Perils of the Ashenwood [IC]

[Palanan]

The camp-fires are small islands of tired fellowship within the unforgiving night of the Ashenwood. Each snapping-dance of flames barely warms the travelers huddled and sprawled beside it; yet they dare not build the fires further. The air around them is so damp and chill that it forms a gauzy halo about the fires, their struggling glow barely reaching the great boughs around them with a tinge of flickering copper.

Beyond the warm motes of the travelers’ camp, and the firelit flanks of their horses nearby, presses down a great weight of stillness and dark. The stray sparks whirling up might be rising towards the unseen roof of some immense and lightless cavern, deep beneath the earth where relentless night has reigned without challenge since the world began.

Apart from the rustle and snap of the humble flames, and the low voices of weary men, the entombing dark seems to smother all sound, without so much as the whisper of a falling leaf. The encircling silence has a taut, watchful air, and the clink of knives against bowls feels too loud, somehow intrusive against the patient stillness of the dark.

Any of the travelers might be forgiven for believing they are in the untrodden heart of the Ashenwood, many scores of miles from the nearest warm hearth, with no path to be found through the high and ancient trees. But here on their second night since leaving Reidh Sliabh, the travelers are scarcely three miles within the Ashenwood proper, having descended through misted pine forests spilling down from the westernmost flanks of the Ülgurül Hills.

The stony switchbacks down precipitous pine ridges were taxing enough, let alone the persistent rain, and took the most of the past two days. Only late in the afternoon did the travelers pass into the chill humid air of the Ashenwood itself, and full night crept around them sooner than expected. It is the last stage of their long homeward journey, yet it may prove the most perilous by far.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

In the eighty-seventh year of the reign of King Fróðhræfn Thoredsonn of Cynehelmbeorg, a calamity unforeseen broke the cyngfriþe which had lain for so long and so well upon the Rèidhean Mòra. Over the snowy ramparts of the Beanntan Àrda swarmed countless war-bands of Sceathalings, who swept in a savage onslaught down the mountains’ western flanks and into the rich vales of the Seofonēas below, seizing a great swathe of land between the mountains and the eastern bank of the Abhainn Mhòr.

Valiantly the dwarves of Kingshelm rallied to counterstrike; but again and again they were driven back by the great numbers and animal cunning of the Sceathalings, and King Fróðhræfn saw that he could not preserve his realm with the strength of dwarven-kind alone. Thus he sent urgent word to Argentéuril, beseeching aid and invoking the compact between his nation and the Silver Court, reminding them of the ancient friendship between their peoples and the vows they had sworn together. Swiftly the king’s messengers were received at Argentan, and they were given solemn promises that aid would be sent.

Then a crusade was preached in all the domains of the high counts of Argentéuril, to take up arms and honor their ancestors’ oaths—and in so doing honor the Lord of Light and Law, in Whose name such a war would be made just. So too would they honor His vassal, the Seneschal of War, who judged all men by the oaths they broke and kept. From throughout Argentéuril came barons and knights and men who answered the cry of crusade—but most of all from the Western Baronies, who traded most closely with the dwarves of Kingshelm and the Ride, and who would be the first to suffer should the Sceathalings sweep across the Ride and beyond.

Thus it was that Baron Achard de Mauvinet, Castellan of Chantemerle, together with his son Droco and the knights of his barony, took the sacred vows of crusade and led a company of their men to campaign in the far eastern mountains. There they fought on the high mountain-slopes and icy passes for three years without pause, striving against not only the war-hungry Sceathalings, but the many cruel things which had followed in their path—bloodhorns, iron-wights, snow-trolls and worse creatures, which nor men nor dwarves could name.

For three long years the Baron de Mauvinet and his son Droco made war against all these foes and more, ever at the head of their dwindling company of knights and men, until in the high pass of Bealach Sgrathail the young Droco was driven apart from his men and surrounded by many foes, and there he fell ere his father could ride to his aid. The old baron was much grieved that it was his son who had been slain, and not himself; and long he brooded above the bloodstained snows of that pass, as he waited unspeaking for the next attack to begin.

