Tolkien RPG Group 1 Discussion

Last week Brian, Richard, and Nate finished up their characters, and we undertook a very short mini-adventure with them (plus Drake), working on familiarity with the action and combat resolution rules for TOR.

The group approved video recording the sessions. Members have also asked to have the sessions available for viewing so they can refresh their memories between sessions.

They will be uploaded to the same place as last year, at the Tolkien Moot Youtube channel

http://www.youtube.com/tolkienmoot/

Enjoy!

Brian's second installment of the Heroes' adventures.

You can view the video of this second session here (it includes Brian reading his Anglo-Saxon poem from the first session, at the beginning of this video):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4cGdjk-oXfw

April 26 is coming... here's Part 2 of our Adventures in Anglo-Saxon Poetry
(Part 3 to come before Friday's RPG)

Lay of the Warriors Six, Part 2

* *

*Valor and glory              Await the adventure;*

*Onward and forward      We seek for the lost.*

The darkness came         As our fellowship camped.

Yet the halfling’s sight   Discovered at dusk

Watchers that waited--   Quiet crows

With scorn to share:       Wood Elves telling

Lindin a tale                    Of two dwarves down

A day to the south.         The captain of elves

Was Galion the cold,      No friend to dwarves

But fond of his wine,      Had slept when Bilbo

Burgled the barrels         To thwart Thranduil.

No wonder Galion          Nursed a grudge.

After the crows               Had cawed and left,

Finally the fellowship    Slept and were still.

Bright broke the morning, Breakfast to make:

I needed herbs                 To flavour the fish.

The elf almost                 Poisoned the posse

But Balin the dwarf        Found the foliage.

That day we returned     To the wave-steed’s side,

Darkened with doubts    And mysterious tracks.

Rowing and weaving     Through the perilous water,

With better skill               Lindin did guide us

Through  marshy maze, The River Running

Severed in streams,         And stinking swamps.

Yet faith flowers             In darkened places

And hope renewed         Companions’ courage.

The third day,                 We glided through glades

And pulled to the shore. As the sun marched

Down to her rest,            We marched through bogs.

A small hill rose              To greet our eyes

And all hands searched  The abandoned camp.

Where have you gone,   O children of Durin?

How have the folk          Of Erebor vanished?

Sturdy and grim                     Are Óin, Gróin’s son,

And grizzled Balin,        Whose father Fundin

Fell before foes               In Azanulbizar

Which the elves called   Nanduhirion.

If Balin survived             That orcish battle,

Surely the shadow          Has not extinguished

That dwarven spirit.       But questions fell

From our tongues           Like autumn leaves

And died as we spoke.   Our own Balin,

Younger in years,           But fiercely focused

On seeing some clue,     Found hasty runes

On a rotting stump          And dug out the secret:

A box of ivory                And a scroll to the Lord

Of the Eagles in the West; We all were dazzled

By the glorious gem,      Gift of Dain

To the Wind Lord.          Yet message never

Reached Gwaihir            Or the Misty Mountains,

But was hidden here       In secret spells.

Balin Smith                     Forged a fireplace

Greater in craft                Than aught made before:

A micro-Moria                Of wondrous stone;

That bright shafts            Of light could turn

In every direction.          Darkness came.

Throughout the night,    Each watch was taken,

And shadows darker       Than light’s absence

Pressed around.               Strange splashes

And eerie lights              Increased our dread

When watching;              Corpse candles

Flickered faintly             And the hobbit heard

Nightly noises                 By the foul pool.

In the dead of night,       Smallburrow crept

To investigate                 The fishy sounds.

Lunging into air,             A troll emerged

And stood above             The hapless Halfling.

Poppy fired                     Her first arrow

And fled for cover.         Lindin next arrived

To battle troll                  With slayer’s doom

To make him strong.      Back and forth

Did the two strive,          And all the camp awoke.

The Beorning lit             A lantern to see

What foul menace          Threatened his sleep.

Setting it down,               He leaped in the light

And held in his hands     Mighty Fyrn-Bereofan,

The splitting axe             Of his grandfather Wulfric.

He smote the troll           With a piercing blow,

Yet the monster was tough. Both elf and Beorning

Traded blows with the brute; And Balin Smith

Joined our fray.              Poppy Smallburrow

Nocked an arrow,           Aimed with gleaming

Eye at the enemy,           Sent the spinning shaft

Over the lantern’s glow, Sped between tree and elf

As tiny lightning             Struck its target:

Troll trembled                 As the door of its life

Was unlocked by a key  Both swift and terrible.

Enraged, it bellowed      And vainly plucked

The deadly dart               From its hellish hole,

Only to seal its doom     When blackish blood

Spurted fresh from         That mighty neck,

And fell forward             In the brackish slime.

Not to be outdone,          the doughty dwarf

(that Balin heretofore     Described in full)

Leaped to bury                His blessed blade

In the hide of the troll,   Yet miscalculated

And buried it instead      In the behemoth’s buttock.

