Author’s Note: This piece was shaped with a little help from AI. It provided assistance on things like the structuring, some names, shortening some verbose language/ideas as I'd written, and gave me the odd turn of phrase here and there. The heart and shape of the story are my own (as adapted from live-play with others naturally), but I realise it is important to be transparent about my use of AI support in producing it ultimately.
Session 5 - Chapter 2 of Where Webs Whisper
'A Dwarf's Journey East'
Featuring: Vratni, Flent, Tivlyn, Wittkun, Feay, Meltharian, Cirvalad, Voicimir
Location: Camp by Weathertop, Lone-lands
Now this be what the road gives when it does not try to kill ye outright… a fire lit, boots dry, belly full, and company that makes the long march less lonely. A moment to sit, to breathe, to carve the day into memory before it fades to naught but dust and echoes.
It tall began at the Forsaken Inn as our meetin' place… though Forsaken be a generous word for it. A haunt of half-sober travellers and ale that tastes of regret more than barley. But it did its part, and the band took shape. Some new, some familiar, all bound by the same road eastward, toward the nests that should not be left to fester.
The gathering started slow, as all such meetings do, folk tricklin' in, each with their own reasons for takin' up the road eastward. Some arrived with certainty, some with caution, and some with entirely too much enthusiasm. Of the newcomers:
First came Meltharian, or ‘Mel’… an elf maiden who was confident in her stride, eyein' the lot of us as if weighin' the company she'd found herself in. From the moment she stepped in, there was no hesitatin', no uncertainty in her stance. A traveller, aye, but one that moves with purpose rather than just wanderin’ aimlessly. She spoke of spears, of readiness… and when talk turned to the nests, to the dangers ahead, she did not flinch, did not pause to weigh the risk, she simply took it as fact, accepted it as the course set before us. I expect when steel must be drawn, she will hold her place without wavering, but then again I hope we will never find out.
Cirvalad followed… another elf with sharp eyes, but even sharper words, carryin' an air of melody even in conversation he was. Folk like him always seem to know things they do not say outright, though he spoke of the east as if he'd walked its roads many a time. No hesitation from him either. He was here for the long march, same as the rest of us.
One always needs to be watchful around elves they say… and this much seemed true as both turned out not to be strangers pulled from the wild road…. but kin to Locksley herself… in the same cause, all tied to the Company of the East Road.
You see, Locksley had left a note in their kin house that brought more than idle interest in our business… it summoned allies, drew folk with minds set on the same purpose…
And there was a further twist I did not see comin’. Wittkun… quiet in his words, steady in his step, carryin’ himself more like a lone wanderer than a man tied to a banner… why, he’s Company folk too!
Did not catch that at first, not until talk of the roads and the note at their kinhouse revealed what he had kept close to his chest all through the marshes… And truth be told, I admire the way he held that fact without boast or claim, lettin’ it come out in time, when it fit the talk rather than for the sake of introduction.
Makes me wonder how long he has walked under the Company’s cause, how many roads he’s tread and jobs he’s seen through. And if he kept it quiet, it means he is not one for empty chatter about duty…. he simply does the work.
It’s a fine thing, learnin’ some of the old lot are not just folk picked from chance, but folk bound by cause, by road, by shared struggle. Makes this march ahead feel less reckless, more certain in me eyes now. A good surprise, this revelation.
But alas, I’m drifting… there was one more newcomer to the band… and a strange one at that!
Feay arrived like a whirlwind, dodgin' boots, tables, and questions with a speed only a Halflin' could manage. And with her came talk of mushrooms, of odd concoctions and fiery tricks, of ways to deal with spiders and creatures that slither. I still cannot quite tell if she truly understands the peril ahead, but she is here, and her skills, though unusual, may yet prove worth their weight in gold. Aye, Feay be a curious sort… one part mischief, one part mystery, wrapped up in a Halflin’ frame that moves like the wind itself. Folk might take her flippancy for recklessness, but I reckon it’s something else entirely. There’s something old in her manner, wisdom tucked beneath the mirth, as if she knows more than she lets on, but chooses not to burden the world with heavy words when laughter will do instead. Yet even in her merriment, she is watchful, keen in ways folk might not notice at first glance. If her shroom-crackers be half as potent as she says, then we may find ourselves luckier than most when we face the horrors ahead.