Then it seemed a fey mood befell him, and ever he sought out the thickest fighting until he too was slain; and both the old baron and his son were laid to rest, facing the sunrise, amid the icy boulders of the Bealach Sgrathail, there to guard it evermore.

Then the knights of Chantemerle, weary of war and bereft of their commander and his heir, undertook to return their liege’s testament and tokens of authority to his estate, that they might present them to Droco’s young son and swear their fealty to the boy as the new and rightful heir. And this too they would swear: that they would safeguard the young liege-elect and the dowager baroness until such time that Droco’s son came of age, and could assume his titles and the lordship of the Mauvinet estate in his own right.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

The chill air above the several camp-fires is so heavy with moisture that it hangs on the verge of becoming a thin fog. The fires are kept barely alive with fallen wood gathered from the forest floor, rather than cut from green growth—for the old tales are not forgotten by those who would travel safely here.

Around each fire are gathered several crusaders, still damp from two days of rain and leaning close to the flames for what warmth they can find. Each knight has a small fire of his own, shared with his retainer and men-at-arms; though these men have been making camp together for long enough that there is little ceremony among them, and they join what circles they please.

Men, and one woman: for young Jean de Marrolles is in fact Jeanne, who had cut her hair and bound her chest to join the campaign—and who had taken some while to realize that the others had known all along.

Now sparse murmurs, and the low shorthand of long acquaintance, are the most of what is heard around the fires, though Sir Hugo occasionally gives a hearty chuckle. Sir Hugo the Red is a great bruiser of a man with close-cropped russet hair and beard, whose resonant laugh on more festive nights can be heard for miles. His steed, a black destrier of sixteen hands, is the only one of their horses sturdy enough to support his bearish frame.

Nearby reclines Sir Thecelin the Half-Ancient, grave and quiet in the firelight as he often is, with none of the gaiety that might be expected from his elven side. He is alone of his kindred among the returning companions, and often keeps his thoughts to himself; but he has a knack for making dry comments that both ease and amuse the unsteady heart, which has long endeared him to the men.

Across the thick leaves of the natural clearing is Sir Guichard—compact and weathered, war-bitten with many scars, his dark eyes glinting like cold steel as he tends the edge of his blade. The oldest of the surviving knights, close friend to the old baron and once a mentor to the baron’s son, Sir Guichard says little, watches keenly and misses nothing. While the knights are equal in rank, he has been the unspoken leader of the returning crusaders ever since they set out, and in any engagement his command is taken as law.

Youngest of the knights is Sir Galeran, lean and aristocratic, still in love with the ideals of knighthood and the adventures to be had. He is gallant, bold, and skilled at arms; but there is vanity in his skill, and he has none of the other knights’ natural ease with the men-at-arms. Rather he carries himself with a hint of aloofness—which may be why his fire, though bright, has the fewest companions of any.

These are the returning knights of Chantemerle, but one other has journeyed with them: Beorhtgār Banehelm, a dwarven warrior of mighty name and hero of many battles throughout the Beanntan Àrda. He travels now to stand witness for his people that the last wishes of the old baron are honored, and that writs and tokens of lordship are brought to the young boy who is now heir to the barony and castellany of Chantemerle.

Once Beorhtgār has seen this done, he will raise a small company of new recruits from Chantemerle and return through the Ashenwood, across the Ride and into the Beanntan Àrda once more, there to rejoin his people’s fight. The knights of Chantemerle have come home to honor their pledges and safeguard the young heir; but for Beorhtgār Banehelm, the war to reclaim his homeland is far from over.

.

[tonberryking]

"So's I says to Ted-ted, I says..."

A rather boisterous half-orc young woman still somehow manages to keep her meal balanced on the flat of her wide bladed kukri laying in her lap. Of course, small slices of bread she dips into her soup mug aren't that hard to keep still, but it does say something that she's not spilling anything while telling a rowdy yarn to those gathered around Hugo's fire when it was her 'turn' to do so.

