Journal entry: Pain of error

The eldritch is real. We knew that always, despite those we protect claiming that to be naught but fairy tales to frighten and excite the children with. And never was this more apparent than this night, one filled with wounds and the pain of error. In addition to a far more mundane, physical pain of injury

We had ventured into the Old Forest recently, to aid a friend or ours in warding the land from it's frightful influence. Ulfey usually did that on her own, but the forest had become increasingly hostile of late, repelling the wise woman. To discover what made it so, we went in a group of several, those that had joined our ranks while I was casting the Terrorhelm into the ever-hungry maw of the sea. Much to my joy, upon return I have spotted a recruit alongside my friend Thorontir, as well as the woman we had met prior to my departure. Agacyra was the name, I believe. The recruit, as I have learned, was just one of quite a few, there are so many names now I struggle to remember them all. It is almost like the old days, gatherings among the rangers and the names I should remember, but my memory failed to register and apply to faces of the people. It has always been a weakness of mine.

As is my bad habit of digression, apparently. With those recruited we had met, before setting off into the Old Forest. The ominous aura of the place had immediately grasped our hearts with dread, and the threatening reputation of the forest blinded us to the most obvious - traps. Bear traps, to be precise, ones cleverly hidden and vicious. One such trap had snapped shut on a leg belonging to one of our friends, wounding the man deeply. We have dismantled the rest using some fallen branches as detection rods, but the harm was already done. The error was made and he had to pay for the blindness of us all.
However that oversight might have been that which saved my own life tonight.

The gut-wrenching aura became increasingly intense as we marched forth, soon making it impossible to proceed, just as we had discovered that someone dared to cut down the dreaded trees in the heart of the forest. We had lost a few of us to the forest, fortunately finding them quite soon, and to avoid further, or even - Valar protect - permanent losses, we had retreated to safety, in our rush forgetting to deal with the traps we sprung. A second error, leaving our enemy warned and prepared.

We all needed rest, so we had decided to take it. However it was not meant to last, as a prisoner Thorontir had captured earlier fled his cell and caused a commotion. I remained behind to bar his escape through a boat, so I am not aware what came to be, however many of ours were injured, peculiarly one of the newcomers, who had trouble sitting for quite a few days. I must inquire what transpired there, as that seems incredibly odd, for a single, weakened half-orc to fight this intensely.

I can, however, imagine what was that. Today, we set off to intercept those who left traps against us yet again, however not willing to anger the forest further, we went around it, through the dreaded Barrow-downs. Prior to that, Ulfey had comitted some ritual, that was meant to give us strength of mind to pass through unscathed, and pass unscathed we did. Pride wishes to claim that on the iron will of our kin, but knowledge and experience calls for Haetíra to receive her due. I imagine both were a factor.

Inevitably, we have found the camp of those that lumbered within the forest. To our surprise, those were orcs. Orcs! Not only in the heart of Bree-land, but in a location as remote and dangerous as the Old Forest. Not only that, they were led by what could only be a sorcerer - a half-orc of unreasonable power, that had bestowed ferocious bloodlust upon two of his kin, using a massive bonfire made out of the frightening wood of the forest. That was what angered it so, and I can clearly see why. Axe and flame are a curse for the trees.

We struck. I had caused a diversion to disorient the foes and weaken them, successfully so. Most of the foes fell quickly, but the two which the sorcerer bestowed his vile power upon had managed to fight back so viciously that Thorontir - my brother, my friend - was brought low like a mere child. I would perhaps feel frightened were I not in trouble myself. The sorcerer - Zardu by name, I believe? I could have forgotten already - had focused on bringing me down, scoring hits so skillfully that only blind luck is what I credit my survival with. I had tried to immobilize the half-beast with the same bear traps they used against us, but instead I had felt their cold, iron teeth, just as our brother did a week ago. Or were those two weeks? I lost the flow of time again, I believe.

And yet, just as the half-orc was about to slay me, I had desperately thrown a trap at him. The effect stunned and shocked me - the sharp, iron teeth clasping his face with a sickening crunch, causing the foe to retreat. I feel not proud, but I feel no regret for doing this. If I would not, I would've died and the evil ritual would commence again, endangering not only the forest, but also all of Bree-land, both with angered dark trees and orcs in barbaric rage. In moments like these, there is no place nor time for regret.

It had, however, returned twofold now that I am safe. Could I have done anything else to prevent Thorontir from being wounded so grievously? Could I have avoided being trapped between the hammer of my foes, and the anvil of my own, overly extended position? Questions surge and from them, forms experience. One that will allow me to avoid such errors in the future.

I merely hope this experience surges before someone loses their life because of my mistakes.

Again, more questions than answers have been had. What is the white hand symbol this sorcerer wore? Who is Sharkû and why does his name incite an unholy frenzy in the servants of the Enemy? We must find out, for the good of the North.