BLOODSTONE

A Burping Troll Adventure

By

Celebsul, ErinRua, Sevilodorf, Russ

Editorial Note:

The Fourth Age has dawned. Aragorn the King Elessar sits upon the throne of Gondor; Faramir and the Lady Éowyn govern their fiefdom from the hills of Emyn Arnen; and Legolas' elven folk work their gifts upon the long-wounded lands of Northern Ithilien. It is a time of growth and healing, but also a time of social and political change. Middle-earth is free of Shadow at last, but earthly evils still exist. Rebuild, reclaim, rework - there is much to be done, and Northern Ithilien particularly is a place of progress and peril. So it is for the folk of our setting, the residents of The Inn of the Burping Troll just north of Henneth Annûn.

Let our original characters be your guides into the Fourth Age of Middle-earth, as Gondor revives towards its olden glory and its people endeavor to cast off the lingering legacy of war. Come with us, journey into a new and tumultuous age in Tolkien's magnificent Middle-earth.

- ErinRua

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Prologue:

January 20, 1422 SR
Midmorning
A farm outside the village of Henneth Annûn

Rablot gave a grunt of satisfaction as the half-buried rock he was prying at came free from the mud. Kneeling down, he lifted it up and carried it to the fair sized pile at the corner of the field Farmer Tiroc had marked for clearing. Pulling a clay jar from the basket the farmer's daughter had given him that morning; Rablot took a long drink of the fresh buttermilk as he studied the field quietly. The mists hung heavy near the ground after so many days of rain, and the mud was thick and clinging, but he preferred working here alone, away from the farmer's other helpers.

Tiroc had said they would use the stones gathered from the field to build a low wall. Such a wall would not discourage the deer and the rabbits from visiting the crops when they began to sprout, so why a wall was needed Rablot did not understand but he was not going to argue with the farmer. Tiroc had done much for him and whatever Tiroc wanted Rablot would do his best to see it carried out. Orders given and orders followed had always shaped Rablot's life, but to work with neither whip nor threat was the nearest to a life of ease that Rablot had known, and he knew himself to be content.

Carefully, Rablot returned the clay jar to the basket and turned to go back to the job of digging up stones. His powerful hands pried rock from the clinging muck with ease and he minded not the chill of damp earth caking his gnarled fingers black. With care he chose stones of the sizes he had been bidden and piled them with the others. The farmer had said, "Can't leave two stones alone for soon they'll make more," and then laughed uproariously. Rablot was uncertain why that was so humorous, but he had laughed too. Perhaps later he could ask Tiroc's daughter, Rialyn, to explain it to him. She was always willing to take the time to explain things he found puzzling. Softly Rablot ran his grimy hand down the fabric of his shirt. It was Rialyn who had given him this shirt and though not new, it was possibly the first piece of clothing he had ever owned that had no holes in it.

Attacking another stone mired in the mud, Rablot considered how his life had changed since the war, the one that men called the War of the Ring. A clean place to sleep, clean food and clean clothes. Rablot had never known how much he liked clean until now. Before everything had been dirty or moldy or torn. And always, there had been someone trying to take the little bit he had. Now, he had a small place of his own in the barn where no one bothered him, and clothes that were his own, and everyday, fresh food. Thinking of that food Rablot sighed. Much better than moldy bread and maggoty meat.

Scraping around the edges of the stone with his long nails, Rablot froze. Something was wrong. His nostrils flared as he took deep breaths to sniff out the trouble. There. In the woods across the field. Men. 'Three of them,' he thought. Slowly he stood and faced the trees. What did they want? Rablot had been chased by men too often not to be leery of three who watched him from hiding.

"I knows you are over there. Come outs where I can see you," Rablot called.

From the woods came three men he did not recognize. As the one on the left made a sweeping motion with his hand, Rablot realized there were others emerging from the mist to his left and right. Whirling about, Rablot ran toward the road, and each stride bounded greater than the last. Then from the ditch on the far side a tall figure appeared out of the mist before him, sword drawn and poised. Rablot skidded to a halt and stared into the man's eyes - then the sword flashed.

