Image created using generative AI
OOC – Author’s Note:
This story recounts a live RP session held as part a weekly series called "Signs Along the Road". Each week there is a new RP hook. If you would like to come along, please reach out to Naridalis. The series does refer to the Company of the East Road and can be used as a way to ICly introduce your character to the kinship (whether you wish to join is entirely optional).
Additionally: This piece was shaped with a little help from AI. It helped on things like the structuring, some names, shortening some verbose language/ideas as I'd written them, and it gave me the odd turn of phrase here and there. The heart and shape of the story are my own, but I realise it is important to be transparent about my use of AI assistance.
This Week's Hook:
" Along the quiet east road from Bree, an old woman sits on a crumbled wall with a bundle of wildflowers in her lap. To those passing, she speaks of a promise upheld by her forebears... to lay an offering of flowers upon the tomb of a long-forgotten Arnorian king deep in the Midgewater Marshes. Age and distance have made the journey impossible for her these days, and her son who would usually lead her there has gone south to trade... but she is adamant to go herself. Would helping her be a quiet errand... or could it lead to a larger duty to fulfil. Anything is possible within the Marshes...”
The morning was peaceful upon the East Road, the mist still clinging to the hollows and the air rich with the scent of autumn leaves. The road was fairly busy, filled with merchants and traders from Herne and beyond, even wagons out of Gondor rumbling northward through the green hills.
Near the great Yellow Tree, just outside of Bree, Naridalis waited in quiet contemplation for her friend Daewen to arrive. Quiet that is, until a rider passed through and stopped suddenly. Fymrin was her name, and she was clad in fine leather armour. A hunter Naridalis suspected, perhaps returned from the Chetwood. But before she could consider it further, from behind them both came the further trampling of boots: Nelm of Rohan, some say a ‘Thane’, if such can be believed; Melannen, a fiery red-haired woman dressed darkly; and soon others Benjenn, one of Beorn’s line Naridalis suspected, Rothlung, clearly a hardy warrior possibly hailing from beyond the misties, and then a curious collection of dwarves: Vatnarr, Wittkun and Rompli, though they did not seem to be travelling together… together they all were bound by chance to meet along the same stretch of road.
Greetings turned to conversation between a few of them as they passed, and Nari thought the discussion might have begun with Fymrin speaking of a great white bear that she had ‘glimpsed’ in the woods. But soon their talk turned lighter… tales of roads travelled, mishaps, and cheerful boasting of adventures on their way to or from Bree. There was laughter between them, for such gatherings on the road seldom came without mirth.
Yet among the bustle sat an old woman by the far wall, from Nari’s position at least. She was wrapped in a shawl of faded green cloth and in her lap, she sorted a handful of wildflowers within a basket; her fingers trembling as she looked up at the passers-by. Her voice, when it came, was thin but steady.
Nari and others of Elven hearing caught her frail words first, though they were still half lost in the road’s bustle. To most, the woman was only another weary traveller until Daewen arrived, her unique presence drawing eyes and ears alike. With her coming, attention gradually turned fully to the old woman who had persisted in speaking aloud, and people stopped to hear what she had to say.
She spoke slowly, gathering her breath as she went. First she told of Bree and its folk, of the marsh road she had walked since youth, and only after their interest grew did she reveal what truly weighed on her heart. There was a tomb in the Midgewater Marshes, she said, where a king of Arnor lay sleeping. Each spring she walked there to lay flowers upon his rest, as her mother had done, and her mother before her. But age had made the road cruel, and her son had gone south with a caravan. She asked would any of them spare their time, to help her reach that lonely place?
The strangers glanced among themselves. Naridalis was among the first to incline her head in acceptance of this request for help. “You shall have help in this,” she said. One by one, others gave their assent. Benjenn swore it by Beorn of old; Fymrin offered her blade; Nelm bowed as a Thane of Hytbold; even Rompli, an ever-boastful dwarf, roared that ‘no hero worth his beard would refuse’. Wittkun grumbled but came along, muttering of fools and flowers.
So they set out eastward, the old woman walking ahead with her stick, her pace slow yet certain. The Yellow Tree faded behind them as the land dipped toward the marsh. The air thickened, heavy with the smell of peat and stagnant water, and a chorus of frogs and neekers soon filled the peace of the road. They crossed by stones slick with moss until the path became little more than a chain of half-sunken steps.
