OOC – Author’s Note:
This is a continuation of producing a narrative summary for live sessions of “Where Webs Whisper”. This time, we look at two sessions, 17 and 18 in the overall campaign.
(Click on the links to jump down to the appropriate part):
- Session 17 - 'The Storm That Would Not Yield'
- Session 18 - 'Salvation At A Price'
Additionally: This piece was shaped with a little help from AI. It provided help 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 in the final piece.
This session opens a new chapter in the story to date (Chapter 3).
Session 17 – Chapter 3,
‘The Storm That Would Not Yield‘
The fellowship rides east through the Trollshaws, having been battered terribly, but they remain unbroken. Their bodies carry the cost of the Lone-lands, yet their thoughts are fixed on two of their number who had ridden on ahead for aid: Daewen and Rothlung.
Having been freed, Vratni rides with them, but is still half-bound in a tangled mess of spider silk. He is alive largely through stubbornness, but even he admits it is due to the determination of others, his… friends. The road itself offers reassurance, as road markers confirm they have not strayed, even as doubt presses in about the status of their allies.
At a white stone beside along the East Road, somewhere deep in the Trollshaws already, the choice is made to turn aside. Benjenn recognises it as the one spoken of by the Eglain, and hopes it may lead to a place called Thorenhad; often a place camped in by Elves.
None of them are fit to push on to Imladris without some pause, least of all the wounded riding among them. Such a refuge promises rest, aid (and elven aid at that!) and perhaps answers. But most of all, it may reveal signs of their allies passing through before them. So they take the turn.
The ruins of Thorenhad begin to rise ahead of them; old Rhudaur stone repurposed into an elven encampment. Their arrival is not welcomed outright. Elven voices warn them off, citing danger, until Daewen’s name is spoken in enquiry. And the fellowships recognition of that name changes everything. Caution becomes urgency, and the fellowship is permitted entry under watchful eyes.
Inside the ruins, relief comes first in a simple, powerful form: Daewen’s mare can be seen standing safe and tended to. It is proof that her desperate flight succeeded, at least in part, as this was not Imladris… but perhaps any port will do in a storm. Yet the deeper truth lies further in, beyond the appearance of elven order on all things.
Their host soon reveals himself at last as a twin son of Elrond. It is Elrohir, clad in travel-worn blues and silvers. His brow is furrowed as not far behind him is his twin brother, who has his arm raised as if to shield his face, and his fingers are glowing slightly. For at the heart of the camp, Rothlung and Daewen can indeed be found, and in the most unusual of conditions.
Rothlung lies unmoving, unchanged since his arrival. Petrified and marble-like since the felling of the Broodmother beneath Ost Guruth who savagely injected him with her venom. Daewen is by his side, barely recognisable as living herself. For her skin is pale, her strength visibly spent, and golden light binds her to him in an unbroken flow.
Indeed, around them rages a magical storm, a howling, life-draining field that leeches strength from anyone who approaches. It is a consequence of holding death at bay for too long perhaps.
When members of the fellowship try to reach them, the storm answers brutally. Breath is stolen, limbs fail, and even seasoned warriors collapse under its pressure. Elves fare little better. With only the twins truly capable of intervening with any strength; which they use to drag the fallen back before the magic can claim lives.
The truth is spoken plainly at last. Daewen is keeping Rothlung alive through sheer force of will and power (magic to many people’s eyes). The storm is not an attack. It is a cost. It surges and recedes like a tide, worsening each time she is forced to hold on alone. If nothing changes, she will die. They both will.
♦
With no better answer before them, and eager to reach them… and possible separate them if it might help…. the fellowship forms a staggered line and presses forward together. Each are close enough to steady the next by touch and determination. The storm meets them at once, with resistance and by crushing the breath from their lungs. It saps strength from their limbs, and still they press on.
Wittkun bears the first impact, driving himself on by stubborn force of will, with Vratni clinging in his wake, half-shielded by the dwarf’s sturdy form (perhaps aided by Wittkun’s retention of magical attunement from Ost Guruth).
The twins move more easily through the gale, as though the wind remembers older blood, while Meltharian advances with a steadiness that sets her apart also. Benjenn however fares worst of all, the storm striking him as something wholly alien, freezing his blood and dropping him to the ground in wordless agony. Still, one by one they falter, and they are pushed back into the air, landing by the wall, before the storm can take more from them. It becomes clear that loyalty and resolve, however fierce, are not enough to cross what stands between them and their friends.
The storm intensifies now as if angry for the attempt, cocooning Daewen and Rothlung entirely, whipping up stones and leaves and cutting a swathe into the earth. They are almost sealed within a spinning shell of light and storm. Every option the fellowship reaches for slips from their grasp. How can they help their friends… even the twins feel the desolation upon them. Elrohir admitting that even they are powerless now to stop this, and Elladan despairing of how they should have ‘paid more attention to their father’s teachings’…
Then, without warning, the storm falls silent, though only the sound of it in everyone’s ears, for it still rages terribly.
