Forum

_ArthurDallas_ · Tue 24 Feb 2026, 02:32

The Rivendell Stories - The Journey of Varna (Part 2) Over Hill And Under Hill (Part 1)
A Solo Roleplaying Play Report - the One Ring RPG
By Arthur Dallas
_____

Main Characters

Varna (female)

Half-orc and half-elf. She is Erestor's adopted daughter. Erestor is Elrond's chief advisor and perhaps also his best friend. Varna is an orphan, rescued from a massacre in her village. Her parents are dead: an elf male and an orc female. Out of pity and great kindness, Erestor took Varna in as if she were his own child. Varna has her nose in the books, and Elrond loves her very much. She spends her days in the libraries of Rivendell. It is said that Elrond has already taken her to his personal library, which shows how much he loves her. She also practices the great bow, at which she excels. She possesses a marvelous artifact with the blessing of Healing. A ring given to her by Elrond himself.

Beleg (male)

He is a warrior elf and a protector of the northern lands. He is young, but he has already seen monstrous battles. He bears several scars on his face, and the other elves are somewhat wary of him. He is somewhat ostracized by the others. The kind-hearted Elrond took him into his home and cares for him greatly. He possesses a special flute. It is a marvelous artifact with the blessing of Song. He can communicate with birds. An item given to him by the Old Piper Player of Rivendell Valley.

Cirion (male)

Cirion is a young ranger of the North. He serves Lady Gilraen, Aragron's mother. She has also been the leader of the Rangers of the North since her husband's death. Cirion is one of Gilraen's personal guards. He is reliable, honorable, and he hates orcs above all else. He possesses a warhorn given to him by Elrond himself. It is a marvelous artifact with the blessing of Enhearten. It gives courage to his friends and despair to his enemies.

_____

BREE AND THE PRANCING PONY

Rain falls in a steady curtain over the South-gate of Bree.

The hedge and dike loom dark against the evening sky, lanterns flickering along the gatehouse walls. Mud clings to boots and hooves alike. The long road from Rivendell has been mercifully quiet, yet weariness now settles deep in bone and muscle.

Varna draws back her hood.

Water beads upon her dark hair and runs along the faint green cast of her skin. Behind her stand Beleg, silent and sharp-eyed despite the rain, and Cirion, cloak heavy with damp, his ranger’s gaze already studying the walls and watchmen.

They dismount.

A small shuttered door in the gate creaks open, and a narrow face peers out beneath the lantern glow.

Cob Thornwick squints at them.

“What brings you to Bree?” he asks, voice edged with suspicion. “I usually know all travelers that pass through at this hour. You’re new.”

His eyes settle on Varna.

“My dear lady… you look like an elf — but an orc. Are you ill?”

Cirion stiffens slightly. Beleg’s hand rests casually near his bow.

Varna smiles, gentle and almost shy.

“I am an elf,” she says in a light, untroubled tone, “but I was sick when I was young, and I have stayed somewhat thus. The healers did what they could.”

Cob’s expression softens immediately.

“Well now… I’m sorry to hear that.”

“We have business at the inn,” she continues. “At The Prancing Pony. We have a reservation.”

She glances sideways at Beleg with a knowing smile. He returns it faintly, rain running down the scars upon his cheek.

Cob opens the gate wider.

“Very sorry for you, young lady,” he mutters. “Two elves and a shady man, eh?” He nods toward Cirion. “That’s inn-folk business, I suppose. Go on then.”

Cirion says nothing, though his eyes linger a moment longer on the gatekeeper before he leads his horse through.

Inside the hedge, the streets of Bree glisten with rain. Smoke curls from chimneys. The scent of wet earth mixes with woodsmoke and distant cooking.

The lantern of the Prancing Pony swings above its door, golden light spilling onto the muddy yard.

A hobbit with a broad face and quick hands hurries forward from the stable awning.

“That’ll be Bob,” Cirion murmurs quietly.

Bob bows briskly. “Evening, sirs! Evening, miss! I’ll take your mounts, I will.”

Beleg hands over his reins with a polite nod. Cirion gives brief instructions about care and feed. Varna strokes her horse’s neck once before letting go.