Their journey was not without mishap. The Midgewater Marshes were treacherous, filled with unseen pits and sudden sinkholes that could swallow a man or an elf to the knee, and easily submerge a halfling. The air buzzed thick with midges, biting and relentless, and the fog muffled both sight and sound until even their own voices seemed swallowed by the mire.
Fymrin nearly lost her footing in the mud, saved only by clutching a half-buried log. Melannen relied on Rothlung’s counsel to cross a particularly deep section. Rompli plunged in headlong, spluttering about “heroic miscalculations.” Naridalis herself slipped once, and when she rose, she held not mud but a severed goblin arm, fresh and pale. Such a putrid place was this, that she imagined the goblin felt the better of losing the arm, to hasten its journey out of this place…
The fellowship grew wary in their travels, for the marsh was known to hide more than beasts… there were whispers of wights and ghosts from the wars of old. Rothlung spoke low to Benjenn of strange tracks he had seen, neither man nor orc, and Wittkun lit his pipe to keep the midges away – clearly not his first venture into such a place. Yet the old woman pressed on, following the willows and the faint shimmer of higher ground ahead, as if unbothered by it all. For she had tread this route many times throughout her years, and where she could she helped others find the way still.
At last the mists thinned and the land rose beneath their feet, though it was not ‘dry’. The reeds gave way to stretches of bare earth that offered a reprieve. In the soft light, shapes began to emerge before them…. Of a ruin half-swallowed by mud, its pillars leaning like weary sentinels, walls carved with broken crowns and fading stars.
The fellowship slowed their steps, hushed by the weight of the place. Naridalis felt the air change, colder now, as if memory itself lingered there. The old woman’s eyes shone as she lifted her hand, awe and reverence shaping her voice. “Here he lies,” she whispered at last, “the king whose name is lost. When peace failed, he chose no side but to protect the people, and so he swore to be buried where all three realms met.”
They climbed through the ruins until they arrived at a stone dais, where a marble tomb lay beneath moss and vine alike. The air here was sweeter in scent.
Recognising the engravings along the tomb, Daewen sang softly of the Seven Stars and the White Tree. The melody wound through the ruins like a chant, drawing the mist lower around them. Each member of the fellowship followed in turn; in their own way of course... Nelm of the Mark bowed deeply, offering the respect of Rohan; Benjenn knelt and murmured a blessing in the tongue of Beornings; Fymrin folded her hands, quiet and thoughtful. Even Rompli bent the knee, though his words were clumsy: “Honourable king! You were good, and honourable, and rich too!” Wittkun too bowed his head, muttering a gruff verse from the deep halls of his kin. Naridalis lingered apart, her gaze fixed upon the carvings, hearing in Daewen’s voice an echo of ages past and feeling that time itself paused in reverence.
The old woman smiled through tears and laid her flowers last, whispering something too soft to catch. As she did, Daewen’s hand brushed aside the moss on the tomb’s edge, uncovering a line of worn script. Her eyes widened as she read it aloud… the name of the king, long forgotten by all save the stones. ‘Arvaldir, son of Eärmon, remembered for his mercy and his gift of bread to the poor’. The sound of that name seemed to travel through the ruin like a breath of wind. The old woman’s face lit with wonder; she laughed and wept further all at once, rejoicing that her devotion had not been in vain. For a moment, peace seemed to rest upon them, as if the land itself remembered. The reeds stirred, the air eased, and even the marsh’s scent seemed gentler
Yet the stillness was fragile. Nelm, wandering along the ruined wall, called quietly to Rothlung at his side. “Look here,” he murmured. “These prints… I’ve hunted beasts all my life, but I know not their kind.. they almost seem like….” Rothlung crouched beside him, brow furrowed. “Orcs, perhaps… and many,” he said grimly. “We may not be alone,” he had time to say aloud within earshot of a few of them.