And in that quiet, hooves sound on stone behind them.
A voice speaks, calm and cutting, answering Elladan’s despair with calm certainty.
“If only you had.”
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Session 18 – Chapter 3,
The figure is revealed to be none other than Lord Elrond of Rivendell, who arrives at Thorenhad at the moment of greatest peril, stepping calmly into the heart of the storm surrounding Daewen and Rothlung.
With practiced gentleness and unquestionable authority, he parts the winds as one might draw back a curtain. An unusual administration of Athelas follows, along with words spoken in Quenya older than memory. The storm itself responds and collapses. Light returns.
“Tullen envinyatien le. Á lasta ni…. Rothlung Blacktowers. Why do you linger in the shadow? Too long have you let it consume your mind. Return to us now. Return into the light. Feel once more the warmth of the sun.”
Rothlung draws breath again.
Yet healing comes at a cost already paid. For Daewen is barely hanging on, her strength long since spent in holding Rothlung tethered to life. What the fellowship could not break by force, Elrond disperses with knowledge, timing, and command of deeper laws.
His attention turns swiftly to Daewen, and the truth beneath her condition is laid bare. A spider’s bite, shallow in flesh but deep in consequence, has taken hold. Dark veins spread beneath her skin, something living and malignant resisting even elven healing. Picked up along her desperate flight from the Lone-lands, with Rothlung her charge.
Elrond acts without hesitation, forcing the poison back with herbs, and song, even as Daewen screams and drifts into unconsciousness. Her healing will take longer it seems, but at last a breath can be inhaled for many whose heart it might seem stopped in worry then.
♦
Time passes, and for the first time since arriving in the Trollshaws, the fellowship found themselves… unoccupied. No orders. No danger pressing at their backs. Their friends in recovery of a sort… Just a moment suspended between exhaustion and relief for the rest of them.
With the danger passed for now, the camp slowly reshaped itself around the night. Bedrolls were set out, hot water and food was brought. There was no great dinner, while the Elves still tended to the wounded. Voices dropped to whispers and fatigue settled heavily over every limb and thought in the fellowship.
Daewen and Rothlung rest under canvas, Lord Elrond keeping a steady watch on both, and the fellowship drifts into whatever rest they can each get, though it isn’t much. Some sleep, some stare into the embers of nearby fires, seeming to let the events of the lone-lands finally catch up to them.
The camp feels safe, and yet… there is an undeniable feeling to those of keenest sense, that it was as if a bowstring was waiting for the next pull of tension.
♦
Later that night, Vratni sought out two dwarves that he had glimpsed earlier at the walls upon the fellowship’s entry to Thorenhad. Wéthorm and Birrungur Blacksteel sat apart from the elven fires, though close enough to the light to warm their bones, far enough to keep their words their own.
Their story came in pieces. A caravan bound for Barachen’s camp. An attack sudden and overwhelming upon them. Wagons scattered, kin lost, memories broken by fear and injury. They had been found half-dead by an elven patrol, carried to Thorenhad with more questions than answers, and little hope that anyone would return for what was left behind.
Blacksteel spoke plainly; a ‘dwarf does not abandon his own’. If there was a chance, however slim, to find their folk or at least their resting place, they would take it, even if no aid would come from the Elves. Vratni gave no answer. He listened, and felt the familiar pull of obligation settle heavy in his chest. He had grown used to ignoring that, but lately… it seemed to gnaw at him whenever he tried. He would bring their case to the fellowship at the very least.
♦
That next morning, Rothlung’s return to consciousness is not one of peace but of delayed trauma. He wakes clawing at stone, screaming against visions of burning camps, fallen comrades, and betrayal. His nightmares bleed into waking thought, and he cannot at first distinguish friend from foe. The fellowship tries to anchor him in place while the past tears through him unchecked.
Trust comes slowly as his prolonged nightmare fades ((note, Rothlung’s author has written an excellent piece on this here)). Breath by breath it takes time. When at last he recognises familiar faces, his relief is fragile. Rothlung lives, but what returned from his petrified prison is very raw indeed.
♦
Later that morning, Elrond gathers a still shaken fellowship to council and speaks plainly.
The Lord of Rivendell begins by setting out the shape of events as he understands them, having heard tell from his sons, the fellowship itself… and other sources. He places the fellowship’s experiences into a wider pattern of events, as opposed to isolated incidents. Not exactly news for them, but things had happened so quickly, there hadn’t been quite the time to really stand back and consider that so far.
He describes what happened in the Midgewater Marshes, at Amon Ros, Ost Guruth, Haragmar, Agamaur, and Harloeg not as separate crises, but connected strikes along a single design. How all were part of a rising plan of malice meant to break the Lone-lands and sever it from aid. He describes how the fellowship, by chance as much as intent, disrupted that design earlier than the enemy had planned.