Warmth spills over them as they enter the inn.

Inside, the common room hums with low talk and clinking mugs. Firelight dances along the beams. A few Bree-men glance up — and stare.

Varna feels their eyes.

At the counter stands a large man with round cheeks and thinning hair, shuffling papers with distracted importance.

Barnabas Butterbur looks up.

His gaze fixes on Varna. His brows lift.

“Well now,” he says slowly. “You look a little green, my dear lady. Are you all right?”

“It is only my complexion,” Varna replies calmly. “We have a reservation under the name Varna. And we are terribly hungry.”

Butterbur blinks, shuffles his ledger, squints again.

“Reservation, you say? Varna…”

He flips a page.

“No, I don’t have anything written here.” He looks up again, slightly flustered. “Never mind that. Plenty of food. Go and take a seat, and we’ll sort the room after. Nob!”

A hobbit waiter pops out from between tables.

“Show these folk to a table, will you?”

Varna steps closer to the counter.

“Master Butterbur,” she says quietly, placing several silver coins upon the wood, “would it be possible to have a private parlor? We are discreet people.”

Butterbur’s eyes widen ever so slightly at the silver.

“Private, eh?” He clears his throat. “Yes, well — of course, if that’s your wish. Nob! Front parlor’s empty, I believe.”

Nob nods briskly. “This way, if you please.”

As they follow the hobbit toward the smaller room, Cirion leans close to Varna.

“You handle them well,” he murmurs.

She answers softly, “Kindness disarms suspicion.”

Beleg glances back once toward the common room.

Two Men sit near the fire, speaking low. One of them watches their party with particular interest.

Rain continues to drum against the shutters.

Inside the warm glow of the parlor, supper awaits — but beyond the hedge of Bree, the roads stretch long and dark.
_____

THE PRIVATE PARLOR

The private parlor is warm and close, the fire already coaxed into a steady glow.

Rain taps softly against the shuttered windows of The Prancing Pony, and the distant murmur of the common room filters through the thick wooden door. The scent of roasting meat and fresh bread fills the small chamber.

Varna removes her damp cloak and lays it carefully across the back of a chair. Beleg stands a moment near the hearth, extending his hands toward the flames, the firelight catching the pale scars upon his face. Cirion remains alert even in weariness, positioning himself where he can see both the door and the window.

A knock sounds.

The door opens, and Butterbur enters, arms full with platters.

“Well then,” he says cheerfully, though his eyes flick once more toward Varna’s unusual complexion. “Stew, fresh bread, cheese, and a bit of ham. Best I’ve got on a wet evening.”

He sets the dishes down with surprising gentleness for such a large man.

Varna waits until the door is closed behind him.

She rises slowly.

“Master Butterbur,” she says in a lower tone, “we are from Rivendell. Lord Elrond reserved a room for us in my name. I did not wish to draw attention earlier. He told me you would be helping us.”

Butterbur’s expression shifts at once. Recognition dawns.

“Yes,” he says, tapping his temple. “Yes indeed. Of course. My memory… comes and goes like the weather, I’m afraid.”

He straightens his vest and smiles broadly.

“I have a private suite prepared — for the folk of Rivendell. Large fireplace, two chambers, shutters thick as a dwarf’s pride. Lord Elrond told me you would be coming and going often. The suite will be yours for as long as you need it. No questions asked.”

Cirion’s posture eases slightly.

Butterbur continues, lowering his voice.

“We’ll see to your horses while you’re away. Fed, brushed, kept indoors if the weather turns foul. I’ll fetch the key in a moment.”

He hesitates, glancing toward the door.

“And… there’s something else.”

Varna’s gaze sharpens.

“A man came two nights ago, from the north. Told us a strange tale. Strange enough that I remembered Lord Elrond’s instructions about passing certain news along to you — discreetly.”

Beleg’s eyes narrow slightly.

“What tale?” he asks quietly.

Butterbur shakes his head.

“He isn’t here yet. Said he’d return tonight. If he does, I’ll bring him to you directly. Best you hear it from him.”

Cirion exchanges a brief look with Varna.