As he spoke, Nari glimpsed a pale light coming from her side… from her blades… for their edges shimmered blue. “Orcs,” Daewen cried, seeing Nari’s blades herself. But it was too late, for a great host of shadows poured over the ruin’s edges at them… with guttural cries breaking from above them too. Goblins poured down the shattered walls, accompanied by larger Orcs in their ambush. Dozens, then scores, swarmed the courtyard. Nelm shouted for cover, but Rompli only roared, “Dwarf heroes never hide!” as he charged headlong into the fray.
The marsh erupted into chaos. Arrows hissed through the air, thudding into stone and flesh alike. The horse of Nelm reared and screamed as goblins dragged at its reins, the rider slashing down with his blade. Rothlung’s spear struck true, felling a monstrous Orc, only for a goblin to leap upon his shoulder. Vatnarr's swings felled goblin and orc alike. Fymrin’s twin swords shone pale in the gloom, cutting through two goblins in a blur of motion. Wittkun’s mace swung wide, crushing armour and bone with a sound like thunder, while Benjenn, transformed in his bear-form, waded through the melee, scattering foes with roaring fury, focussing on the larger Orcs.
Naridalis fought near the tomb, her daggers flashing bright blue where goblin blood met their edge. One of the creatures raked her arm with a jagged blade, the wound searing as the filth burned her skin, but she pressed on, driving her knee into its chest and casting it into the mud. “Hold the line!” she cried, though her voice was half drowned by the clash and shrieks around them.
Lightning burst suddenly above, Daewen standing upon the tomb, her hands raised high in the air. A bolt struck a nearby wall with blinding force, splitting it open in a shower of molten stone – casting off a group of goblin archers and raining down on others still. For a heartbeat the goblins faltered, their howls drowned by the rolling thunder. Yet more came, climbing over the broken rampart, their numbers unending. The company drew closer to the tomb, their circle tightening.
Then came the cry. The old woman staggered beside the tomb, an arrow buried deep in her chest. Her flowers spilled from her grasp, scattering across the marble like drops of colour in water. “No!” Fymrin dropped beside her, pressing cloth to the wound, but the blood poured freely between her fingers. “Stay with me!” she pleaded, her face stricken with grief and fury.
The light was already fading from the woman’s eyes. Her lips moved as if to speak the king’s name, yet no sound came… only a sigh that drifted into silence.
Fymrin bent low, shaking her head, whispering, “I swore I would keep you safe.” Naridalis turned at the words, struck by the same helpless ache that gripped them all.
Then the ground began to tremble. The old woman’s blood seeped through the cracks of the tomb, tracing the ancient letters Daewen had uncovered. The air thickened with a low hum that deepened until it filled their bones. “Back!” Naridalis cried, drawing Daewen away as the marble split apart. A column of light burst from the fissure, and from within rose a figure wreathed in pale fire: a man clad in mail dark as the earth, a broken crown upon his brow.
The goblins shrieked, hurling spears and stones, but the wraith raised his hand, and the sky answered. A storm of lightning fell upon the ruin. Daewen’s earlier casting was but a spark beside it as the heavens themselves seemed to break open.
Bolts leapt between the pillars and struck the marsh, fountains of black water bursting skyward as the ground cracked and hissed. Goblins and Orcs burned where they stood, or were drowned or worse, dragged beneath the marshes… their screams faded as quickly beneath the roar of thunder.
The fellowship could only shield their eyes. Though Nari tried to look. Of what she saw… it was as if the brilliance filled every shadow, and when at last it faded, for she could not watch it to its full ending… the ruin were again silent.
Smoke rose from sundered stones; the tomb was gone. Where the old woman had fallen, only her flowers remained, darkened by blood but untouched by storm.
Nari stepped forward, her arm bleeding, and gathered the flowers carefully into her hands. “She gave her life for memory,” she said quietly. “And memory answered when she needed help… when we all did.” Fymrin stood pale beside her, tears streaking the grime on her face. Rothlung leaned upon his spear, exhausted, while Benjenn slowly resumed his human form. Rompli, soot-blackened and panting, murmured something about “honourable kings indeed.”
Around them the air cleared, the thunder long gone. None looked back as they left the marsh that day, though each felt the weight of what they had seen: a once nameless king awakened, a pilgrim’s blood sanctifying the earth, and a fellowship who came to lay flowers and instead beheld the light of a people’s legend reborn.
You can find more tales along the road here: "Signs Along the Road"