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The men gathered briefly around Rablot's body as the swordsman wiped his blade clean on the corpse's shirt. Returning the sword to its sheath, he smiled broadly and said, "Yet one more, lads. And with each orc slain, we make the world a fairer, safer place to live."

Cullen stared down at the headless body. Never comely in life, the orc's gnarled body now seemed grotesquely broken and boneless, one arm bent beneath at an impossible angle and the neck ending only in a dark, thick pool of bloody mud. For a horrible instant the youth thought that he would be unable to control the heaving of his stomach.

Swallowing convulsively, he protested, "You said you were only going to talk to him. He wasn't hurting nobody."

"Wasn't he?" the swordsman replied. "Aye, but how many did he murder and despoil before someone made a pet of him, eh? A wolf is a wolf, boy, no matter if you clothe him in wool."

As the understanding grew that he had been the one to lead these men to the orc, Cullen scrambled backwards, only to feel his feet sliding from beneath him. Sprawling in the mud, the lad found himself face to face with Rablot's sightless eyes. His stomach surged and he crawled off to heave into the ditch with the sound of the men's laughter in his ears.

Chapter One

January 26th
Evening
Village of Henneth Annûn

Rain speckled the front windows of the Whistling Dog as it had nearly every day for the past week; sometimes falling gently and other times nearly drowning those who chanced to be out and about. The rain had become a fixture that the residents of Henneth Annûn longed to do without, especially young Jasimir.

After mopping the mud from the front entry for what must have been the hundredth time in the last week, Jasimir lifted his bucket and retreated to the kitchen before Jareth could find more for him to do. He knew that it would only be a matter of moments before the dang hallway was muddy again. Why clean it when it would just get dirty again? But there was no arguing with Jareth, who would just suggest that Jasimir go and ask his father if the front entrance needed mopping or not, and give that irritating smile of his. The one that said he knew quite well that Jasimir was doing all he could to stay out of his father's sight. It hadn't been his fault that the skillet of grease had flamed up and nearly caught the kitchen afire, before Pansy and Jareth had put it out with half a barrel of flour, but his dad still blamed him. How he wished he could just leave the Whistling Dog and never return.

From his place behind the bar, Jareth shook his head at the boy's disappearing back. He wasn't really a bad lad, even if he did spend a large portion of his time wishing to be elsewhere. Though who didn't when they were almost fourteen?

Jareth frowned at his own memories of fourteen, then watched in silent amusement as an overzealous Sira all but knocked the other barmaid down in her efforts to be the first to greet the three men entering The Whistling Dog. Some of her hurry was no doubt due to the lack of tips she had earned thus far this evening, but Jareth was certain that the tallest man's handsome face also played a part in her haste. Sira had a taste for fun and frolic.

"What can I do for you, gentlemen? Rooms for the night?" Sira's fluttering lashes brought only a hint of an amused smile to the tall man's lips, though the stocky bearded man at his side gave her buxom figure a look of frank admiration. "Or just a late supper?"

"Both, my dear, but first a round of ales and a place by your fire. It's been a wet night." The pleasantness of the gray-bearded man belied the faint tenseness evident in eyes that marked the location of every person in the common room of The Whistling Dog.

Sira slanted one last hopeful look at the tall man, undoubtedly visualizing how her fingers could stroke that striking touch of silver-grey in the dark hair at his temples, and she sighed. Then with a toss of her reddish curls - and artfully overlooking the shave-headed fellow's sly grin - she gave the stockier man a dazzling smile.

"You just set yourselves at that table by the fire and I'll be right there with those ales."

Sending Sira on to the kitchen for the men's supper, Jareth came from his place with three mugs of ale. "Aye, wet enough it is. Some evenings the wet brings in the customers, as they are seeking refuge, and others it seems to drive them away. Tonight being one of the latter, you get the best table in the house and the best room."

As the men murmured their thanks and sampled the local brew, Jareth took a moment to study them. There had been some unpleasant happenings in the village, but he could see nothing out of the ordinary about these strangers. Since the end of the War men like these were not uncommon. Many ex-soldiers and folk dispossessed of homes and jobs, wandered the lands looking for the means to make a living. Some of them came to Henneth Annûn, though their numbers grew fewer with each passing month. The graybeard and the tall comely one in fact seemed a cut above average, or at any rate they were clean and well mannered. The other ... shaven-headed and beardless with a ragged ear, he too was a veteran of battle.