And then there was the Old Guard. I was unsurprised to see ‘em return to this fine mess to be tellin’ the truth.
Wittkun… he knows what roads to fear, and though he walks this path now, he has made it clear he will not step into the deeper dark places. A sensible stance, even for a dwarf, as far as Khazad-dûm is concerned… ‘ol Wittkun may carry himself with quiet wisdom, but make no mistake… he showed us all his prowess in the Marshes. The dwarf knows the wild. He does not simply walk the road, he reads it, sees the signs others might overlook. Found this here spring we’re all resting tonight beside…
Locksley… Tivlyn, as folk that know her refer. Steady as ever, sharp-eyed, and always thinkin' ahead. Knows what she signed up for, does not flinch from the truth of it. Keeps order even when the rest of us tumble toward chaos. A needed thing when paths grow treacherous.
Hmm….. though it was just said in passing perhaps, I’m pretty sure I did hear her say something about her being ‘disowned by her uncle’ back at the Inn… She did not linger on it, did not lay the weight of it bare for us to see, just said it and moved on. And yet, I reckon it tells more than she let on. Folk do not lose kin without cause, and if I were to guess, it had to do with this venture eastward. The Company, the task ahead, someone did not take kindly to her choice, and she paid the price for it I think… damnation on me for being too deep in my tankard of ale at the time not to catch upon it.
And then there was Boots, or Flent as he was properly called (but by who, I don’t know… he seems to answer to Boots all the same). Now, Flent ain’t the sort ye’d call a friend, least not in the way folk tend to think of ‘em. He’s gruff, keeps his words short, don’t waste breath on pleasantries, and walks the road like he’s always expectin’ it to throw knives at him. And aye, I don’t trust him as far as I can toss an ox, but trust ain’t always about likin’ a man…. it’s about knowin’ how he moves when trouble comes.
And in the marsh, he proved he moves right proper.
It weren’t just me pullin’ wits from the muck…. Boots was there, same as the rest of us, steady when things turned foul. His instincts kept more than a few horrors at bay, and when the Brood-Mother came upon us with her cursed hunger, he stood his ground. A fine fighter, no hesitation, and quick enough with his steps that I reckon more than one of us got away because he was there.
But aye, it weren’t without cost. She caught him. I saw the wound plain as day…. Her mandibles had left their mark, near enough to take him down for good if the crushing force had been worse. At least he wasn’t bitten… but for a moment, I thought he’d falter, thought we’d lose him to the marsh along with whatever secrets it buried. And I did not like that thought. Not one bit.
Not because we’re fr.. associates, not because I count him as a valued companion, though I wouldn’t say it aloud… No, it was something else, somethin’ harder to name. A familiarity, a shared stubbornness, a knowing that he’s the sort to get the job done no matter the cost. A fighter worth his weight. And aye, a man ye can count on when the world turns against ye. He looked like he packed up his whole world to be here… I wonder what drives him further into this peril?
Aye… now, I like to think I’ve an eye for things of value, for relics that hold more than just shine. I’ve sold many a shiny pebble to the gullible masses at the Bree market… but this was no pebble…. when we found that hidden chamber back in the marshes, when the dust of battle settled and our hands searched through what had been left behind, I caught somethin’ most didn’t….
Boots took somethin’. Not coin, not a blade, not some idle scrap, but a polished stone, its surface iridescent, catchin’ the dim light like it held secrets within. He did it swift, instinctive, not makin’ a show of it, and he didn’t speak a word about it to the rest of us.
Now, maybe it meant somethin’ to him. Maybe it was just instinct, seein’ somethin’ worth keepin’ and takin’ it without the need for talk. I admit, I’ve a refined compulsion like that meself… Either way, he didn’t leave empty-handed, but more interestingly…. he kept that truth quiet. To himself…
I won’t call it theft…. hells, I did the same, walkin’ out with a circlet woven of gold and scrolls that speak of forgotten knowledge. But it tells me somethin’ about him. He knows value, knows when somethin’ ain’t just rubble, knows how to keep his own counsel when the moment calls for it… let’s see what comes of it, if anything.