From beyond the door, laughter rises in the common room — then fades.

Butterbur claps his hands lightly, as if dispelling tension.

“I’ll bring you some beer right away. A brown ale — best in Bree, if you ask me.”

He gives a short bow and leaves the parlor once more.

Silence lingers for a heartbeat.

Then the three of them sit.

Varna breaks a piece of bread and dips it into the stew.

“A north traveler,” she says softly. “Two nights ago.”

Cirion nods. “He comes likely from the North Downs regions.”

“Or from the Weather Hills,” Beleg murmurs.

The fire crackles.

Outside, thunder rolls faintly beyond the hedge of Bree.

Varna’s thumb turns the ring slowly upon her finger.

“We listen first,” she says calmly. “We ask little. We reveal nothing.”

Cirion studies her face — steady, composed.

“And if his tale speaks of orcs?”

Varna’s eyes lift.

“Then we follow it to its source.”

Rain continues to fall over Bree.
_____

THE VISITOR

The private parlor of the Prancing Pony is warm with firelight and the low murmur of rain against shuttered windows. Shadows move gently across the paneled walls. The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread lingers in the air.

The door opens with a soft knock.

In steps Barnabas Butterbur — round-faced and slightly out of breath. Behind him stands an old man wrapped in a weather-worn cloak. One foot drags faintly. A leather patch covers his left eye.

Butterbur clears his throat.
“Here he is. Says he has something you ought to hear. I’ll leave you to talk.”

He closes the door.

The old man remains standing a moment. His good eye studies Varna — lingering perhaps a heartbeat too long on the green hue of her skin and the faint orcish cast to her cheekbones.

Varna gestures calmly toward the chair near the hearth.

“Please. Sit. You are among friends.”

The man lowers himself stiffly.

“My name is Rupert Rushlight. Butterbur tells me I can trust you.”

“You can,” Varna replies evenly.

Rupert glances once toward the door, then leans forward. His voice drops.

“Three weeks ago I was hunting east of the North Downs. I’ve ranged those lands for years. Never known fear there.”

At the mention of the North Downs, Beleg’s brow tightens slightly. Cirion folds his arms, listening.

“A storm rose sudden and cruel. Rain like knives. I took shelter upon a hill — a ring of ancient stones stands there. Old. Older than Bree, I’d wager. In the center was a shallow pit… like something had sunk or been dug.”

His fingers tremble slightly as he grips his knee.

“I stepped into the circle.”

The fire pops softly.

“And then —” Rupert swallows. “Time stopped. The rain ceased mid-fall. The wind vanished. Everything went black. Not darkness like night — but a suffocating void. Cold crept into my bones. I felt… watched. Surrounded.”

Varna’s fingers unconsciously brush the ring upon her hand.

“And a voice came into my mind,” Rupert whispers. “‘I’ve come for you. I’ve come to kill you.’”

The room feels smaller.

“I heard screams in the valley below — terrible screams. Not men. I ran. I do not remember descending the hill.

“I came here. Told Butterbur. He said if ever Rivendell folk came, I should speak to them.”

Varna rises quietly and pours a small measure of miruvor — the clear cordial of Elrond’s house. She presses the glass gently into Rupert’s hands.

“Drink.”

He does. Color slowly returns to his face.

“It’s all right,” Varna says softly. “We will see to this. Do not return north until Butterbur gives you word. How far is this place?”

“Six days on foot,” Rupert answers more steadily. “I can draw it.”

Beleg slides parchment across the table. Cirion offers ink.

Rupert sketches with surprising precision — the Greenway, a broken watchtower ruin, a twisted oak shaped like a claw, then the hill ringed with standing stones.

As he finishes, his shoulders loosen. He looks at Varna with something like awe.

“You are very special, dear lady.”

Varna gives him a faint smile. “Rest now.”

The fire warms him. Exhaustion overtakes him swiftly, and soon Rupert sleeps deeply in the high-backed chair, his breathing steady.

Silence settles once more in the chamber.

Beleg speaks first, low and controlled.

“A barrow-site, perhaps. The Downs are not free of old evil.”

