Part I - Where Noisome Waters Pour

Once, the two cities of Dale and Esgaroth, also known as Lake-town, stood as neighboring cities, the former on the banks of the River Running in the shadow of the mountain Erebor, the latter on the banks of the Long Lake.  But then the dragon Smaug came, destroying Dale, routing the dwarves of Erebor, and eventually making his home in Erebor’s now empty halls. The people of Dale had fled, making their way down to Esgaroth to rebuild their lives.

Now, nearly two centuries have passed. It is early spring in the year 2946 in the rebuilt Lake-town, also known as Esgaroth. Four and a half years ago, a company of dwarves led by Thorin Oakenshield awoke the dragon Smaug who had lain sleeping under Erebor, and once roused, the dragon had set Lake-town ablaze, completely destroying it. Smaug was finally brought down by Bard the bowman, both Lake-town and Dale were rebuilt, and Bard has been crowned king of the reborn kingdom of Dale. With the slaying of the dragon has come a new period of peace and prosperity along the Long Lake, with dwarves once again dwelling under the Lonely Mountain, and boats traveling up and down the River Running from Erebor to Dale and Esgaroth, and up the Forest River to the elven kingdom in Mirkwood Forest. It is a time of renewed prosperity, and gold is there for those brave or wily enough to grasp it, for willing adventurers, both green neophytes and seasoned veterans.

But though Wilderland is safer now than it has been for nearly two hundred years, all is not well in the land. Even now there are whispers of stirrings in the East, from Mordor. Though crushed in the Battle of the Five Armies, orcs, goblins, and worse have once again been spotted in Mirkwood and along the Running River.

However, for most people, these reports do little to unnerve them, removed as these stories are from most people’ everyday lives. Throngs of newcomers have been drawn to Lake-Town, now three times as large as it was before Smaug razed the city. Some new residents are wealthy dwarves, sent to the city to represent the affairs of the new King under the Mountain. A number of elves from Mirkwood have now taken up residence in the city as well, as have a few Hobbits from Bree and the Shire to the west. Searching for gold or fame, for business or leisure, or perhaps merely called by the siren song of adventure, many have arrived here in Esgaroth.

Even now a group stands in the market square of Esgaroth, taking in the sights of this bustling marketplace. Farmers are hawking wares, barges are unloading their cargos, and the sounds of hammers ringing on anvils and livestock bleating and lowing fill the air.

OOC: Welcome to the game! This thread is available for all PCs. You each find yourself in the market square of the rebuilt Lake-town, Esgaroth. Each of you has been drawn to the city for different reasons. In your first post, please describe your character and what has drawn you to Wilderland.

Also, make a Current Affairs (Regional - Wilderlands) (defaults to IQ-4) or Streetwise roll. Dwarven characters roll at +4 to skill.
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:13, Tue 12 Nov 2019.

The young man that stood in the marketplace was taller then most, with fair hair and light eyes and a beard that he stubbornly refused to shave despite it being relatively sparse. He was dressed in a tunic of faded dark blue with some yellow trim, some loose brown breeches and knee high boots with narrow toes and a pronounced heel.

He had been staring for some time now at the Lonely Mountain itself, his left hand tucked under his right arm, eating an apple and chewing leisurely as he stood just a few steps out from the throng of market patrons that churned steadily past behind him.

He had a pensive look, but not an especially serious one. "wool gathering" might be an appropriate description, day dreaming, and his eyes roved over the rocky escarpments and majestic features again and again as he took it all in.

Behind him, a fine chestnut stallion with a flaxen mane eyed the apple hungrily, and parted its lips just slightly every time the man took a bite of the succulent fruit. The tack on the horse alone was worth more than everything else the man wore and carried with him. This included the painted shield that hung from the left side of the saddle, the spear in the standard rest, and the smallish axe tucked in his belt.

Despite the armament, the young man did not carry himself like a soldier. His eyes were too bright, his smile too ready and with too much of a spring in his step. No, to any man who had seen real action, this was an untested youth. Eager perhaps, and able bodied, but untried and unblooded.

He broke from his reverie rarely, normally to notice a pretty girl or some shopper that had strayed too close to his horse, but for the most part his attention on the mountain itself, and the horizon beyond.
This message was last edited by the GM at 20:46, Thu 19 Sept 2019.

A tall athletic looking man stands on the edge of the market place.  He moves with modest grace.  His physique suggests a man of some strength and his dress and general appearance might further suggest someone at home in the wilderness.  A simple v-neck cut peasant tan shirt, brownish pants and dark brown boots frame the man though he and his belongings are dusty with patches of stains. Some plant stains and some food stains.

He stands quietly on the edge observing the goings-on with a bow over one shoulder and a pack draped carefully over the other.  He might be mistaken for a woodcutter except for two things.  On his hip rests a long blade, but this broadsword is a thing of beauty.  The clean scabbard, one of the only clean things about this man, is jet black and decorated with silver colored markings.  And the hilt is wrapped lovingly with fresh black cloth and its unusual size and shape hint at superior craftsmanship. The other point which prevents this man from fitting into the class of laborer is his overall visage. Along the right side of his face is a scar running from above his eyebrow to half way down the mans cheek.  Too his hands show fresh light cuts and scrapes.  He's seen trouble in his days, there is little doubt.
This message was last edited by the player at 05:44, Wed 11 Sept 2019.

