Category: Under the Eaves

Mericc made his way into The Old Forest, sword out and eyes on the alert. At first the going was easy since he was still on the outskirts where the brush was less thick and the trees more spread out. Unfortunately he knew that this wouldn’t last long, the forest wouldn’t let him off that easy. He also knew that his previous trip into the woods wouldn’t be of much help to him except as a general guide. The trees and the paths of the forest tended to shift from one place to the other or disappear entirely, leaving the unwary and unprepared wanderer lost and confused. Many the time on his past visit Mericc remembered trying to double-back only to find a solid wall of trees or undergrowth blocking what was once a clear path. Still, he had a vague notion of the general layout of the forest and planned to make his way towards it’s heart, the Withywindle river.

The river cut through the center of the forest, and anyone trying to make their way through would have to deal with it at some point so it was a good place to look for Tom or at least signs that he had passed that way. But there were still some miles before Mericc would reach it in a straight line, and it was uncertain how twisted a path the warrior would have to take to get there. Already the trees were getting thicker around him, dense brush made walking difficult in spots and Mericc was certain that he was tripped up by a low lying root that he was sure he had cleared a moment before. The air grew thicker as he went deeper in and the feeling of someone, or something, watching him became more and more pronounced.

“Just when a hunter would come in handy”, Mericc grumbled, but Aqualondo was off chasing his latest object of affection and his other companions were off on adventures of their own. As out of his element Mericc was, he would have to do this alone.

A deep fog had settled on the forest and soon despite his best efforts, Mericc had gotten turned around. Dark trees with darker intent stared down at him menacingly  and the air was now thick with tension and forboding. Mericc found himself turning at every rustle of the leaves and every creak and groan. He could sense, more than see, that things moved in the shadows, hating anything that intruded upon it’s ancient homeland. Mericc gripped his sword tight, preparing to strike if needed, but how does one fight the very air around you, pressing in with the weight of years of built up anger? He could hear the wind, like whispers in the treetops, the forest was speaking to itself, and it’s words were those of warning and death. A thick branch fell from a nearby tree, almost hitting Mericc. He raised his shield up instinctively but nothing more fell. The trees looked down on him, their carved trunks forming faces cruel and malevolent, he was not welcome here. Roots and undergrowth grasped at him in the dark, their long tendrils seeking the places his armour didn’t protect. He slashed out at them as he could, but their were many tree’s, and their roots were long.

Lesser men would break at times like these, but Mericc wasn’t lesser men. He had fought dragons and trolls, faced certain death in many a battle and managed to bring him and his friends through it alive, he wasn’t about to let a bunch of tree’s get between him and his mission. He kept on, alert but undaunted, let the forest whisper and groan, he would meet it head on if he had too. He made his way in what he hoped was a southerly direction, trying to find a path that would strike the Withywindle and the first leg of his journey. Soon he felt the air grow less dense and the sense of dread and watchfulness pass, the way became a little easier, the forest had spent it’s first stroke and Mericc wondered what the second would be.

After a while the land started to slope downward and then ended in a sheer cliff of rock, carved through long years by the thing Mericc had been searching for, he had found the Withywindle. There it stood below him, as ancient as the forest around him, bathed in the soft light that managed to trickle down from the treetops. It was almost green from all the lichen that clung to every stone, and hundreds of water lillies floated on it’s surface giving the river and almost ethereal quality to it. The warrior made his way down a rough hewn and trecherous pathway to the edge of the waters. He had seen no sign so far of anyone else traveling through the forest and hoped that he wasn’t already too late. Mericc looked up and reckoned by what little light he saw that he didn’t have that many hours of daylight left and he didn’t like the prospect of being in the forest after dark.

Mericc searched along the north bank of the river, looking for any sign of the lost Tom. It was difficult work, the forest canopy allowed very little light to see by and the centuries of fallen leaves and bracken made finding tracks of any kind a struggle. He hoped the search would yield up something, the idea of returning to the bad patches of wood further north didn’t thrill him and he was even less enthusiastic about returning to Adso’s empty-handed. He pushed on, he was bound to come across something if he looked long enough, though in places like this, that something didn’t always become something you wanted to find. This was one of those occassions.

