2971, Spring Finale (The One Ring 2e - Strider Mode)

2971, Spring

Dear Sister,

It is with immeasurable anguish and grief that I write this letter. Pomma is dead! Had it not been for my vow to write you every season I doubt I could ever overcome the struggle to put words on paper. I sit now in Mithlond in a pit of depression, too wracked with sadness to accomplish anything of value.

The cruel twists of events which prelude her demise have struck me with an unbound rage. As planned, we departed from those great safe Halls of Harmelt after the spring thaw had rent Old Man Winter from the mountains. With Annabelle at our sides, Pomma and I traveled north through the foothills of the mountains. The creeks and streams were high, but they proved no challenge to us. The route was easy, and the company of another brought great comfort to me. The days seem to pass more quickly and, in the aftermath of the events to follow, I cannot be certain how many days actually passed before we came upon that dreadful gulch in which lay the old dwarven mine.

An awful portent seemed to fill the gulch as the three of us descended. The pines in the gulch held no needles, some being just stumps which appeared to have had their trucks seeming wrenched apart by some primordial force. Evil hung so thickly in the air that one could chew it as it in return sunk its teeth into our skin. At one point, Annabelle had exhausted her spirit and would proceed no further despite our desperate attempts of encouragement. It was just as the light was dipping below the mountains when we found the old mine’s horribly sneering mouth. We decided it best to camp just outside the entrance of the old mine and proceed into its depths in the morning.

That night, I was plagued by awful nightmares. More than once, I was jared awake by some malicious daemon of imagination. At one point, whether in a dream or in reality, I heard a horse scream. At last, in sorrow, I resigned myself from any further attempts at sleep and charged myself with creating a pot of tea to help calm me. But the accursed wood from those evil pines refused to catch light and in a fit I hurled the small kettle against the stones of my fire pit.

The terrible crash rang across the gulch and stirred Pomma from what appeared to be peaceful slumbers. She rose from her spot and, in a manner that only she could achieve, placed a hand on my shoulder. Oh, what immense power of comfort that woman possessed! My anger had been quenched and my fear drowned by the sea of gentle life which flowed through her fingers. That power that she had taught me to imbue in silver and gold she contained in flesh and blood. What divine creator forged her with those magics?

...

Daylight had finally swept over the ancient mine’s mouth and we crept into its belly. Each of us bearing a lantern forged over the winter, the light revealed a well carved passage. The walls were smooth and the floor held a distinct set of recessed tracks. At about a hundred yards from the entrance we emerged into a large chamber! It had obviously been employed as a foyer to the rest of the mine. A dozen passages branched off in all directions, each with their own set of rails. A dozen mine carts populated the chamber, some resting on the old tracks which used to guide them and some stacked up, waiting for their chance to carry untold wealth from the ground. A multitude of ornate iron chandeliers dangled overhead, occasionally dwarfed by large chains belonging to ancient cranes.

I was bewitched by this chamber, but upon further examination my fascination quickly turned to horror! For every mine cart that I could reach bore, in its complete capacity, the skulls of our ancestors! I did not suspect it then, but we were soon to meet the agent of their terrible fate.

Pomma and I spoke no words in that miserable chamber. In resolute silence, we pushed deeper into one of the adjoining passages. We did not need to travel far before the venerable mine gave up some of its secrets. Dancing in the light of our lanterns, the remnants of a brilliant silver vein traced the wall. With a great blow of her pickaxe, Pomma took a great chunk of silver ore and I packed it away for analysis later.

Convinced with what we had discovered, we thought it best to return to the surface and begin thinking of future plans and endeavors. However, as we approached from our bountiful passage that great foyer we became acutely aware of a strange noise. We slowed our pace and approached the chamber cautiously to discover the bright light of another’s lantern. Squinting in the dark, there was Hjolin! He was digging through one of those wretched carts, the lantern hung from a large crook stuck in the ground next to him.

Pomma could not hold back words and charged Hjolin to explain why he was here. Hjolin, not one to be florid with his words, professed that he had followed us after his brother had refused his request to journey to these old mines. His voice started to rise. This place, this history, had been Hjolin’s dedication for his entirety, and the cruel torture of seeing some outsider come and claim it had pushed his composure past the limit. Hjolin was now here, and now he could rightfully stake a claim in its discovery, he exclaimed.