"THERE we were, a buncha runts barely growing out our beards or boobs, but me and the gang laid flat the Downsouth boys after one insult towards our parents too many. We just rushed the door of their hideout with big sticks and Ted-ted was swinging a chain, hollering like a devil had its hand around his ankle and we slammed them up real good before they could ask what the hell. Chased them off and we took over their shanty shacks down by the river before noon--"

Her laughter is a hearty roar on it's own, despite being no where near Hugo's size, she seems to be trying to be more uproarious than him, "-- And we couldn't even figure out how to play with their crooked deck a' cards! But the Downsouths, they found some big hulk of a brute to evict us in revenge--he had a face only your horse could love, Hugo-- and he lurched into the shack, trying to grab us and toss us out. We raised such a fuss that the towns watchmen finally showed, but get this! We heard em coming and all fled out the sides or jumped out the windows of the shack, just dove right out and that huge headed goon tried to escape the same way! Oh you should have seen the look on his face when he realized he got stuck in a window just before all his thrashing brought the whole place down on him and the cops!"

She shoves the last of her bread into her maw and continues laughing after wolfing it down. Unlike the mostly somber knights, the mercenary known as Punk has been enjoying herself ever since the caravan started. Having held no part in the losing battle as the knights, she still seems unbothered by the Ashenwood itself, as if it were a welcoming fortress of trees surrounding them. Nor does she seem bothered by the scene she herself is making, encouraging anyone else to tell a wild tale to make the meal taste better and lift the spirits up.

Her efforts, perhaps, may not be as appreciated as she thinks they are.

[Chromascope3D]

"I'm not sure young Ted-Ted was a good influence on you, Ms. Punk," the elf chuckled as he drew charcoal across the page of the leather-bound journal in his lap, sketching a rough approximation of the woods around them. His was a kind not often seen in these parts; His skin was fair and oddly free of blemishes, despite the traveling; his hair smooth and gold, retaining its sheen and luster despite the lack of regular washing; and his expression pleasant, inoffensive and perhaps too amiable: A half-smile etched across his face, and half closed eyes that always seemed on the verge of sleep, but whose yellow irises flit back and forth, always observing and discerning. He called himself Buck, as he reasoned it was far easier for the layman to say than his full name, and he wasn't one for excluding others unnecessarily.

A green and brown viper snaked its way up Buck's white robe, and coiled around the elf's brass collar. His smile broadened as he reached up to scratch under the serpent's jaw, crooning, "Ah, Elly, found a fat mouse to eat did you?"

Elly's forked tongue flicked out and withdrew, as the elf mused, "You know, it did not occur to me until now, but I have not heard the drone of even a single cicada since we entered this wood. What manner of forest is this where even the insects choose silence?"

[Palanan]

During a brief lull in Punk’s boisterous monologue, Sir Thecelin speaks quietly—in a dry but carrying tone—in the lilting elven-tongue, the words reaching from his campfire to where Buck is resting:

“Lenäye an’orólessë, ẏn srá-hanië qi’īndorei anadónyó, saçerẏnë. An marëndioi uluán sān glëára, īlio ányadarië marélai srän-hainäne sẏ’isīl ëi-äwanai."

Spoiler: Buck

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“You might ask your companion to moderate her tone, elder brother. There is an unwholesome quiet in this wood, and we should take care our voices do not carry too far.”

Sir Thecelin’s comments are phrased in the respectful subjunctive, and saçerẏnë is an archaism among half-elves, used politely towards their fully elven kindred.

[Chromascope3D]

Buck smiled and leaned back, stroking his bare chin, musing in return:

Spoiler: Elven Speech

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"Hmm, Elder... Here I am scarce a century old, almost a child in the eyes of many of my kin, but, I shall take the compliment nonetheless."

"As for my companion, well, I cannot command her to do or not do that which she does not or does wish, but, I shall pass this concern along.

Leaning over to the half-orc, the elf intones, "Ah, Ms. Punk, the knights are, mmm, concerned about the nature of this wood. They worry that too much noise might attract unwanted attention, and I suppose that I am of some mind to agree with that assessment. What do you think of this?"

