There was no sense in it. It reminded him of the dilapidated towers they had passed earlier in their travels. Structures so old, they could not be made again.

Just as he was losing focus, a speck of light caught his eye. He went rigid. Was it a trick? Had he dozed off? He rose to his feet in a panic. 

“Just there! Did you see it?” He wrestled to temper his excitement. “I saw something move. A piece of metal, or something. It flashed - and then was gone!” 

Cecil tightened his lips at Barin’s words. If they could not find a cliff… they would have to take the gate’s path. Would they be so bold? He turned to Gramtyng and in a flash of despair could again hear the company's charge into battle - the horse lord's blade flashing dull and obvious. He again felt Dahr-Ol's warm blood pooling at his elbows along a miserable path to Stonyford.

Yes, they might.

“I would sooner walk through the mines of Mountain Hall than walk up that hill, whatever therein might be. If we must approach, let us do it strangely. As Dahr-Ol says, they do not expect us. We have not camped the bog for weeks and those at Trader’s Isle are likely gone.”

He spent much of the passing time watching for signs of flame or smoke from the tower buildings.

Within the wooden palisades, Cecil grew restless. He felt like a squirrel driven into a crook. He would have to leave that tree eventually. He wondered how he would meet it. He wondered how his comrades would meet it. 

The people of Stonyford were a people of impatient kindness. Their warmth and generosity seemed less about sharing wealth as with sharing hardship. For every flute or cozy blanket, there was a wooden shield lining the walls and though they slept peacefully, there was always an eye to the hills. The Summer heat was welcome to Cecil. He found himself fishing with Gramtyng late into the evenings, letting the Anduin cool his toes and send him dozing. It was a leaner living than he knew, but he grew to appreciate every gift he was given all the more for it. Still, he felt strangely relieved as he waved goodbye to Avina, for there were perils to face in all directions home. 

~~ooOOoo~~

The journey back through the marshes certainly did sweeten the still present scent of Stonyford. There were fish in the meadow waters, but also stranger things. The ground was no longer solid.  As he looked at the horrible mound of sheer rock before them, he knew only something truly miserable could stand to live there, high upon its misty screen.

He struggled to remember precisely what the old wizard had asked of them.

“Why not wait until the evening? If there’s something up there, it will have to come down. We could find a spot in the reeds and be patient. If someone starts a fire, we will know. If they come or leave, we will know.”

+2 Hope, +2 AP, (1+3) XP added

I will refrain from choosing a Fellowship focus at this time.

No upgrades at this time.

Cecil sat with back against a mercifully dry log. "If you must go, Magric, remember us to Lachiel, our friend."

He rather liked the idea of Stonyford, far as it was from the mountainside. Open plains and rocky hillsides were pleasantly predictable. The question remained if Dahr-Ol could travel in his condition. The Boerning had regained much of his autonomy, but he did not strike Cecil as one will to reveal the extent of his injuries.

“I do not think Dahr-Ol is in any condition to climb foothills, let alone a mountainside. Besides,” Cecil hesitated, careful to avoid Ernstyr. “Who is to say Mountain Hall is safe? We do not know how many orcs crawled out of that mine in our absence. Even if it were safe - news travels through towns faster than villages. - Not that I think mountain folk are gossipers! But there’s always one…”

The wizard’s mission had already been compromised. The orcs knew of the presence. More would come. He wondered why they should endure such perils, while the brown wizard wandered through his fields of mushrooms in safety. If he were as wonderous as the other have said...

Dahr-Ol's words brought a bit of color back in Cecil's cheeks. He was a good man, despite his recklessness. Whatever their fate - no matter what was won or lost or the mistakes made - they would be done amongst friends.

Elfwynn's words did much, however, to reverse his spirits.

"He will not be avenged until whatever brought those things here is destroyed or... driven away. From here and from Mountain Hall and wherever else they are crawling." He looked away. "Nothing living can be that cruel without a reason. Even spiders and wolves eat. I just don't understand."

After a moment, he stood up with an open hand and a terse smile. "Let's find Gramtyng."

A bitterness swelled in Cecil against his companions - of their eagerness to fight. What drove them to charge? Glory in death? Bloodthirst? Delusion? It had nearly ended them. The Beorning laid beside him, shattered and wheezing. He put his hand on the man's chest, careful to avoid his gash.

"Dahr-Ol, we could not save him. The man who ran." He surprised himself with the flatness of his voice. He felt fear and hope at a dull distance. "His name was Walar."

What was their fate? There was no guarantee of safety at Mountain Hall. Orcs stirred there as they left. Would there be anything to return to? The more he thought, the farther from home he became. His chest tightened. He could see their terrible faces, black and bleeding. He was convinced of it - Mountain Hall had fallen. They were alone. He tipped his head, and with only enough care to whisper, sang to himself.

A wind did turn

Down Red Horn Pass

As I was sleeping

In the grass

It tumbled over

Mountains tall

And or’ the Walls

Of Mountain Hall

I'm still enjoying making tracks of Cecil's songs on Udio, so I've attached one to this post. If anyone has a problem with them, I'll stop. I know it's silly.