Looking up from the river-bank, Mericc found that the river had taken him to a wide glade, the waters of the river collecting themselves into a wide shallow pool. In the center of the pool was the large husk of an old oak tree. Only the bottom trunk was left, but it was clear that it had once been a mighty tree. Mericc went to investigate, such a dominant landmark might have drawn young Tom to it, and anyways, the river seemed to end here and Mericc had to decide his next move. As he made it to the trunk and started to look around a low growling sound told the warrior that Something had found him.

It was a large bear, and yet like no bear Mericc had ever seen before. It’s fur was shaggy and unkempt, it’s hide ripped and torn with various gashes and bald patches, and it’s eyes glowed with an evil red light. What foul arts had twisted such a terrible form Mericc didn’t not know and didn’t really care. The bear approached the warrior, it’s teeth bared, it’s gaze intent on the prey before it. Mericc planted his feet, shield held in front of him, sword prepared to strike, other bears materialized from other parts of the glade’s edge and soon they had Mericc caught in a ring of death. His back was to the ancient oak, the bears approached slowly, they knew he had nowhere to go.

 

Mericc rode over the West Bree Bridge and into the countryside surrounding Bree. To his right, the slow rolling hills of the south fields spread on for miles and miles, occupied by various farmsteads and landholders who made up the major suppliers of foodstuffs and other raw goods for the area. If one were to travel farther north up the Greenway, he would find himself up into the North Downs. Once a prosperous land, it was now hotly contested between the last of the northern rangers and the orcs who came down from Angmar. To his left, jagged, rocky slopes rose up, a boundary separating the dread of the Barrows from simple people who would much rather forget the horrors that laid in wait for those foolish enough to go seeking the treasures that were hidden there. A constant mist and fog hung over the Barrows, seeping down the heights and hanging ominously over the ruins of ancient fortification walls doomed to protect nothing. Mericc wrapped his cloak a little tighter, covering his armour to ward off the chill and continued on.

It was some miles to Adso’s camp, so as he rode the experienced warrior occupied himself by surveying the lands he passed in a military fashion. If he was an army, where would he camp? What were the natural chokepoints and defensive positions and how would he take them if he were the attacker. In his youth, he had shown a particular aptitude for ambushes, a skill that he had put to good use as he got older, and as he rode up on some fortification works he thought how they seemed a perfect place for just such an ambush. No sooner had the thought entered his head than half a dozen brigands jumped out, crude spears and clubs in hand, surrounded his horse and closed in on him sneering and guffawing.

The lead brigand, a sallow looking fellow with a cut across his cheek, strode up to Mericc’s horse with a pleased-as-can-be look on his face. “Wha have we here boys? A traveler on our road an don’t even have the courtesy to stop by and give us even a how do ye do”.

The other brigands laughed while doing their best to look menacing, though Mericc found it difficult not to laugh, they were a sad lot that decided to accost him this day and he wished he had the time to teach them better manners. The leader went on, “Maybe he doesn’t know that there is a toll for using this here road and that maybe he had better get to paying or we’ll have to have ourselves a little sport at his expense”. Behind him, his friends raised their weapons threateningly and advanced on the Guardian.

“I am afraid you have your days mixed up friend”, Mericc said unconcernedly, “I don’t kill you yet. Come back tomorrow when my business for today is done and I’ll be glad to oblige you”. He watched as unsure looks passed between the brigand leader’s companions. They were used to frightening farmers and peasant travelers, families who just wanted to be on their way without being harmed. Mericc’s response had taken them aback. The leader of the brigands was not daunted though.

“Oh Ho! A brave one we ave here. Well me haughty one, I say that there are six of us and one of you and tha we’ll be doing the killing if ye don’t mind. What is one lonely vagabond to us?”

The brigand leader took a step forward, a wicked looking broadsword in one hand, his fellows a few tenative steps behind, scowled at Mericc and prepared to attack. They stopped short when they saw Mericc unloosen his cloak and let it fall behind him, showing the intricate plate armour and sword that hung by his side. He unsheathed his sword and pointed it at them, a steely determined look in his eyes.

“I have no time for the likes of you”, Mericc snarled. “Now, get out of my path or I will strike you all down where you stand and if I ever see any of you again, this blade will be the last thing you ever see.”

