The Wyld Hunt Roams

A neatly geared traveler from Bree pinned a short notice to the board at Thorin's Hall. The message was soliciting Longbeards for a journey with supposedly a noble cause.

There were many dwarves around, which gave Freddie confidence in finding the right candidates for their trip. Next stop for her would be the tavern - it was time to sample the local brews that Svaroh recommended! 

A letter delivered to Svaroh's residence at Thorin's Hall by the local Ered Luin messenger, supposedly arriving from Ered Luin's Wyld Hunt Den, but clearly originating from Rivendell.

Elufer studied the imperfections of translational symmetry of the shard, measured and calculated its geometry and compared it to its light refraction in attempts to uncover any hook or a secret key to opening the crystal's power for The Wyld Hunt. She ended up with a lot of factual information, but she had yet to find out the application of it in different environments.

That was, certainly, a very intriguing day. As the sunset transcended into a memory and darkness came back to rule the sky, a few daring stars and the lamps of Othrikar remained the only sources of light.

Erasm remained outside, enjoying the sounds of night, relative solitude and his aromatic pipeweed. Fredericka was far superior at any negotiations and he, a scholar, wasn't the most skilled orator, by default.

The halls of the Safe Haven, Svaroh's refuge, library and workshop, were teeming with activity. Dwarves came and went, back and forth, carrying boxes, parcels and moving furniture.

Reforging concepts, fluidly, reimagining ideas, crafting a new idea out of dwarf and elf words and mind, no longer divided, but allied, once again: that was what had driven Svaroh Steelword, one of the most eccentric rune-keepers of Thorin's Hall, through the past days.

Mahin laid on the ground, breathing heavily. Covered in blood, he listened to all the voices around him. The sky above him was cloudy, dark and barely lit with the stars, as if they were shy, or afraid, to gaze upon this forsaken land.

The uruk-hai laid dead, each with an arrow protruding from an eye socket or their necks. Some of them died in agony. It was evident by the soil around them, plowed thoroughly with their wiggling feet.

Shemkel looked at their foul-smelling blood, soaking into the ground, with distaste. His keen, elven senses were repelled by the pungent odour and grotesque shapes of the creatures. Gondorian soil was used to that, over all the years of neighbouring with Mordor, alas, lately the orcish incursions started to increase.

Their road from Wyld Hunt’s Second Base in Bree-land was largely uneventful. The stay at Bree's hunting lodge was brief and boring. From Bree-town they headed North along the Greenway. Light drizzle started shortly after they left. On this rainy evening, the group got close to the small town of Trestlebridge - and noticed that the citizens were in distress…