Now, however, Hjolin’s declarations were cut short. His last word echoed through the mine. Overhead the faint jingle of a chain was heard. The trio of us froze in stunned silence, before I started to slowly turn my head up towards that dreadful noise above. Sure enough, in those shadowed vaults, goblins were descending upon us! Upon catching my eye, they dropped from those chains! There were a dozen of these denizens of the dark on the ground, and more above swinging from the chandeliers.

I was immediately surrounded by four of them. Assuming these creatures were the catalyst for our forbearer’s demise, I attacked with a fury of revenge in my heart. I fell a goblin with a mighty blow, the other’s barbaric knives bouncing off my sturdy shield. A couple crude arrows were shot from those goblins swinging from the ceiling chains and one caught me in the thigh, my sturdy armor unyielding to its request for blood.

I rid the world of another goblin with the next swing of my ax and soon I could get a better look at the battles around me. Behind me, Pomma was holding her ground, two goblins lay at her feet while she maneuvered against a further pair. In front, the old lore-master was surrounded by a hateful group of four. In a decision I shall regret for the rest of my life, I pushed the pair of golins assaulting me towards Pomma and rushed to help Hjolin.

The fight was fierce. Ripping and tearing at those monstrous evils, I afforded Hjolin an avenue and ordered him to escape. Hjolin initially refused, but then I caught an arrow in my side and the resulting picture convinced the lore-master to flee. I had two goblins left to contend with. I checked on my companion, she too had a pair of goblins before her. She looked worn down, but appeared overall to be unharmed. We could hear, deep in the depths, the mobilization of those foul creatures and knew that the time for escape was nigh!

A crash from my ax cleaved one of my foes, but another terrible arrow found its mark. I was weary, and nearing the last of my strength. The time to retreat was now. I called out to Pomma, she rending a goblin to bits. She looked up, and in that dreadful, horrible, awful moment of distraction that last daemon found its mark. She gave a shudder and grimace. Focus gone, the awful monster drove the knife in again. And again. And again. Until Pomma dropped to the ground. Her lantern hit the ground and its flame went out. That was the last I would ever see of Pomma.

It was then that depths birthed their vile spawn. The squealing and jittering formed a cacophony which implored me to leave. But even through that evil noise I could hear the sound of the lantern, the pickaxe, the armor, the tools, the clothes being torn to shreds by that hideous mass. I ran. I ran with every ounce of strength afforded to me towards that dome of light at the end of the tunnel. Outside I saw Hjolin, hoisted him to his feet, we continued to run until every fiber of my being was spent.

We collapsed on a horrible stump. It was then that Hjolin finally noticed the absence of Pomma. “Where’s Pomma,” he said.

I hope you understand that what happened next was the pitiful display of a broken man. I dearly beg for your forgiveness, as the trauma of the events which preceded this comprehensively depleted mind, body, and soul. For, in hearing his inquiry, I leapt to my feet with a guttural roar and upon his frame. I screamed and I screamed into his face. I spouted oaths that should never be addressed towards those of our kin. And, in one final display of primitiveness, I crashed my lantern next to his quivering frame. Seeing the smashed lantern brought me back to my senses. I wept. For what felt like an eternity I wept.

I walked Hjolin back up the gulch, presented him with Annabelle and the silver ore, and said goodbye. He need not ask why I was not returning to the Halls of Harmelt, for that wise old lore-master already knew. What has become of him and that silver ore, I do not know, nor do I wish to at the present.

I traveled, alone, at a sorrowful pace through the bright budding plains south to Mithlond. It is here that I intend to spend the remainder of spring and the entirety of summer in thoughtful retreat, attempting to regain any confidence in the good of the world. In the autumn I plan to take the long journey back home to you. It is there amongst my family that I will recover, and there maybe, in due time, the wanderlust for knowledge may grow again until I set forth on adventure once more.

Affectionately,
Rori
 

2970, Winter (The One Ring 2e - Strider Mode)

2970, Winter

Darling Sister,

Excuse the brevity of this letter. The winter thaw has begun and my journey draws near, the preparations for which has caused me to forget my promise to write you.