Cirion shakes his head slightly. “Barrow-wights do not speak so directly into the mind. And this storm — time freezing? That is no wandering spirit.”

Varna studies the map. The firelight glints upon the ring at her finger.

“Three weeks ago,” she murmurs. “What stirs in the wild now?”

Beleg meets her gaze. “I think we should go and see.”

Varna nods faintly. “Lord Elrond did not send us west merely to watch roads.”

Cirion leans closer. “If something awakens in ancient stone circles, we must see it before others do.”

Varna folds the map carefully.

“We are leaving at dawn.”

Outside, rain continues to fall over Bree. But beyond the walls, beyond the North Downs, something older than storm clouds waits in silent stone.
_____

THE GREENWAY AND THE HILLS OF THE NORTH DOWNS

Morning light filters pale and silver through the round window of the private parlor. The embers in the hearth glow softly, and for the first time in many nights Rupert Rushlight wakes without a tremor in his hands.

He blinks at the ceiling beams. The air smells of woodsmoke and fresh bread.

A gentle knock.

Varna enters quietly, carrying a wooden tray—fruit sliced and bright, a small jug of milk, coarse brown bread still warm, and a wedge of pale cheese. The green hue of her skin seems softer in the morning light, almost luminous.

“Good morning, Master Rushlight,” she says.

Rupert pushes himself up slowly, favoring his injured foot. “Ah… good morning, my good elven lady.”

Varna sets the tray before him. “We are leaving immediately to investigate the area to the north. Stay here if you wish until tomorrow. I’ve paid for the parlor for a second day. Rest will do you a world of good.”

Rupert studies her face. His one clear eye lingers not on her skin, but on her expression.

“Appearances can be deceiving in your case,” he says gently. “You have such a kind heart. If I can be of any service to you, just let me know. I often stop by the Prancing Pony.”

Varna smiles faintly. “I’ll let you know if we need you. And remember—do not venture north without speaking to Butterbur or us first.”

“I swear it.”

She inclines her head and leaves him to his breakfast.

Outside, the rain has passed. The yard behind the inn is damp, the cobbles shining faintly. Wind tugs at cloaks and carries the scent of wet earth.

Beleg tightens the strap of his quiver. His scarred face is set in calm readiness. Cirion checks the bindings of his pack, the warhorn at his side gleaming faintly in the morning light.

Varna approaches, unrolling a map she prepared before dawn. The parchment is marked with a careful hand.

“We will take the Greenway north for three days,” she says, pointing. “Then we turn northeast for another three into the North Downs. We leave the road once we near the Weather Hills’ shadow. We do not attract attention.”

Beleg nods. “Perfect.”

Cirion glances toward the northern horizon. “Six days on foot without mounts. We must move swiftly.”

“Our horses remain safer here,” Varna replies. “Bob will see to them.”

Cirion gives a final nod. “Everything is ready.”

Without further ceremony, they pass through the South Gate and then circle west to join the Greenway northward. Cob Thornwick watches them go with mild curiosity, scratching his beard.

The wind is sharp but clean. The sky is broken cloud and pale blue. Bree shrinks behind them, its hedge and hill fading into the grey-green distance.

They walk in steady silence.

By midday, the Greenway stretches before them in a long ribbon of worn stone and earth. Few travelers use it now; the once-great North-South Road lies quiet, haunted by memory.

Beleg suddenly pauses.

A bird circles above—a hawk riding the wind.

He lifts his flute.

The notes he plays are soft and wandering, yet clear. The sound does not travel far, but it carries meaning. The hawk tilts its wings, then descends to perch upon a leaning stone by the roadside.

Beleg lowers the flute. “It sees nothing unusual upon the road ahead,” he murmurs. “But it avoids the Downs. There is unease there.”

Cirion’s jaw tightens. “Hill-men?” he asks.

“Something older,” Beleg replies.

Varna says nothing. Her fingers brush the ring upon her hand—Elrond’s gift, warm against her skin.

She studies the sky, as though reading a page only she can see.

“We press on,” she says quietly.

They leave the Greenway as planned on the third evening. The land begins to rise gently. Low hills roll outward like frozen waves. Ancient stones lie half-buried in grass, remnants of kingdoms long fallen.