Not long ago, Jareth had probably looked a lot like these men. But Cameroth had decided to leave Minas Tirith and move to the growing village of Henneth Annûn and asked Jareth to come along and tend the bar. Jareth understood that Cameroth was seeking to escape the memories of the siege within the walls; there were a few memories Jareth was still trying to flee from. Silently he blessed Cameroth for having the guts to make the move and for hauling him along, for it was better to be focused on getting on with your life than with lingering in the past.

"Aye, we live lucky lives," replied the third man, with a broken toothed smile that Jareth decided he did not much like.

"Sira will be right back with your meals. How many rooms should I have Pansy prepare?" Jareth smiled the pleasant noncommittal smile of a good bartender.

"One will be sufficient. If you have one with three beds," replied the clean-shaven man after a quick glance at his companions.

Jareth noted the older man's regretful glance toward the kitchen where Sira had disappeared and smiled inwardly to himself. There went Sira's chances for an evening of fun and frolic.

"Certainly." A few quick words and the curly haired brunette was on her way upstairs.

At the sound of a trilling laugh, the men turned to watch Sira push her way through the door from the kitchen bearing a laden tray. Her smile widened at the appreciation in the men's eyes and she settled the tray on the table in a manner designed to best display the bounty of her figure.

"This looks like a real feast," the older man beamed. "And your name is Sira?" The girl nodded. "A pretty name for a pretty girl," he went on as she placed dishes before them. "I'm Landis, a practical name for a practical man." He gestured towards the tall man, "This is Darien, and my other comrade here is Grady."

The two younger men nodded to Sira politely as Landis took up a fork. "Good, now that the introductions have been made and we are all friends, we can eat, drink and make merry."

A rush of cold air announced another guest and all liveliness fade from Sira's face as the figure at the door pushed back a rain-sodden hood.

Giving a rueful look at her boots the newcomer said with a faintly rolling accent, "Sorry about the mud, Jareth."

"That's all right, Sevilodorf. Jasimir will take care of it." Jareth craned his neck and called through the pass-through to the kitchen, "A pot of tea if you would, Cameroth!" With a quirk of his eyebrows, Jareth asked, "And should I tell Jasimir to fill the tub?"

Sevilodorf laughed and shook out her cloak. "You know me too well, Jareth. A bath would be wonderful, but I'd prefer to wait until after I eat. Been meeting with Etharon, the lapidary, and didn't get a chance to eat yet." Noting the sideways glares being tossed her way by Sira, Sev whispered, "I see someone is not too pleased with my presence."

Jareth shrugged. "That is Sira's problem, not yours, Sevilodorf. If she gives you any trouble, let me know."

A steaming pot of tea appeared in the pass-through and Cameroth's beaming face also appeared for an instant. It pulled back at the sound of a crash and Sev heard, "Jasimir, what in Eru's name have you done this time?"

Jareth snorted and called, "I need another dinner as well. Send it out when you can." Taking the tray with the teapot, he led the way to a corner table near the fire. "I'll have Pansy fix up your usual room. One night or two?"

"Just one. I should already have been back at the Troll; but that meeting with Etharon lasted far too long to leave today. Especially with this rain." Sev sat in the chair facing the fire and waved a hand toward the opposite seat. "Join me?"

"If you'll appease my curiosity," Jareth said. "What are you seeing a lapidary about? Found a diamond mine out there near the Burping Troll?"

"Bite your tongue, man." Sev shuddered. "A horde of men searching those hills is the last thing we need at the Troll. I just brought some stones that Gubbitch and his boys found to be appraised."

"Gubbitch? That's the orc right?" Jareth frowned.

He had heard all the tales of the Troll, but had chosen to ignore them. Sevilodorf was the person he had the most contact with and she was normal enough, though decidedly more independent than most females he knew. The only other Troll regular he knew well was Milo, the hobbit; and while Milo would never qualify as a normal man, he was certainly a pleasant enough fellow.

"The very same," Sev replied, and gave him a wry smile. "Did I tell you about their Yule gifts? I suppose we are fortunate they chose pretty stones instead of things more peculiar, but I think Celebsul had a hand in that."