I sincerely hope you had a cheerful Yuletide. As you may recall my plans from the letter back in late Autumn, I had spent the winter in these great, fading Halls of Harmelt. Pomma, my host, graciously chaperoned me through a myriad of holiday sacraments observed in the Halls. A great tree was brought into the center of the hall and adorn with fascinating and delicate baubles. Large lanterns were lit, the baubles causing their lights to dance across the Hall in majestic patterns and rhythms. The children would use chalk and trace the path of these patterns, creating a chaotic, yet ordered, array of constellations. I was enchanted. These ancestral practices refreshed my spirit, renewing my willpower to bring the knowledge of our forebearers to light and help the plight of our kin.

Pomma had noticed my enchantment by these ceremonies. Prior to the great Yuletide feast, she gathered me to a little forge where she mentored me in creating a bauble of my own. Never had I learned so much from such a simple craft. The shapes, the alloys, the process! They all conveyed a sense of joy, of comfort. They possessed a power, a magic! Enclosed with this letter is a small silver charm, crafted with these magics. Wear it wherever you need to bring an aura of happiness and amenity.

My only source of disquiet during this winter concerned the old lore-master Hjolin. He recused himself greatly during this time. It was rumored more than once that he could be heard giving a low chanting incantation, presumably some ancient and esoteric Yuletide rituals regurgitated from those dust caked tomes. When he was seen, the lore-master was bearing queer packages wrapped in paper and twine, their shapes giving no hints to the contents within. A chill seemed to follow in his wake.

But this chill could not dispel the blazing fire that was Pomma’s vitality. Her presence of the winter warmed my heart on the most frigid and frosty days. It is with immense pleasure that I shall have her as my companion during this voyage north. With the snow fading fast, I presume it shall commence soon. I shall write again upon my return to these Halls and share with you my findings in these ancestral mines.

Affectionately,
Rori

2970, Autumn (The One Ring 2e - Strider Mode)

 

2970, Autumn

Dear Sister,

I dearly hope you’ve had a bountiful Autumn. The weather here has started to chill and a day does not go by that I do not think of warming my heart your impeccable brews. There are thoughts that the snow will come early this year, so I now rush to write you before the post is frozen. I currently occupy a small room in the Halls of Harmlet, and it is here that I intend to endure the fast approaching winter.

My host, Pomma, was the scholar of principal interest in my coming to these Halls, as you undoubtedly remember. 13 years my senior, but possessing a youthful and adventurous esprit, I eventually located Pomma within a small study. Glasses covered in dust and soot, she pushed her nose from the tome on the table to greet me. She was very excited, for a strider looking for answers must be in possession of a mystery unique and alluring.

But alas, the mystery proved too elusive for my host. She possessed some ability to translate the ancient texts, but to comprehend in full their meaning was beyond her current abilities. You see, she had studied, or should I rather put it, is studying under the old lore-master Hjolin. It was Hjolin who initially instructed her on these old runes, hoping that she would be able to assist him in some great and secret quest. As the years passed by, Pomma recounted to me, Hjolin deeper air of reticence, sometimes disappearing for weeks at a time. Upon his return, he would provide no answers and make no statements for his disappearances. As Pomma’s instructor descended deeper into some unknown fissure, her mentoring grew erratic and she eventually committed herself to a different area of study regarding relic maps.

It was, however, that Pomma’s spirit would not allow the lore-master’s detached state sway her away from asking for council on my matters. As part of a clever scheme, quality pipe weed was acquired, intended as a gift to Hjolin, which would hopefully keep the old dwarf engaged in our conversation. It worked!

We approached Hjolin in his study the following evening after supper. The circular study was poorly lit aside from a lantern and dust lay thickly over nearly every surface that wasn’t the desk and chair in the center of the room. The study was ringed by numerous bookshelves hidden beneath long, thick curtains to obscure their contents. Oh, how I wish I could know what volumes reside behind those burgundy shrouds! A large supper had left Hjolin in a more pliable state. As he greeted Pomma and myself, I could hardly see his eyes behind dirty spectacles.

He inquired who I was and I replied with the gift of pipe weed and my story to this point. With lit pipes, I presented him with the silver bar which I had found. He snatched it from my grasp, hobbled into the chair beside the lantern lit desk, and examined it closely. For the entire time that he examined that piece, Hjolin never spoke a word. But he did not need to. As he puffed upon his pipe, an eldritch air in the room formed his thoughts in the smoke! I have no explanation for this trick other than the extreme concentration of timeworn and mystic tomes. The smoke waft about, forming words and pictures that were clearing in the mind of Hjolin. Too busy wrapped up in the bar before him, only Pomma and I noticed this magic, and only Pomma recognized the names of the books which the smoke relayed.