In reply to Navarre Kodran (msg # 3):

A stocky dwarf wandered into the square leading a small mule with a couple of small barrels and full saddlebag. His large shield hung on the side of the mule, but his axe and crossbow vied for space on his back. Most folk did not travel in armour, but dwarves were fond of iron, and wore it like most wear a coat. With a quarrel on each hip, one might think he was as heavily loaded as his pack animal, for he gave that impression. At just 4'6", he looked very solidly built, with pale skin and brown hair showing under his broad rimmed helmet, and a matching beard, he looked about as immovable as anything in the square.

He wandered into the square, enjoying the sound of the hammers as some might enjoy a classical piece of music, and finds a place to water his mount. Noting the others standing and gazing at the mountain, he wanders over.

"It was a brave dwarf that woke the dragon. Tried to kill it too. Probably caused the injury that allowed the bard to kill it I suspect."
This message was last edited by the player at 11:16, Wed 11 Sept 2019.

"T'wasn't an injury." The speaker was seated at a cafe table not far from the dwarf. Middle-aged for a human, he was lanky and lean, with a patch over one eye, dressed like the professional class. He lowered the map he'd been studying and continued to speak, clear and resonant educated voice audible throughout the square. "Dragons, you see, have relatively soft and vulnerable underbellies. To compensate for this the dragon Smaug coated its underbelly in the precious gems and metals of its hoarde, leaving only a single bare spot here." He tapped his chest. "On his left breast."

"A simple thrush, having heard the hobbit Baggins relaying this information to his dwarven companions, relayed the tale to our king Bard, who was then able to slay the beast with his Black Arrow."

He held up a finger. "However! The Black Arrow itself was a gift to the house of Girion from the King Under the Mountain Thror. One can certainly make the argument that the true architect behind Smaug's fall was Thror, though in today's spirit it's perhaps best to acknowledge the deed as an act of cooperation between Dwarves, Men, Thrush, and Hobbits."
This message was last edited by the player at 14:54, Wed 11 Sept 2019.

Gram listened first to the Dwarf, and then to the man with the melodic voice, giving each his attention before he felt comfortable interjecting. "Truly? I had not heard of the Thrush, or the attack by the stout folk. It must have been something to see, terrible of course, but..." he trailed off as if searching for a word. "Memorable."

He shifted slightly and turned the half apple over in his hands. "I've heard so many versions now. The first time I heard the tale, it was said that the lake itself boiled and that the lake men were starving because all the fish had died." he shook his head with a grin. "This was just after it happened of course." he added as he took another bite.

"Your people have a truly handsome mountain Master Dwarf" he gestured to Erebor with his snack, speaking with his mouth still full. "I've never seen its like before" he shook his head in wonder before he looked between them. "Were you both here then? during the attack?"

"Oh aye. Born and raised in Lake. Grew up in the shadow of the mountain, and for us it was a very different symbol indeed. That's changing, slowly, but those of us who lived here then... we will never forget that dragon. What it was. How it died. I don't think the world shall see its like again."

From over at the cafe where Thibault is lounging, a serving maid is following along with the conversation. “Quite right about that,” she says. “The whole world’s a’changin’, that’s for sure. Who‘d’ve ever thought that elves would make their home here in Lake-town?” She scrubs the table a bit absent-mindedly, looking into the distance at the form of Erebor rising above the plain. “Or that dwarves would return here, and some of them making their home here as well? Or those queer small folk, the ones they call hobbits? I was only a girl the night the dragon attacked and burned Lake-town, and I thought it was the end of the world.”

Indeed, there was a time when the dwarf Mock Ironside’s appearance in Lake-town would have been the biggest piece of the news of the month. Now, he is but one of a continual stream of dwarves and other races traveling to Lake-town, some on their way to or from the reclaimed kingdom of Erebor, others here on permanent business for King Dáin Ironfoot, the new King under the Mountain.

From the market square, Bridge Street stretches east and west, more ale houses and inns sprawled along either side. At the quay, a small team of men unload a fishing boat, its decks teeming with gleaming silver fish.

Near the cafe, a young man of sixteen or seventeen sits down, a  small pennywhistle in his hands. He begins to play a tune, first lively and jubilant, then slowing down in almost a reverie.

OOC: Feel free to continue your conversation. There’s work around for those who wish to find it, either as merchant guards (or even as merchants if you have the funds and skills), or working on one of the many boats in Lake-town.

In reply to Loremaster (msg # 8):

"Yes, that may be how it went. Cooperation is what won the battle of five armies and dealt with the orcs too.

So, what brings you folk here? Except ...oh hell, where are my manners? Mock Ironside. I was under the Iron hills at the time. And you are?"

He looks around at those present.