From there, Elrond explains how he came to Thorenhad with such unnatural speed. He was already riding east, summoned not by message but by warning from Galadriel herself. She had sensed a flare of ancient light smothered by shadow (Daewen) and alerted him. Elrond intercepted the rider sent from Thorenhad midway upon the road, confirming the danger before the call could even reach Rivendell. His arrival, then, was not fortune, but urgency answering urgency.
He the widened the context further, speaking of the threat now revealed in full. How the spiders were gathering across Eriador are not a wandering infestation, but a directed force, guided and shaped by a craft, known to very few, that has endured since the Elder Days. He spoke of its use by Zhaurlok, naming the Stranger as Naruhel had done before. Describing him as a servant of Sauron, who escaped the ruin of the last war and has since spent time weaving unseen, mastering arts thought long lost. For his control over the descendent brood of Ungoliant is imperfect yet still unprecedented, and his network of buried broods, particularly in the Misty Mountains, points to an ambition far greater than the fall of the Lone-lands alone.
Because of this, Elrond declares that open war is now unavoidable. Rivendell will send out forces at once, joined by hosts from Lothlórien and the Woodland Realm. Such a mustering has not been seen since the fall of Gil-galad. This is not a conflict to be delayed, nor one that can be contained by chance heroics or local resistance. The threat presses too close, moves too quickly, and touches too many lands. He himself will coordinate this defence, for the danger now lies within his borders and beyond.
Elrond spoke of the Misty Mountains only in guarded terms, and no further. What lay beneath them, he implied, was not simply another nest to be burned out, but something older. That he would not name them, nor linger on the thought, carried its own warning.
Only then does Elrond turn fully to the fellowship. His tone hardens, though it does not lose its restraint. He acknowledges their courage and does not deny that their actions saved lives. Yet he names the cost plainly. Their survival in the marshes was narrow. Their actions in Ost Guruth nearly destroyed the settlement. Their calling upon Naruhel’s power, however well-intentioned, was a bargain they scarcely understood. And while the fall of Harloeg was a victory, it was one bought at a price far higher than they grasped at the time.
He makes clear that chance, not strategy, has carried them this far. Dice cannot be rolled when armies are moving and lives hang in balance across whole regions. Their continued involvement, however brave, risks further catastrophe, undermining efforts that now require secrecy, discipline, strength of arms and coordination on a scale beyond any small fellowship.
At last, Elrond delivers his judgement. The fellowship has done enough. More than enough. They have walked too close to the edge too many times, and he will not allow their lives, or the fragile plans now unfolding, to be gambled further. The war to come will be fought by hosts and lords, not by those already wounded in body and spirit.
Their part in this conflict, he tells them, is over.
♦
Elrond’s words fall with finality, and for a heartbeat the council circle holds its breath.
As people catch up to what’s been said, Meltharian, Rothlung, Wittkun, and Tivlyn all offer their views. Elrond is told of the dead buried along the road, of blood spilled and choices made when no other hand was offered. To be told now that their part is finished, that sacrifice buys dismissal, cuts deeper than any blade across them. Some take an immediate stance of refusal, others remain contemplative. Some give their view and leave the council there and then.
Elrond listens to all without interruption. His gaze does not waver, but neither does it soften. When he answers, it is with restraint rather than any concession to their words. He does not deny their losses. He does not diminish their bravery. But he does not bend. War, he insists, cannot be fought on resolve alone. What comes next demands more than we all can offer. His judgement stands.
Daewen remains silent through much of this, her stillness more unsettling than any outburst. When she does speak, it is not to argue the fellowship’s worth, but to assert her own loyalty. She refuses the idea of abandoning her companions or leaving the Free Peoples to their fate while danger roams unchecked. But alas, Elrond names the cost she nearly paid, forbids her involvement outright, and orders her return to Rivendell. Their exchange ends with division as Elrond departs….
After the moment passes, the council circle seems smaller… less because Elrond has left, and more due to their newly defined place in the world. The fellowship is forced to reckon with the truth that conviction to help, does not always walk the same road as having the responsibility (and the matching authority) to act.
They have been told the war will be fought without them, and yet the knowledge placed in their hands does not loosen its grip simply because authority demands it… they each begin to speak amongst themselves in this way.
There is anger, but it settles into something steadier. A shared understanding that they are already entangled, already marked by what they have faced. Walking away would not restore them. It would only leave unfinished things behind, unresolved and waiting in the dark.
The future will unfold with or without them. Armies will march, banners will rise, and decisions will be made in halls far from here. Yet the question that remains is not whether the war will be fought, but whether there is truly no role for them to play in trying to fight for what they believe in.
By the time the conversation wanes, no formal decision has been spoken aloud. None is needed. There is no doubt about the direction they will take, nor about the judgement will choose to ignore.
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The story continues in the chronicle: "Where Webs Whisper"...