Jareth chuckled and their talk wandered the casual paths of easy company. They paid no heed to the three strangers seated nearby, also seeking warmth and sustenance after the storm. Indeed, none of them so much as turned their heads, appearing absorbed in their supper and their own company. However, Darien was a man gifted with excellent hearing, nothing approaching that of an elf, but better than most humans. He caught more than a few words of the quiet conversation between the woman and the bartender. Continuing with his meal, he mulled over the bizarre intelligence of orcs employing a human - and a woman, no less - to appraise valuable stones, but would say nothing to his companions until they were in private.

Later, after Sevilodorf had retired to her room upstairs and the dishes from the meals were cleared away, Darien turned a winning smile towards the Sira, "More ale, please. And, if you would be so kind, do join us. This village and its surrounds are unknown to us and your knowledge and advice would be most welcome."

Sira's eyes glowed with pleasure. She had given up on the tall man, but now his soft, pleasant voice and elaborate courtesy set her stomach aflutter. Trying to remember if anyone had ever before asked for either her knowledge or advice, she rushed to fill four mugs. Meanwhile Landis made room for her at the table, and his beard could not quite hide the amusement quirking his lips. Darien knew well what he was about, and Landis decided he would quite enjoy the game.

Looking over from the bar, Jareth smiled as another peal of laughter came from the strangers and Sira. They seemed to be enjoying themselves. 'Good,' he thought, 'Satisfied guests return or at least give good reports.'

Soon Landis was describing, with high comedy, how Grady had come to lose part of his ear. Bitten off by an orc, he claimed, and went on to describe the encounter in the most outlandish terms possible, complete with sound effects, whilst Grady himself simply shook his head in forbearance. Delighted to be an audience of one, Sira giggled with glee and frowned in sympathy in all the appropriate places.

When the account was over, Darien turned to her. "There are no orc bands around here are there? We are traveling north and would prefer to do so without being attacked."

"Bands of orcs?" Sira exclaimed. "Only one band that I know of, and they will not waylay you. They are the pets of the Burping Troll Inn, and of that ... woman." Sira jabbed a thumb towards the ceiling and the rooms above.

Landis chortled, "Pet orcs? That's about the strangest thing I've ever heard. And I take it that 'that woman' is the one who dined in here earlier."

"Yes. Sevilodorf the Trader." Sira spat out each word with undisguised contempt.

"And just what does one trade with orcs?" Landis said, arching his eyebrows in elaborate astonishment.

Wrinkling her nose in disdain, Sira said, "I wouldn't know. Cameroth refuses to let them in the place." After a quick look back toward Jareth at the bar, she lowered her voice and said, "That's not the worst of it though. They've got worse than orcs up there."

Darien smiled patiently and handsomely. "What could be worse than orcs?"

"A warg," Sira whispered. As the men looked at her with open disbelief, she added, "And a balrog."

Grady burst out laughing. "What do you take us for? Children? Or fools?"

Sira's eyes narrowed and her face twisted with indignation. "I'm telling you true. You just ask her yourself if you don't believe me. She doesn't deny it."

Darien gave Grady a sharp look, then reached out to pat Sira's arm softly. "Tell us more of this Burping Troll."

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"You think we might find out something by visiting that place? That Burping Troll?" Landis asked, after punching Grady on the shoulder to make him roll over and stop snoring.

Their chat with Sira and Darien's subsequent revelation of the gem-trading conversation he had overheard had raised a peculiarly puzzling situation for them. Although this was confirmation that orcs did indeed lurk in the hills, as yet they had formed no clear plan of action. Grady had at last given into a full stomach and a bit too much ale, leaving only the two leaders still wakeful.

Darien frowned thoughtfully. "Apparently they're known to make pets of these creatures there. I think a visit might prove enlightening." With a slight nod toward the snoring Grady, he said, "We've not had any luck locating their holes so far, and the men are getting a little restless."

Landis snorted gently. "Restless ain't what I'd call it. Downright impatient is more like it. Holed up in a cave and watching the rain come down is not what the men expected." Landis jerked a thumb toward Grady. "What about his idea? Of using that traderwoman. She must know how to find them, if she's planning on bringing in a load of stones to trade."