The wind grows colder.

On the fourth day, the Weather Hills loom faintly to the east, jagged against the horizon.

Cirion walks slightly ahead now, ranger-silent, scanning ridgelines and gullies.

On the fifth night, they make camp among scrub and broken rock. No fire.

Beleg sits upon a stone and closes his eyes, listening.

Varna writes brief notes in a small leather-bound journal. Observations. The lay of the hills. The shape of the land. The distance from the road.

Cirion finally speaks in a low voice.

“Do you believe Rupert’s tale?”

Varna looks up.

“Yes,” she answers simply.

Beleg opens his eyes. “So do I.”

“The voice,” Cirion continues. “The despair. It resembles tales of Angmar.”

“It does,” Varna replies. “But Angmar fell long ago. Whatever this is… it lingers.”

She rolls up the journal and gazes northward.

Far beyond the nearest rise, something dark seems to sit upon the land—like a bruise upon the earth.

“We will reach the place he described tomorrow,” she says softly.

The wind answers with a low, restless sigh across the North Downs.
_____

THE CROWNED HILL

The wind moves low over the North Downs, bending the coarse grasses in long gray waves beneath a pale sky.

It is the morning of the sixth day when Varna, Beleg, and Cirion crest another ridge. Their cloaks are dusted with travel and wind, their boots worn by leagues of silent marching.

Cirion shades his eyes and scans the rolling land.
“I think we are not far from the Hill-Folk settlement of Crann,” he says quietly. “Half a day’s walk at most. If there is mischief here, they may know of it.”

Varna nods. Her voice carries the calm cadence of long study.
“In the libraries of Rivendell I read of these people. The Hill-folk have dwelt here since before Arnor broke. Angmar twisted many of them once… but not all. They hide now in secret valleys. They distrust Gondor and the High Elves. They avoid Orcs as well. That gives me hope.”

Beleg walks slightly apart, his scarred face unreadable as he watches the high ridges.

A soft rushing sound draws them downward into a shallow fold of land. A gray pool lies there, rimmed with reeds and marsh. A thin waterfall spills into it from stone worn smooth by time.

Cirion steps toward the water.
“A good place for rest and bread.”

Varna’s hand rises gently, barring his path.
“No. Look carefully.”

He narrows his gaze. Beneath the cloudy surface, dark shapes shift.

Steel.

A spearhead catches the light. A fragment of mail. A broken shield half-submerged in silt.

Cirion’s jaw tightens.

Varna speaks softly.
“Cardolan steel… and Angmar iron. They fought here. A long time ago.”

The air feels heavy. Even the waterfall seems muted.

“We leave this place undisturbed,” she says. “Let the dead lie in peace.”

They move on.

By late afternoon they see it: the hill Rupert described. It rises alone from the folds of the Downs, crowned by four tall stones, jagged and leaning, like broken teeth biting at the sky.

They approach without speech.

The air grows colder.

At the summit, the four stones stand in a ring. Their surfaces bear crude carvings—weathered Hill-Folk runes, ancient and solemn.

In the center lies a shallow pit.

And within it—a horse carcass. Flies rise in a black cloud at their approach.

Cirion inhales sharply. He drops to one knee as if struck.

“I hear it,” he whispers. “The voice… like he said. It presses at my mind.”

Varna kneels beside him. Her fingers slip to the ring upon her finger — the ring given by Lord Elrond. She draws a small flask of miruvor and offers it.

“Drink.”

He does. Slowly, the tension leaves his shoulders.

Beleg circles the stones, studying them. His fingers brush the runes.

“These carvings are Hill-Folk work,” he murmurs. “Old. Reverent.”

He moves to another stone and stops.

“But here… they have been defaced.”

Black scratches cut across the carvings — jagged, spiteful.

He traces them.

“Orcish dialect,” he says grimly. “It speaks of the Mighty Queen of the Night… the Fang of the North… her power rising.”

Varna’s eyes narrow.
“A warg-lord,” she says quietly. “Or something worse guiding them.”

Cirion rises and steps toward the pit.

The carcass is large. A strong animal.