Upon completion of Hjolin’s study of the silver bar, he simply returned it to me with a long, low sigh. He claimed that it would require further study to unlock the mysteries of the bar, but our insight could detect his dishonesty. However, we did not press the matter, for we did not wish to arouse the ire of possibly the only being who could help crack the ancestral codes.

Soon after, we left Hjolin to his own devices and retired back to my host’s accommodations. It was then we discussed the events that took place in that curtain lined study. You can imagine my surprise, though not so much after spending more time with her, when Pomma started to shape a plan to liberate the books that the room’s magic had clearly shown us. Fortunately, this plan would never need to be put into action, as the next morning Hjolin was nowhere to be found. Without their master around to guard them, Pomma confidently strolled into the lore-master’s study and grabbed the three books from behind their dusty curtains.

We spent the next week reviewing these texts, only stopping for meals. What we uncovered during this study was that the silver bars were from an ancient dwarven mine, further north up the Blue Mountains. At one point in time, there had been a strong presence of our ancestors there, but some shadowy force had exiled them from their mountain home. This had fascinated us, and the allure of further secrets deep in these mines burned white hot. Once it became apparent that our desire to reach this ancient mine had reached a point of no return we decided to plot and prepare for the journey.

As part of these preparations, it was concluded that we should reach out for financing of such a perilous endeavor. The principal person we pursued in this effort was the master of the great Hall of Harmelt, Mjolin. Elder brother to Hjolin, Mjolin was much more approachable and receptive to us. We had caught him examining the Hall’s ancient golden metal works which adorn the great hall proper. He seemed displeased at them though, then, I could not understand why.

We relayed the story to present and proposed our expedition to the old dwarven mines. I was filled with ire when Mjolin responded that he had just heard the same story, and same proposed expedition, from his brother Hjolin the day prior. Mjolin had apparently denied his brother’s request for fear that his brother may have passed the age of harrowing adventuring. In return, I told of the challenges that I had overcome over the past few seasons to bring this information to light. Mjolin sighed, and stated that, if there were any chance of saving this great Hall, Pomma and myself were currently offered the best opportunity. He accepted our proposal!

Now we wait for winter to come and go. Over the winter we will study, train, and acquire the requisite gear for the treacherous journey North. I will send another letter prior to our departure, once the thaw starts to begin.

Affectionately,
Rori

2970, Summer (The One Ring 2e - Strider Mode)

 

2970, Summer

Darling Sister,

I hope this letter finds you in good health. This summer’s heat has been oppressive, but it is with great delight that I find myself in cool shelter within of the Halls of Harmlet nestled in Blue Mountains. I had arrived here not but two weeks ago after a rather pleasant journey from Bree, my path taking me through the lands of the Hobbits, up through Grey Haven and Mithlond, and finally North along the mountains to our the Hall.

Prior to my departure from Bree, I set about the town searching for answers regarding the deep burning questions present by my discoveries in spring. It was a rather elderly gentleman of the town guard that pointed me in the direction of the ancient hall. He had witnessed, in the past, a young dwarf travel through the town bearing jewelry marvelously marked with runes similar to what I have in my possession. This dwarf’s jewelry, who I had later learned to be named Pomma, seemed to entrance the guard who, young in his day, assisted her in locating bed and breakfast. Pomma enchanted him so, and the impression left a deep mark in his memory. In learning that Pomma had come from the Halls of Harmelt in the North-West, I had made it my assignment to travel there to find if Pomma, or anyone for the matter, could help me unearth secrets of what I possessed.

My planned route to the Halls would take me West across the Great East Road, over the Brandywine, and through the Shire. I would rest in Hobbiton a day before journeying off the road to Grey Haven where I would be required to find passage across the Lune to Mithlond. In Mithlond I would again take a day or two to rest before traveling North through the rough country to my final destination.

On the day of departure, I acquired, at the last moment, a pony to assist me. Annabelle is a sweet thing, a beautiful golden brown with a few white spots to adorn her breast. Trusting beyond doubt, our bond grew strong when our travels became difficult.