I write the lyrics unaided. And with my care, Udio puts them to music. Since they have different singing voices, you might consider some of them to be renditions.

Cecil ignored Magric for the moment, though he knew he was right.

"I do not know your name."

He lifted his pipe from the man's mouth and let smoke swell behind his own trembling lips. He could taste the trace of blood, but tried not to show it. Then he gave it back as one would to a friend by the lazy sunset.

"You are not alone. Others will know your name; where you have been. What should we tell them? What shall we tell Winfrith?" He froze. It was a guess, but a reasonable one. Still, he would not dwell on the name. "They are not far. What song will carry you to your people?"

Despite the killings these past weeks, he had not until today truly seen death. The man's head was heavy and warm upon his knee. Bodies surrounded them, perhaps as close to life as this man was, groaning in agony and the wonder of the end. He had never so badly wished to be home and to have never left.

Cecil slung his bow and bounded toward Dahr-Ol and Elfwyn, dodging the carnage as best he could until he reached an impasse… The still stranger! An arrow stuck from his back like a flag of crimson fletching.

Ernstyr had already taken position by Dahr-Ol and so he sunk down.

He compressed a pale wad of pipeweed between his thumb and forefinger and crammed the thick of it in his pipe. Then with practiced efficiency, he struck a flint until a rising thread made way to billowing white. He wiped off the excess. “A good three days’ pack, this is. It’d wake a fish off the plate. Come on, take a good long puff, now... Let it in.”

He lifted the man’s head. Blood and mud ran down Cecil’s arm. The arrow had pierced clean through and kept his torso angled in the muck. There was nothing he could do, besides give the man a moment to make peace.

He turned to Dahr-Ol without looking too closely. Ernstyr, by his testament, was an experienced healer and practiced in the wounds of war. But Cecil preferred not to think about it. That Dahr-Ol could die was an impossibility, like the falling of a stout tree.

“As much as you like, now. Don’t make me beg...” He swiftly placed his knee behind the man’s head, feeling for signs of movement.

Using my Herb-lore trait to score a basic success.

Cecil stayed his bow, for in the melee, mud became their cloaks and faces and blood their blades.

That was, until Barin clarified an orc and its limb. The remaining orcs tucked back from their hosts with wild eyes. He had seen this before - like deers after a wide shot. Instinct took his hands and he lengthened his bow. He had to put one down before it signaled others or - worse - lashed at Dahl-Ol.

Cecil kept an eye to the flank, expecting screaming arrows from all directions. The obscurement comforted him, but he knew it was a false comfort. Every distant rustling reed or branch kept him guessing.

He strung another arrow, with a third held between his knuckles. Then he screamed again, hoping in desperate vanity that the orc might turn to look or stay his blade.

A sucking thud drew Cecil back to the melee. An orc laid at Dahr-Ol’s feet, but the man looked utterly spent. Blood ran down his torso and he did not move as another orc closed ranks. Not even to raise his weapon!

Cecil nocked his bow. The reeds that had been his wall became an infuriating hinderance. He pressed into the clearing, bending stalks - pressing until the creature was too clear. For it was as black and horrible as the others he had seen at Mountain Hall and its blade was slick with blood.

He screamed and let go his arrow.

Cecil curled his toes.

Horror!

The blur of figures were obscured in their own way by mud and mist, but there were outliers at the edge of his vision: sickly orcs, hunched with stretched out bows. They were not much larger than boars. In the fog, he could almost see them as such. He let the instinct of a thousand hunts carry him and sent an arrow hissing through the reeds. The shot, quiet as it was, seemed a grave pronouncement to Cecil. He felt all at once naked to the enemy and collapsed where he stood.

Like fish to a worm! He thought. Or worms to a fish... He flashed a smile, turning as he did to retreat - waiting for his comrades to drag the wounded man with bended knees.

But still they crept forward!

They pursued?! It took all of Cecil's restraint not to split the reeds toward Barin and Dahr-Ol and leap for their legs. It was too late, of course, the fools were proving themselves warriors in the worst of times.

"No!" He whispered hoarsely.

He fumbled an arrow in a panic and grabbed two more between his hairy knuckles. There was nothing for it. Time and space shrunk down to the tip of his bow as he turned half-way between the forces ahead and the route behind.

Shapes bled through the mist! The hobbit remained still, his nose pressed against the reeds. First a runt and then more, thicker and taller, smashing stalks as they went.  They were wicked and prickly. 

Barin and Dahr-Ol were too close - their cover too thin. He could not warn them. He felt through the mud for skipping stones. Gentle-edged, some were, but not as smooth as the stones he was accustom to by the Brandywine on those long summer days. 

They would have to do. He caught a glimmer of water. 

"Magric - Ernstyr. Mind your heads," he whispered, before spinning two stones toward a flooded thicket with the hopes that they might skip like birds in a tailwind. 

Cecil's attempting to simulate somebody fleeing with the sound of skipping stones. He's hoping the orcs will pursue (much like when the Black Rider was tricked the hobbits in the first film while they hid below tree roots). He hopes it will give them an opportunity to safely flee.

He throws the stones immediately after they reach the dead orc.