Then early light’s           Stealthy approach

Was proven when           The troll turned back

To stone again.                Undeterred,

Our noble dwarf             Added insult

To injury when he          Used stonecraft skills

To turn that troll             Into a fireplace and shelter

All-in-one.                           The weary fellowship

Took rest and scanned   For further signs

Of missing dwarfs.         Ahir, quiet Woodman,

Scouted a track               That dwarves once walked.

We gathered our goods  And followed the trail…

*Valor and glory              Await the adventure;*

*Onward and forward      We seek for the lost.*

From Brian:

"Here, my friends, is the last part of the story. Please let me know with part 4 if I missed any important facts. It was enjoyable, and very meaningful to write.

Thank you Hawke for encouraging me to RPG, and thus allow a part of my creativity to surface that otherwise would have not had story material. I think your Research Project ( http://www.rpgresearch.com ) has good potential.

Thank you Katy, Richard, Drake, and Nate & Brad when they were part of the campaign. Thanks also to Aaron F. who played Ahir for one night. Thanks to all who brought food and drink.

I'll never forget the song "Dwarf and Orc!"  I look forward to the Fellowship Phase in June, when school is over for Hawke and I.

See you all then.

Tale of the Warriors Six, Part 4 (The End)

* *

*Valor and glory              Await the adventure;*

*Onward and forward      We seek for the lost:*

Erland the boldest           Man of Dale,

Ahir Kari,                        Man of Mirkwood,

Grimbarald,                    Man of the Carrock,

Lindin the Elf                 Of the Woodland Realm,

Balin the Stout                Dwarf of Erebor,

Poppy Smallburrow,       Hobbit of the Shire.

These warriors six          Had pledged their word,

Their wits, each sword   And axe and arrow,

All to succor                   Gloin’s kinsfolk

Vanished into                 The Long Marshes.

This mighty band            Was cleft in two:

The quest in danger                From the distant toll

Of the Marsh Bell.          Enchantment and evil

Divided the fellowship   ‘Tween open sky

And caves underwater.   Poppy, Erland,

And Grimbarald too       Woke on steps

Ruined and crumbling,   Free from the spell

Of the bell of the marsh. Deep underneath

The surface they were,   Glowing moss

Growing on tunnel          Beyond the steps.

Together the travelers    Rose to explore.

The dim tunnel               Led to a cavern,

Vaulted and vast             And the home of deep shade

(And worse, as we          Were soon to find).

Axeless, the man            Whose master was Beorn,

Acutely embarrassed      At being in nightclothes,

Borrowed the sword       Of Poppy Smallburrow,

Though it seemed as if   He held but a knife.

Into the darkness             Boldly the Halfling

Followed the tracks                Of Balin and Oin.

Behind her came             The Beorning and Barding

To subterranean              Passageways old.

A brief exploration         Rendered surprises!

A marsh dweller             Stood and scowled

With glowing eyes          And fearsome claws.

It shuffled toward           Erland the fighter,

Exchanged blows            And bites for damage.

Still the Barding             Met it bravely,

Lured it out                     Of the narrow tunnel,

For the halfling’s shaft   To find its mark

And bring it down.          Erland finished it.

Close call,                       For others may come.

The next tunnel               Showed signs

Of fleeing footsteps,       So wisely we went

Further across                 The cave in the gloom.

Along the wall,               The company saw

A chimney’s ruins.         Grimbarald looked

Up through the hole,       And found an exit.

Daylight’s well               Reached the cavern

Far below.                       Crow feathers

Littered the floor.           A rope dangled

But no one pulled it;       Bells may be

At the ends of things,      And we had enough

Of bells, bells,                 Bells, bells,

We’d had enough           Of crows and bells.

Nevermore                      Did we want to hear them;

Poe-try’s fine                  But even poets

Can have enough            Of blasted bells.

So there we were:           Two ways of escape

But two dwarves             To discover. Hark!

Some marble steps          We found ahead:

Descending down           To a set of doors,

Sturdy yet battered;                Scratched with claws

Of dreadful beasts.          We knocked with hope

And waited for answer.  Feebly we heard

A muffled reply,             And the bolt was opened.

Old Balin and Oin          Were still alive,

Starving and weak          But near death’s door.

Behind us stamped         The feet of friends

And our fellowship         Was reunited!

Quickly we greeted        Dwarf, elf, and man,

Who followed tracks      Of the trail of our trance

To the murky pool          And hidden tunnels

To find our initials          Carved by the steps

And hurried to catch us  In this craven cavern.

Well met we were,         And smiles sprang

To darkened faces:         Then died in a moment

When screeches echoed Across the room

And our hearts froze       In fear of pursuers,

Of marsh dwellers          Whose evil hunger

Would make this place   Our grave and tomb.

Should we strike             For the watery tunnel?

No good, for the crowd   Of shambling creatures

Came that way.               What then, to the chamber?

To bar the doors              Like the dwarves had done,

And gnaw on leather      When our food was gone

And wish for death         In the thick darkness?

No! There is glory          In a shrewd departure,

In a desperate attempt    That stands some chance.