Grady's reaction to someone trading with orcs had been predictable outrage, and his suggested solution to locating the orcs north of here had been forceful. Yet Grady's vehemence aside, there was a certain awful practicality to it. However...

"Yes, I know. But …" Darien faced the rain-splashed window and muttered, "Have we really reached that point?"

Landis shrugged in a noncommittal way that did not deceive Darien. "She's dealing with them. Though I can't imagine why. If my ears heard true, she spoke with the accent of Rohan, and they have no more reason to love those vermin than we do."

For a long moment there was no sound except the splattering of rain on the windows and Grady's heavy breathing. Landis waited patiently. In the years he'd ridden with Darien, both before and after the War, he'd never known the man to lead them wrong. He'd trusted Darien with his life more than once and he'd trust him to complete this mission as well. The silence was broken by a loud snore as Grady rested once more upon his back. Landis sighed. What was he doing sharing a room with Grady when a warm armful had been more than willing?

Darien's lips twisted at Landis' sigh. He knew the older man's thoughts full well. But theirs was a mission that he had vowed to see carried out. Vowed upon the life's blood of the men he had left lying dead on the Pelennor Fields. But not one that would be carried out through means other than those considered honorable by reasonable men.

"No, we will not use the woman. Misguided though she may be." Darien gave a twisted smile at the lightening of Landis' features. If he ever doubted himself, all he need do was consult Landis. The man's steady common sense and practical nature had held a true course through the twists and turns of the War and its aftermath. "But we will follow her to this Inn of the Burping Troll and see if we might learn more. Perhaps she would be willing to share her market with fellow traders."

"Aye, there's an idea." Landis yawned. "It's a fair distance we go tomorrow, so I'm for bed. Good night, Cap'n."

"Good night, Landis."

Darien lay awake for quite a while. He had responsibility for all those that helped on this campaign, and while they did not seek to profit from it, men needed food and clothes to survive. His personal wealth was beginning to dwindle; it might well run out before their work was over. They came across the occasional haul in the lairs of the enemy, but never a fortune. Maybe the Burping Troll would give them a chance to kill two birds with one stone. He at last fell asleep to fitful dreams of orc treasure hoards and a black rain falling.

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January 27th
Morning
Inn of the Whistling Dog, Henneth Annûn

"Jasimir!"

Cameroth's bellow caused a flock of roosting pigeons to take flight and the horses tethered in the courtyard to toss their heads in alarm.

Biting her lips in an effort to control a smile, Sevilodorf stood on the stone steps watching as Cameroth bent over a mud-covered man sprawled in the wide puddle beside the door. Though Cameroth's strong arm sought to hoist the fellow upright, the man's feet insisted on slithering any which way amid screeches of "HELP me, you fool, HELP me!" At last seizing Cameroth's shoulder he regained the vertical, where he sputtered and spat and did his best to look as nobly indignant as a man with mud thick as tar down one side and his hair standing on muddy end could.

"Unbelievable!" he spluttered. "Irresponsible, unconscionable -."

"JASIMIR!" Cameroth roared, and the chickens in the coop behind the barn quit laying for the day.

"Yes, sir!" Jasimir called from the doorway of the barn.

Sev saw the boy's eyes widen and shook her head. Poor Jasimir. He just could do no right at the moment. Sev had heard all about the kitchen fire last evening from a mournful Jasimir, and about the stack of busted crockery. Now this.

"Why did you leave the mop and bucket in the middle of the steps? Have you no sense at all? Get over here and collect Master Ferthan's things." Cameroth pointed to the bundles resting half buried in the mud. "And I will expect you to clean them all up."

Cameroth turned back to the mud-covered man and began to apologize. Master Ferthan waved off Cameroth's words haughtily - "Barbarians! Fools! Fathers of savages!" and with a glare at Jasimir stalked back into the inn. Cameroth gave his son an exasperated look and followed after the man.

Allowing her amusement free rein, Sev leaned against the wall and laughed until she was breathless. Wiping tears from her eyes, she met Jasimir's reproachful looks with an apology.