We proceeded with rapidity towards the Brandywine, the roads in good repair and the weather pleasant. We only dilly dallied for a moment when we came upon that familiar fen where in the Spring those courting frogs had once mesmerized me. I sat and had a pipe upon the same rise as before, closing my eyes and dreaming of that fanciful night. There, half by automation as I had sung this song in my leisure since first hearing it, I sung those guttural notes of the polliwog’s song. As I did, I could swear that the ground around me echoed those notes, joining me in chorus and refrain. But I did not open my eyes, for if it were a dream, I did not wish to leave it. We camped in this spot that night, and as the sun went down those resident amphibians emerged, but only in sound.

In the morning we continued West across the Brandywine and soon found ourselves in Hobbiton. The Hobbits are a curious folk. They seem lively and courteous, but also distrustful, as though they believe me to carry them away from their peaceful homes to some dangerous quest. Perturbed by this, I mainly kept to myself and took delight in fishing The Water which ran nearby.

It was in this brief indulgence of activity that a disconcerting event took place. In a sudden caprice, I had lost grip on my line and my rod was pulled into the water. I had become angry with myself for this sudden lackadaisical daydreaming, and waded into the water to find my rod and line. It was when I plunged my head beneath the water to search for my tools that an ominous horror came. As I dipped my head beneath, the sound of rushing water filled my head. Then faintly, but ever growing, a cry of anguish could be discerned amongst the cacophony of water. Quickly snatching my rod, I thrust above the surface and frantically searched for those cries. But my search divulged no creator of such noise, nor any other persons around. The episode had stirred me, and the tranquil clearing I had once stood held no more peace for me. I retired for the remainder of the day, preparing to set out in the morning.

The remaining days of travel through Arthedain passed by comfortably, the only event of note being my meeting with a grouchy little Hobbit who called himself Winx. He had a small camp on top of a hill and, upon seeing my figure crest the ridge, beckoned me over with enthusiasm. Although being my host, he offered me no tea and only pressed me for information regarding the Elves. He had been camping here for two weeks now, waiting to catch a glimpse of a rumored Elven caravan moving west towards Grey Haven. Enthralled by the Elves, he could speak of nothing else, and when I attempted to discuss my current quest regarding our ancestral history the Hobbit protested. “Why not let the dead lie,” he exclaimed? Eventually, annoyed and angered with my host, I returned to my journey in a sour mood.

My arrival in Grey Haven was two days earlier than planned, such had been my good fortune up to this point. The plan being to recuperate on the opposite side of the Lune in Mithlond, and in much need of recuperation, I quickly set about to find a ship. In the seaside tavern Forget Me Knot, I identified a sailor that presented extreme confidence in her craft and inquired to employ her services. Mariel, the brilliant sailor, expressed her condolences. While she would have liked to sail us across the Lune, her vessel was in need of repair. Discussion commenced in which I offered my abilities in repairing her vessel for passage to Mithlond, which she agreed to. I spent the following day in a forge, crafting two exquisite pulleys for Mariel’s vessel. By that evening, we had set off from Grey Haven and arrived in Mithlond shortly after sun down. Watching the sun set over the gulf was one of the most majestic events I’ve witnessed.

I rested a week in Mithlond, preparing myself for the final stint of my journey. I ate and drank my fill, for I knew that the country ahead would be the roughest yet. It was in my respite when, by fortune, I happened to meet a fellow dwarf who was traveling from the Halls of Harmlet. Over a few suppers, he reciprocated the meals with information regarding a stable and safe path to follow. It would require me to travel closer to the mountains than I had anticipated, but I held a primeval trust in him.

The day I commenced on the final leg, the searing heat of summer arrived in fury. My only blessings were the few hours when the sun dipped below the mountains and cast long shadows across the hills. In addition to this, if the path recommended by our kin was the safe and stable one I dare not imagine what the other paths might be! The way was rocky and dry, not a stream or creek with water suitable for drink. Annabelle began to suffer dearly in these wretched conditions and the lack of water exacerbated the situation. Annabelle’s situation became so dire, that I remitted the last of my water for her for the final two days or journey. You can imagine the joy we felt upon our first glimpse of the Halls of Harmlet!

We were welcomed in, and, the resident observing our pitiful state, tended to us with mineral water and cool stones. It book us both a full day of recovery before Annabelle and I returned to our full faculties. It was then that I was able to observe this Hall in all its glory! How magnificent!

I have heard that Pomma still resides in the Hall, and when ready I shall progress to greet her and present my story. I shall inform you of the outcome of this meeting once achieved. Until then, I wish you a joyous summer and reprieve from this wrathful heat.

Affectionately,

Rori