The brigands now found themselves completely out of their reckoning, a couple dropped their weapons immediately and ran and the rest followed suit once they saw that the odds were no longer nearly as much in their favor as they liked. The leader with the scar looked left and right nervously as he found himself without his entourage and therefore without his courage. He looked at the fully armed and dangerous warrior before him, and then decided that ‘here’ was not a very good place to be and that he should find someplace else to be right away. Mericc watched as he took off to rejoin his gang, resheathed his sword and continued on towards his destination.

In a few hours Mericc came upon the worksite, it looked like a ghost town. Some temporary work tents and half constructed buildings were all that Mericc could see of what had been an apparently thriving construction project a couple of days before. At first it looked as if nobody was there but as Mericc approached he could hear sounds coming from the main tent. The warrior dismounted from his horse, unstrapped his shield from the back of his horse and unsheathed his sword again, no sense in taking chances. Sounds of someone talking frantically came from the tent flap but stopped when they heard Mericc approach, the flap opened and a lone hobbit came out. Mericc put his weapon away and lifted his hands palm out in a sign of peace.

“Hullo! Who are you? What do you want?” The hobbit asked suspiciously. He was an aged red-headed hobbit with bags under his eyes and lines of worry etched across his face, he held a mace in one hand that he waved at Mericc threateningly.

“Mericc Angadraug at your service” the guardian nodded, “I hear you have a missing boy, lost in the Old Forest, I am here to help”.

Adso let down his guard, for who else could it be but the foreman of the camp. “Terrible, Terrible business”, Adso shook his head, “Whole timetables, schedules ruined, supplies run short, workers all sent home.”

“Not to mention a boy missing”, Mericc added in a bit annoyed.

The hobbit pointed an angry finger up at the fully armed warrior, “Don’t get pert with me!” Adso retorted. “You think I don’t feel bad for Graham’s kid? Well I do, but I have to think also of all the other families who might not have money to eat this coming winter if we don’t get this project back on track. Dratted brigands and short supplies and now a person lost in that dreaded forest. It’s enough to make a grown hobbit weep”. Adso ran his fingers through disheveled hair, it was clear he had had a rough time of it the past couple days.

Mericc nodded, “That is why I am here, I was planning on heading into the forest to see if I could find Graham’s kid or at the least confirm that he is dead.”

“Well you certainly don’t need my permission!” Adso retorted and waved his hand in the direction of the forest, “It’s right there, go on in if it pleases you, you look the sort who can handle himself. There is a path nearby that leads right in, clear as day. But don’t go raising any hopes, Graham’s son Tom has, like as not, come to a very bad end.” Adso shook his head regretably.

Mericc tied his horse up to a post nearby. “Like as not, but if he’s alive I promise to bring him back out.” Mericc headed towards the forest, looking for the path that Adso had mentioned. He found it some time later, a cut between two hills leading into the dark wood. Two large tree’s, like sentinels, guarded the entrance and beyond The Old Forest, menacing and dangerous. Mericc took a deep breath and plunged in.

The light of the fire and the music of the Teller of Tales takes the crowd of the Prancing Pony back years and years, to a time of troubles and war….

The Guardian sat at a table in the Prancing Pony, drinking a mug of honey mead and listening to the minstrel ply his trade by the fireplace. Stories and news flowed like Barliman’s Best in the inn that night. Dark things were rumored to have been seen on the outskirts of the Breeland, brigands, once nothing more than disorganized ruffians, now roamed the hills and forests in ordered companies, preying on even those who were prepared. Rumors of war and strife in the south were on every lip and in each uneasy glance, but Mericc knew these were not just rumors,he knew how very real the danger was.

The tale of the battles and experiences he had in the conflicts in Dunland and the borders of Rohan the past couple months were told by the bruises and aches in his body and the deep lines of care that etched a face far too young to have them. He had performed valiantly, always at the forfront of the fight, lending his shield to whomever needed it be he friend or stranger, as long as there was a need. He had protected many a life but had also lost many a friend to war and misfortune and the weight of the loses wore heavily on him.

‘You cannot save everyone’ they told him, but it did not make the burden any lighter. He was weary and hoped to spend some time in Bree to rest and recuperate. There was a bridge into Rohan calling him to new adventures, but before that storm a moment of peace.