"Jas, I'm sorry. I know it's not funny to you, but of all the people…. that stuck up little toad of a man ... covered with mud. Thank you for the best laugh I've had in a month."

"I didn't mean to do it," Jasimir said sullenly, tossing a begrimed package onto the steps at Sev's feet. "You would think anyone with eyes could see a mop and a bucket."

Sevilodorf made a valiant effort to wipe the grin from her face, but knew it was impossible. "I'll leave you to it then, Jasimir."

Treading carefully through the muddy courtyard, Sev reached the barn still grinning. She tossed a coin to the stable boy who led a harnessed Dream from her stall. Whispering softly to the horse, Sev led her out to the cart. "Home tonight, old girl."

Dream gave a soft whicker of acknowledgement as Sev fastened the final buckles. Patting the mare's neck Sev looked across her back to find herself the object of the keen scrutiny of one of the men she had noticed in the common room last night. Nor did he smile or acknowledge her beyond that cold stare.

There was little chance of trouble in the midst of the bustle of the courtyard of The Whistling Dog, though coldness replaced the warmth of laughter as Sev returned the man's gaze impassively. She had faced such stares before. She had never determined whether it was the fact she went about on her own, or the rather exotic company she kept at the Burping Troll that caused several men in the village to firmly believe she was a minion of the Dark Lord himself. "An unnatural woman," she had heard them say.

Sevilodorf did not know much about this man, except that if he had spent the evening in Sira's company she was certain he had heard only the worst about her. The recently broken nose and the bruised knuckles spoke of a fighter. The half-chewed ear and the hand poised restlessly near his sword told her more.

With a sigh, Sev hoped that this man would not be the one to prove Halbarad right in his insistence that she not travel the roads alone. He and Elros had accompanied her to Henneth Annûn yesterday, but they would not be leaving until tomorrow or even the day after. Briefly she wondered if the news Jareth had told her of the death of Rablot at Farmer Tiroc's farm had anything to do with why the two Rangers had been called to Henneth Annûn. Curse the rain, for without that delay she would already be safely home.

Striving to ignore the man, Sev gathered up the lines and prepared to climb up to her seat only to see him striding across the courtyard toward her. 'Nmad,' she thought turning to face him with a carefully blank expression.

"You are a trader," the man said. The words were spoken as more accusation than statement.

"Aye, sir. A trader in potions and pills and remedies for what ails you. Is there anything I can help you with?" Sev replied calmly. Her right hand sliding up to adjust her left sleeve and touch the hilt of the knife strapped there.

"I hear you trade with filth … orcs."

"I trade with all who have ailments and a means to pay me. Men, elves, hobbits and orcs." Sev answered lifting her chin. "Is something ailing you?"

"Only an illness to the stomach caused by those such as yourself who prefer profit over honor."

As he faced her bland stare Grady felt the anger building within him. Darien had told him to leave the woman be, that what was said about her was almost certainly the result of the dislike that Sira obviously had for the woman. But here she stood admitting her transactions with those foul creatures.

Sev's eyes hardened and her voice dropped. "Then sir, there is nothing I have that can cure you. I bid you good day."

Grady seethed with rage as the woman brushed past him and climbed onto her seat. It was only the thought of what Darien would say and what Landis would do that stopped him from grabbing the woman and shaking her until her teeth clashed together. If she had seen what he saw, if she knew what he knew, he could imagine no rational reason for her treachery - unless she herself had served the Nameless. Through a roaring in his ears he realized she was speaking to him again.

Sev's blue eyes glittered like ice as she said impatiently, "Are you going to move or do I run you over?" Without giving him time to answer or to step back, she snapped the lines and gave a call to her horse.

Retreating hastily out of her way, Grady's boots were spattered with mud as the wheels cut through the sodden ground. "Bitch!" he spat after her. 'How dare she speak to me like that? I fought a war - good men died to protect the likes of her from the very creatures she's now helping to prosper. Smug wench, I could break her neck as easily as that.' He snapped his fingers. 'She needs to be taught her place.' Anger slowly gave way to an unpleasant grin as he dwelt on this thought. 'A couple of good slaps should do it.' Their paths would likely cross soon at the Inn of the Burping Troll, and he would teach her some respect, one way or another.

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TBC ...