And now, he’s got that pup…. mangey thing, scruffy and skittish, but it follows him like it knows he’s the only thing worth followin’. Something about that makes sense. Boots ain’t the sort to take on burdens lightly. Though he favours animals over people I imagine… a burden is a burden when in the wilds… If the mutt stays with him, it’s because it knows he won’t let it down.
Aye, I don’t trust him the way folk trust friends, but I trust him to be what he is. A survivor. A tracker. A man who doesn’t break when the world pushes. And when we ride east, toward the nests that should not be, I’ll know he’ll do what must be done.
And lastly, Aevil… or the lack of Aevil… she’s already gone ahead, as I think we all expected. The elf-folk do that, vanish into the mist like they’ve got no need for the same roads the rest of us tread. But that doesn’t mean her role in this is done… if anything, she set more of this march in motion than most. It was Aevil who read the words on the scrolls, translated the key piece that pointed us eastward, toward the nests. She took what was written and made sense of it. There’s knowledge in her hands, skill beyond just sharp words… she sees more than most, moves with precision, not folly. I do not know where she’s gone now. No doubt already tracking paths we’ve yet to find. But I’d wager she’ll be there when the road turns most perilous. She’s already shown a knack for appearing just when needed…
---
Formed at last the band set off from the Inn. We pressed on, leaving behind the stale air and stiffer drinks, toward the Lone-Lands, where the ground grows dry and the sky stretches wide without mercy.
We had near but started when a stranger ((Voicimir)) blocked our way on the road… now that was an odd bit of business, one that lingers in the mind despite how swiftly it passed.
He appeared out of nowhere, as folk in these parts often do, wrapped in an air of authority I thought at first… that wasn’t exactly welcomed, tossin’ words about unsanctioned gatherings and bridge tolls like he had some right to claim ‘em. None of us knew him, and yet he spoke as though he knew us, as if our presence on the road was already marked in his thoughts long before he found us.
There was no real threat in him, not yet, but there was a persistence, a watchfulness that tells me he wasn’t just some idle time-waster passing through. The way he held himself, the way he lingered just long enough, makes me wonder what he was truly lookin’ for…. whether it was mere curiosity, or something deeper.
Folk don’t ride out at night to halt company on the road without a reason. He said his duty was to ask questions, but I reckon he already had his answers before he ever spoke.
Strange sort. Mayhap we’ll cross his path again, or mayhap he’ll remain just another fleeting spectre on the road we’re takin'. Either way, I’ve marked his presence. Best to keep eyes sharp for men who linger where they don’t belong.
As the day wore on and dusk fell, Amonsu, Amon-Sull, Suuull… Weathertop rose in the distance, its broken height a crown shattered by time. We camp near it, not atop it… better the ridges and the trees than the exposed ruins where eyes may linger unseen as Mel said.
Water was found, Wittkun’s gift to us, and a proper fire built by Boots. A good campsite, even with the remains of past travellers scattered about. Could be ill omen, but I reckon folk come and go, leave their traces, and move on same as we do now.
Feay set her mushrooms to roast, spoke of her shroom-crackers with mirth and delight… and there was even some boar too….. A good meal, roasted over the flames, the scent of meat filling the night air. Even Wittkun looked at it with respect.
Then came the songs. Cirvalad wove words into melody, speakin' of the past, of folk long gone, tales of those whose stories still echo in elvish tongues. I listened, though such words feel distant to me. Dwarves do not sing such things… we sing of halls, of stone, of victories carved into the mountain itself. I’ve been known to sing of a few good trades too… but it was a fine thing to hear, nonetheless.
---
I sit now, watchin' the flames crackle, thinkin' of the road ahead, and what waits in the far off Misties. I do not walk toward it blindly. There is risk, great risk, but I have walked peril before, and I do not plan on falterin' now. Not when the rewards seem so great.
The circlet rests within my trunk back in Staddle, wrapped away, untouched for now, but never forgotten. And yet, it is as if I can see it here now, in my hands. The giant black opal adorned on its rim draining the light of the fire even as I write this…
The air is cool tonight, the fire warm, the road stretched before us. I have made my choice. Danger waits, but so does treasure, mystery, and the kind of tale a dwarf can tell over a good drink when all is said and done.
Tomorrow, we march onward. Toward the Eglain at Ost Guruth, and beyond toward what skitters unseen. And if fortune favours us, toward answers and treasures that lie in the dark.
—V