He swallows.

“This was a Ranger mount. A Dúnedain horse.” His voice trembles with anger. “Devoured by something great.”

He looks closer.
“There are other bones here. Older. Human.”

The wind shifts.

Varna crouches at the edge of the clearing, studying the ground.

“I see goblin tracks,” she says. “Light-footed. Archers likely. One heavier stride — an orc captain.” She points. “And here… deep claw marks. A great warg.”

Cirion’s hand tightens on the haft of his sword.

“They head southeast,” Varna continues. “Toward Crann.”

Beleg lifts his flute to his lips and plays a soft, winding melody — thin as wind through grass.

A small gray bird flutters down and alights upon one of the stones. It tilts its head and chirps in quick, urgent patterns.

Beleg listens, eyes distant.

After a moment he lowers the flute.

“We are watched,” he says. “Orcs in the low scrub eastward. Not close. But near enough.”

Cirion’s warhorn rests at his side, silent but ready.

Varna stands.

“It is too late to pursue them now. We give the Ranger’s mount burial. We camp further down the slope where the wind carries our scent away from this cursed place. We set watches.”

Cirion nods once.
“We will not fail them.”

Together they drag the horse from the pit. Cirion digs with grim determination while Beleg stands guard, arrow nocked.

Varna places her palm briefly upon the fallen animal’s brow.

“Go in peace,” she whispers.

They cover the grave with stone and earth.

As dusk falls, they move to a lower hollow shielded by rock and sparse thorn trees. A small, carefully banked fire glows.

The Downs stretch vast and lonely around them.

Beleg takes first watch. Cirion sits sharpening his blade in silence.

The wind carries a distant, almost imperceptible howl.

Not far away.
_____

THE VILLAGE OF CRANN

The company of Varna arrives quite quickly at the village of Crann after their early wake-up. No unpleasant encounters with orcs on their way. The wind moves softly through the broken gate of Crann. It carries no smoke, no scent of cooking fires — only ash, damp earth, and grief.

Cirion stands near the palisade, his sword already drawn, its edge catching pale morning light.

“Keep your eyes sharp,” he says quietly. “If the orcs linger, they will watch to see who dares enter.”

Varna kneels beside one of the fallen Hill-folk. She closes the man’s eyes gently. Her fingers brush the ring upon her hand, and for a moment a faint warmth pulses from it — not enough to heal the dead, but enough to ease the sting in her own heart.

“They did not fall easily,” she murmurs. “See the cuts. These were hunters. It's probably the same group of orcs and wargs who did this.”

Varna, Beleg, and Cirion step carefully into the central hall of the ruined village. The timber creaks beneath their weight. Dust swirls in the dim shafts of morning light that pierce the broken roof.

From above, a whisper of movement draws their attention. Tiny shadows flit along the upper beams. Beleg’s hand tightens on the shaft of his spear; Cirion’s sword is drawn in a single, smooth motion.

Varna lifts a hand, palm outward. “Wait,” she says softly. Her voice is calm, but carries across the hall. “We mean you no harm.”

A 15-year-old boy’s face appears at a broken window beam, pale and dirty, eyes wide with fear. Behind him, several more children peer from the rafters. Some clutch one another; some press their faces against the wood, frozen.

Varna kneels slightly, keeping her figure small and non-threatening. “We are here to stop those who brought violence to your village. We chase the orcs.”

The boy hesitates, then steps forward on the beam. His feet wobble, but he keeps his balance. “Who are you?” he demands, voice small but sharp. “Why should we trust you?”

Varna meets his gaze directly. “I am Varna, of Rivendell. I defend good, and I will not harm you.” She pauses, letting the sincerity sink in. “I know this village has been hurt. I know you have suffered. But we are not your enemies.”

The boy glances at the others, and slowly, one by one, they begin to climb down the rickety rafters. Beleg relaxes his stance slightly, still standing guard at the doorway. Cirion lowers his sword just enough to signal caution without threat.

Finally, the boy reaches the floor and bows his head slightly. “I am Cuvrag,” he says. His eyes sweep over the three travelers, suspicious but curious. “You look… strange. You look like those you hunt.”