His thoughts drifted from their inner musings and back to the common room of the inn. The minstrel, a drunken dwarf, was playing a ridiculous song about a disapearing hobbit and the Man on the Moon, while the Innkeeper greeted a group of workmen who had just arrived at the inn. The group was led to a table near Mericc and he soon gathered that they were employed at Adso’s camp, a worksite along the western road leading through the southern breefields. They were a disheveled and somber lot, mulling over glasses of wine and picking at their food occasionally, more to take their mind off of their troubles than to fulfill any need. They spoke in whispers and Mericc was about to return to his own troubles when one of the men broke down.

“There, there Graham”, one of his companions spoke “I know it’s hard, but we don’t know anything for sure yet” The look on his face betrayed his thoughts though and Graham found no comfort in them.

“He’s gone I tell you and it’s all my fault.” the one called Graham sobbed, “I never should have mentioned what I’d heard about that damned spring in the Old Forest, and now my boy has run off and gotten himself eaten by some wolf or worse than that”.

“It wasn’t you’re fault” consoled his friend. “The boy was headstrong and knew our need, what with brigands harrassing all the old waterways and wells, making it difficult for Adso to keep work going. He knew that if Adso’s venture went sour, a lot of good people would go hungry this coming winter. He’s young and no wonder he’d go grasping after any straw he could find. I promise we’ll do all that we can to save him.”

But Graham was unconvinced, “Pah, speak sense Will, you know there is no surviving the Old Forest, anyone that goes in there don’t come out ever. He’s lost to me, my only son, Gone”. Graham put his head in his hands and did his best to drink the sorrow away.

Mericc sighed as he listened, but he was tired, tired in every bone in his body. How many sons had he seen killed? How many fathers and brothers and mothers lost to senselessness and war? Why should he always be the one to put aside personal needs for the good of the many? He was weary, let someone else save this one, he had done enough, what was one raindrop amongst the torrent of sorrow and misery of these days? He called to Barliman to bring him another mead and sat alone with his thoughts.

 …A short while later he was fully armed and packing up his horse for Adso’s worksite, he couldn’t help it, he knew even the smallest raindrop was worth protecting.

He rode his horse through the main street towards the west gate, under arched overhangs and past dark cobbled houses filled with the goings on of daily life. Some people stared at Mericc as he passed, his intricately carved armour and many pointed shield was something they were not used to seeing in a land that was still, mostly, unaffected by war. Mericc hoped that they would never see a time when more of his kind were present. Not far from the gate he came to a section of the town reserved for smiths and craftsmen and here he paused and turned left. There was something he had to do before he left Bree.

The sound of many hammers ringing and fires stoked by the bellows greeted his ears as he trotted past the many forges and smithies in this quarter of the city. The warrior was an accomplished metalsmith himself, but that is not what brought him to this place, he rode on past the cacophony of hammer and tong and blade. As he left the crafter’s homes he guided his steed under the Ironmonger’s Gate and went a little way more before dismounting at the entrance to an ordinary looking house in an unassuming part of the city. The sounds of children at play greeted his ears as he approached, a welcome sound that he had not heard in some time. He knocked and before long the door was opened and a warm smile greeted him.

 “Mericc! so good to see you. I had heard that you were in town and wondered if you were going to come see us”, said the woman who answered, a pleasant girl with bright eyes, her dark hair put up into a hastily made bun, a small child in her arms. “Come in”.

Mericc smiled, “It is good to see you Reirosa, it has been longer than I would wish”. A crash interrupted their conversation and Reirosa turned on the two other children in the house “Leish! Lindy! If you two don’t behave there’ll be trouble for it, now settle down, we have a guest”. The two children straightened up but Mericc could see that they had too much pent up energy to stay put for long.

“I think you have more than enough on your hands at the moment”, Mericc quietly laughed, then looked at the small child in her arms. “I am glad to see she is doing well”.

“She gets an unnatural chill to her from time to time but she is doing fine thanks to you”, Reirosa said “She’s a strong one too, can’t keep a rattle but a few days before she’s broken it, but I suppose that is too be expected seeing what you rescued her from.”