[Vegan Squirrel]

Sir Winston, a young human knight with long, blonde hair and reasonably polished scale mail, gravitated toward Sir Guichard's campfire, hoping to learn something from the experienced leader of this crew. He quickly realized that the man was one of few words, however, and so his attention drifted to his surroundings. This only filled the lad with a greater unease.

The almost sinister feel of the dark and quiet woods, amplified by the autumnal chill, remind Winston a little too much of an unpleasant memory—camping in the woods with his fellow bandits, with a weird sense that something was off, originating from a dark and sinister cave where evil rites were performed, and demons summoned. Those days were in Winston's past now, but that sinister feeling makes him warily consider just what might be hiding among the trees.

Just then, Buck's words catch Winston's ear, and he finds himself nodding. "Aye, we shouldn't draw too much attention. This quiet feels sinister, like the woods don't want to be disturbed. Share your tales, enjoy your meals—but be wary."

[Farmerbink]

With an easy bearing, almost comically out of place, Falgarra chuckles quietly. The leaves wrapped tightly in her red braids bounce like green thumbs out of place. "You don't always have to fear what you don't know, lads," she murmurs, gazing about the dark woods with an odd expression; both reverence and contentment easily visible on her face. "It's true that some uglies call the Ashenwood home, but it's no worse nor better'n the sea nor the hills. She wants what all of us want- to live. Respect Her like the elder matron she is, and you'll be fine."

With a sigh, she turns to Beorhtgār, reeling in her comfort once more for the sake of her worried companions. Murmuring quietly in the tongue of the Dwarves, she smirks wryly.

Spoiler: Dwarven (Dhaoine Cànain)

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"You'd think the Elves would be more in tune with nature, not shivering like ninnies with their hands in the biscuit jar. You'd think they expected the earth to open up and swallow 'em whole..."

She rises, groaning quietly. Without a word, she strides purposefully to the edge of the flickering firelight. Gazing into the depths of the woods, she sighs. Tenderly, she places a hand on the broad trunk to her side, and simply watches, pondering the fate of her missing neighbors and nephews.

[Chromascope3D]

"I find fear to be overly maligned as far as emotions go," Buck muses as he sketches, "While certainly, too much fear can blind and impede you, forcing you to work counterintuitively to your own goals despite your more rational self's best wishes, the same could no less be said for overly sating your rage, or even joy!"

He looks up at the dwarf, maintaining his same inscrutable smile, and continues "Rather, I believe maintaining a healthy sense of caution at all times can do wonders, especially in the face of the unknown. After all, if I don't know what venomous animals await in this wood, how will I know what antivenoms to prepare and apply should I be bitten? Better, then, to take care that I not wander off the beaten path and thus help ensure that I am not bit at all."

The elf waggles his charcoal in the air as he thinks for a moment, and resumes drawing, "Still, that is not to say that I am not looking forward to our excursion here; the best cure for superstition is academic and philosophical rigueur. What this forest needs is to be surveyed by someone with a critical and discerning eye. Identification, categorization, and classification, hmm, yes..."

He trails off, leaving only the scribbling sound of charcoal on paper.

[Vegan Squirrel]

"I agree with those thoughts," says Winston. "It's important not to be consumed by fear, but it's also important not to be reckless," he says with a smile. "Let's keep our spirits up, and our wits about us, both!"

And with that, Winston shook off his trepidation and turned his focus to keeping everyone's spirits high. He shares no great stories, but makes a point to laugh at the jokes and smile generously.

[Palanan]

As Falgarra moves away from the fires, Sir Galeran springs up nimbly, and in several swift long strides he is stalwart beside her.

“None of us should be out of arm’s reach of any other,” he says earnestly, hand upon his longsword’s hilt. “We are but wayfarers here, and newly arrived; and we should not venture this darkness incautiously.”

No sooner does he finish then the tree groans, from deep within its oaken heart, as if complaining at their presence—or the dwarven woman’s hand.