Varna smiles faintly. “I am an elf,” she says gently, “but my skin is a little different from my kin. That does not change what I stand for. You are safe with us.”

Cuvrag studies her for a long moment, then nods once. “The others…” he says, glancing back at the rafters. “They can come down?”

“Yes,” Varna replies, her voice warm. “All of you may come down. You are safe here.”

One by one, the children step down into the hall. Dusty, cautious, but alive — alive despite everything that has happened in Crann.

“Orcs and goblins wore wolf pelts,” Cuvrag repeats. “The leader was the largest warg I have ever seen. Its fur was black as soot. Its eyes were red in the dark. They called her… something.” He hesitates. “They called her the Fang. They brought prisoners with them eastward. If you go to rescue my people, I want to come with you.”

Beleg and Cirion exchange a glance.

“The Fang of the North,” Beleg says under his breath.

Varna rises.

“How many were taken?”

“Seven,” Cuvrag answers. “Four hunters. Three women.”

Cirion sheathes his sword.

“Then we move quickly.”

Outside, the three companions walk a short distance to confer.

Cirion speaks first. “If the captives were taken east, they head toward the broken lands of old Rhudaur. There are gullies and caves there. Good ground for ambush.”

Beleg nods. “And if The Fang of the North is truly among them, she will not hide in the open. Wargs need lairs.”

“We follow their tracks immediately,” she says. “No delay. But we do not rush blindly. If they expect pursuit, they will lay traps.”

She looks toward the children gathered near the hall.

“Cuvrag,” she calls.

The boy steps forward.

“You may come,” Varna says, her tone steady. “But you do not fight unless we command it. You observe. You learn. You stay close to me. If I say run, you run.”

Cuvrag nods once. “I will not fail.”

Cirion crouches before the boy and places a firm hand on his shoulder.

“You do not need to prove your courage,” the Ranger says. “It is already seen.”

Beleg steps outside the palisade and lifts his flute to his lips. A soft note drifts into the morning air. A small grey bird circles down and lands upon the broken gate.

Beleg listens, eyes closed.

After a moment he lowers the flute.

“They went east, as the boy said,” he confirms. “And they are not hurried. They believe no one follows.”

Varna turns toward the open land beyond Crann. The sky is wide and pale above the North Downs, but the horizon to the east seems dimmer somehow — as though a veil lies upon it.

“Then we will change that,” she says quietly.

Cirion draws his sword again, testing its balance.

Beleg adjusts his grip upon his spear.

Cuvrag takes one last look at his ruined village.

Together, they pass through the broken gate and head east — toward the lair of the Fang, and whatever dark will stirs beneath the shadow of the ancient hills.
_____

END OF PART 1

_ArthurDallas_ · Tue 24 Feb 2026, 02:36

BHF70 · Wed 25 Feb 2026, 13:40

Outstanding! Very well-written. Can’t wait to see what comes next for your intrepid band. Cheers!

_ArthurDallas_ · Wed 25 Feb 2026, 17:21

Outstanding! Very well-written. Can’t wait to see what comes next for your intrepid band. Cheers!

...

BHF70, friend of the High Elves of Rivendell, thank you. I'm currently writing part 2. You should find it interesting. Thank you so much for your feedback; it's extremely appreciated.

P.S. I thought it would be interesting to also show the OVER HILL AND UNDER HILL module. It's a very interesting story, after all. I've read some negative reviews here and there, and I wanted to demonstrate that anything is possible, and if you don't like certain things, you can change them.

Arthur (Wizard Rhosgobel)

Forum

The Rivendell Stories - The Journey of Varna (Part 2) Over Hill And Under Hill (Part 1)

The Rivendell Stories - The Journey of Varna (Part 2) Over Hill And Under Hill (Part 1)

Re: The Rivendell Stories - The Journey of Varna (Part 2) Over Hill And Under Hill (Part 1)

Re: The Rivendell Stories - The Journey of Varna (Part 2) Over Hill And Under Hill (Part 1)

Re: The Rivendell Stories - The Journey of Varna (Part 2) Over Hill And Under Hill (Part 1)

Who is online