Mericc looked at the child thoughtfully trying to mask feelings of worry and regret, but his eyes told all and Reirosa gave him a look of understanding. “Will you be staying?” She asked. “I have supper just about ready and we’d love to have you”. But the warrior only shook his head.

 “I would like that and had meant to do so but unfortunatly duty calls me again. I will stop by again after it is all over. Do you need anything more from me?” He asked.

Reirosa looked back at the two other children who had run out of self restraint and had gone back to their noisy play, “Six more arms if you can spare them, but I think that is beyond your ability” she laughed. “No, you have done enough, safe journeys and I’ll see you again when you come through. Supper is at five, and you’re always welcome.” She smiled and they said their good-byes.

Mericc remounted his horse and rode on towards the west gate, his heart a little lighter knowing that not all his endeavors were in vain. The Sun was high as he passed out of Bree and into the surrounding countryside. Adso’s camp was not that far and neither he remembered was the danger of the forest he knew he was going to have to overcome in some way.

Years after the events chronicled in the Redbook of Westmarch, under the title The Lord Of The Rings.

The late hour fire flickered in the common room of the Prancing Pony, casting it’s shadows over the long wooden tables that had sat there for years beyond count. Various regulars quenched their thirst from a long day of toil while travelers, stopping by the famous inn, rested their legs from a long days journey from parts unknown. Waitresses hustled and bustled from table to table, trying to keep up with the demand for more food or more ale whilst with long experience deftly avoiding the occasional sly pinch or prod from an overzealous and over-drunk patron.

Behind the main bar, Old Holman Butterbur, master of the Prancing Pony orchestrated with a keen eye and ready smile, the business of keeping the inn running in good and proper order. The crowd was large, the music and the ale flowed readily and freely, especially near the fireplace where a group had steadily grown, listening to the stories of one of the travelers who passed by the inn from time to time.

He was a popular figure at the Prancing Pony, never there for long but always a treat for the patrons of the Pony for his tales of daring adventure and intrigue. At times they would be tales of his own exploits, for he had once been an adventurer of some renown(And infamy), and at other times stories that he had heard or of people he had travelled with. Always he was dressed in flamboyant yet handsome clothes and sported a grin so roguish that it made men worry for their purses and houses and wives(and not always in that order). But for the most part he was an attraction that the people of Bree came from miles around to enjoy and listen too.

He had a name but most in Breetown referred to him as The Elf, for that is what he was. Elves were seldom seen in these later days, most having passed long ago into the West but The Elf was one of the few who had stayed behind and this night the drinkers and travelers were glad for it for he had just finished up one of his more astonishing and engaging tales.

“And that, my friends is the tale of the Winter Witch and the Winds of the Guardian”, The Elf finished with a flourish, his slender fingers plucking the finishing notes on his lute. He rose to the crowd, bowed, and gave his signature grin that seemed to stretch on forever. The crowd clapped, banged mugs and gave him praise for as fine a tale as he had told in some time. He resumed his seat in front of the fire, drank from a flask that he kept on a small footstool near him, and played a few furtive notes on his lute.

“Was that there Mericc fella really real? Seems like a lot for one person to overcome, beggin your’ pardon.” asked one of the listeners, a farmer by trade.

The Elf smiled, “May the gods strike me down and my beautiful hair fall out if a word of it is untrue good sir.” he replied, running his hands through his hair with an exaggerated air. The crowd laughed though The Elf seemed to make a quick and nervous sidelong glance to see if the gods were in fact going to carry out the sentence of his oath. Seeing that he, as yet, still had a full head of hair and was intact, resumed.

“If you would all like..” He began, punctuating this with a quick dramatic strumming on his instrument, “I can tell you another tale of Mericc the guardian, and this one strikes much closer to home. In fact it starts in this very room, on a night much like this one a long time ago. I play no part in it, but it is still a decent tale despite that.” He grinned.

The crowd hushed, their eager faces pressed forward, awaiting the Teller of Tales to begin. He took a sip of what was in his flask, thought for a moment, struck up a slow ominous tune on his lute, he began

“The Guardian sat at a table in the Prancing Pony, drinking a mug of honey mead and listening to the minstrel ply his trade by the fireplace….”