Quickly our pact             Was made with each other,

But not quick enough.    We fled across

To the ancient chimney, Bid the hobbit

To clamber above           To stand as a guard

And wait for the rest.      The cries of the beasts

Came nearer now,           And as we ran

We formed a defense,     To ward off the blows

For the duo of dwarves   And buy some time.

Erland assisted them,      Yet Ahir, Grimbarald,

Young Balin and Lindin All loosed their weapons

And arrows let fly.          Erland had brought

The Beorning a present; His great splitting-axe,

Abandoned at camp,       To gladden the man,

So Erland handed           The axe back to him.

Grimbarald broke           Into laughter, for ‘twas

The blade of Balderic,    His wise grandfather,

Named Fyrn-Bereofan,   Ancient Bereaver

And cleaver of orcs,       Wargs, and spiders

When Balderic’s forefather    Lob-Hunter slew

Giant spiders                   In yesteryear

Near the dim mountains Of grim Mirkwood.

Without any armor,        The Beorning did battle

And hewed with his axe The first of the dwellers

That came upon him.      Ahir and Balin

And Lindin were fierce  In their blows to their foes,

For the time allowed      Oin and Balin

To start their climb         Up the shaft to the sky.

The Warriors Six            Were reduced to Four

When Balin helped         His kin of Erebor

To escape the doom.       Hardy were we,

Yet the claws and jaws   Of the marsh dwellers

Tore our armor,              Tore our skin,

And crowded around      Two score deep.

Lindin was wounded,      Desired to stay,

But we waved him on     To help the others.

Desperate now               Was the stand of the Three.

Woodman, Barding,       Beorning all brave,

Battled the monsters,      Hacked, slashed,

Parried and pierced         The fell dwellers.

Yet on they came            Relentlessly

And the Beorning fell     Under their bodies.

Courage then flamed      In the heart of Erland,

Leaped to defend            His fallen comrade.

With bitter lessons          He taught the beasts

To fear his spear.            The Man of Dale

Spilled the blood            Of the Marsh’s minions,

Feared not their fight      But dreaded defeat.

Now stood only Two,     And they were fey.

Then from beyond          The deadly din,

Pure notes poured           Down heaven’s well,

A song of strength          From their friends above

And lifted their hearts    To endure this hell.

With renewed power,     The Barding broke

Away from his enemies, Carried the fallen,

Ran to the side                        Of the good woodman,

Covered Ahir                  As Ahir Kari

Pulled the Beorning’s     Unconscious body

Into the chimney.            Erland faced

The creature-horde         Of the Long Marshes.

He stood in the hearth    Where ancient fires

Had once blazed             In happier days

When the safe Road       Of the Old Forest

Had provided places       For weary dwarves

To rest their burdens       And warm their hands

Between the Mountains  And the Iron Hills.

That fireplace now         Was cold and still,

But the Man of Dale       Kindled his wrath

And furiously beat          Back the beasts

As only One                    Remained to fight.

Up the air-road               Flew these eagles.

But the burden                        Of Beorn’s man

Slowed them down.                Over and over

Erland was attacked       As Marsh dwellers

Climbed after them.       Out of the chimney

Emerged on the hill                Ahir, Grimbarald…

But before the Barding   Could climb free,

The monsters raked                Erland’s back

With cruel claws             And he fell unconscious

Towards the hole.           Were it not for the arms

Of his companions          Who carried him out.

The beasts feared            The day’s eye

So scrambled back          Into their lair.

All was quiet                   For a short rest.

Poppy was able               To heal the Barding

And the Beorning           Enough that the party

Could get to the boat      And return to Laketown.

Ahir and Poppy               Guided the wave-rider

Through the Marshes      to the River Running.

Finally they reached       Their old campsite

With the rotten stump.    Only once did they hear

The Bell of the Marsh    Toll to enchant them;

All but young Balin                Shambled to follow.

That night the dwarf       Saved our lives

And the next morning     Found us all tired.

Half-alive in the boat,    Grimbarald sighed…

Though thankful for       The eight surviving,

Fyrn-Bereofan                Was lost forever.

The axe of his ancestor   Had dropped in the fight,

Was still in the cavern    Of the foul brutes

Who almost ended          The Warriors Six.

Grimbarald sang             A song of mourning

For the splitting-axe       He would wield no more.

There let it lie,                        Mused the Beorning,

A mute testimony           To the Marsh shadow-spawn

That the courage of comrades        Overcame evil

To rescue the hapless     And deny them their prize.

Their lair was despoiled,        And thus their defeat

Would e’er be declared  By the blade on the floor.

And so the companions  Returned up the river,

Rowed out of reach        Of the curséd bell,

Regaled the porters         By the waterfall,

Took the lake-path         Toward Esgaroth.

Then they could see        The ship of the Master

Of Lake-town coming,   With Gloin onboard,

And people cheering.     Thus were they welcomed

As heroes come home    And the time of their resting

And healing had come.   Let ale flow,

Beards wag,                    Tales be told,

Thanks given.                 All shall be well.

*Valor and glory              And adventure they gained,*

*Onward and forward!     For they found what was lost.*