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Middle-earth Adventure Journal! - 37
🕑 Added 2025-10-04 18:39:44 +0000 UTCChapter 37: The Thicket
"Can we be of any help?" Aedric sheathed his longsword, a subtle green glow flickering beside the silver star pinned to his chest.
That branch—once severed from a Huorn during the Barrow-downs expedition—had become a makeshift whip, used to control the restless Barrow-wights, aiding their escape. Now, as he reflected, he realized that Huorn had chased them fiercely, likely seeking to reclaim its lost limb.
Hence, Aedric had brought the branch along, hoping it might provoke the awakened trees guarding the Brandywine River—perhaps even cause the branch to animate, uproot itself, and pursue the enemy.
These trees clustered densely along the riverbank, forming a fierce defense. But if they could lure them out...
With the aid of the Buckland Hobbits, strategic fires, and traps, they just might manage to take the colossal trees down one by one—much like in his past life playing games, a tactic known as "aggro."
Of course, Aedric could not guarantee success. Still, one must try.
Noticing the branch tied loosely at his waist, he tucked it into his pocket. Yet, a rough motion caused a sharp tip to suddenly poke outward.
“Of course, we can help,” Gandalf’s eyes brightened as he pointed to the branch at Aedric’s chest. “I will need what you have there.”
“What?” Aedric blinked, but trusting the wizard, he replied instinctively, “No problem. Take whatever you need.”
In a sudden shimmer, the vibrant green branch appeared in Gandalf’s hands. The wizard examined it carefully, then smiled. “An old friend once taught me much about nature.”
“Using this branch as a conduit, I can, for a time, confound these trees’ senses—make them see us as kin.”
“But...” Gandalf glanced at Aedric, concern shadowing his face. “This will consume the power stored within this rootless wood. It cannot regenerate once drained.”
“Are you willing to sacrifice it?”
Aedric didn’t hesitate. “No problem.”
Originally, he’d thought the branch a mere curiosity, planning to have Lord Elrond examine it in Rivendell later—perhaps to turn it into a trinket.
Yet now, faced with this Buckland ordeal, fate seemed to breathe purpose into the branch.
Gandalf nodded with relief, raising the branch in one hand and his staff in the other. His eyes closed as he chanted in an ancient tongue—a language beyond Aedric’s understanding, unfamiliar even to Luna’s pale, puzzled gaze.
To the dwarves and Hobbits, the solemn words were as confounding as a forgotten lesson.
Gradually, the chanting swelled—like clashing swords, howling winds, and roaring thunder intertwining with the pulse of life itself.
The branch’s color deepened, glittering vividly before bursting into a swarm of glowing fireflies. They hovered, then scattered like moths rising toward flame—before vanishing.
Gandalf exhaled and returned the branch to Aedric.
Once lustrous green, the wood had dimmed to a dull brown—the hue of matured willow twigs—its energy nearly spent.
Aedric pocketed the branch and asked, “Is that enough?”
“More than enough, my dear friend.”
Gandalf smiled. “Before sunset, we’ll have free passage along this corrupted riverside.”
“But heed this—our goal is not to cut trees or burn the forest but to remain vigilant and find the source of this blight.”
“Whether it be odd markings, sinister symbols, statues that chill the heart, shadows concealing themselves from daylight, or lurking dark minions.”
“Should you uncover any such dangers, shout loudly. I’ll come shielding you as swiftly as I can.”
He admitted uncertainty of the forest’s corruption but stressed that past experience showed these methods usually unearthed critical clues.
“Time is precious, my friends. Let us depart.”
With Gandalf among them, Aedric felt reassured. Around them, only leaves rustled and the Brandywine murmured—a quiet world where only five souls walked.
As they pressed forward, skeletal remains appeared in the roadside grass—rabbits, squirrels, and birds—their bodies barren of life.
Near the corpses, thick brambles twisted like writhing snakes, their long, barbed thorns resembling wicked blades.
Black flies buzzed madly.
“Bah!” Gimli spat in disgust, eyes surveying the trees behind them. Their bark was dry, wrinkled, and contorted into anguished visages—silent cries of suffering etched in wood.
Aedric shared the unease. The eerie scene unsettled even him. But fear did not grip him—not while Gandalf stood with him.
If danger pressed, Aedric would not hesitate to retreat. Not out of cowardice, but complete trust.
“Aedric, something’s wrong.”
Luna’s steady gray eyes trembled with unease—a rare sight. Even amidst battle, her face rarely betrayed worry.
“What is it?”
"This forest..." Luna whispered, "It's unlike any I've seen before. It's sick—like humans stricken by plague."
Gandalf studied her with concern. "Istiriel, these corrupted trees—"
"Call me Luna, respected Mithrandir," she interrupted gently, nodding at the wizard.
The wizard was briefly puzzled by her many names—those given by her parents and those she bore herself.
“Luna, these corrupted trees fight against a dark power invading here, causing them great torment.”
“We must find the source swiftly and seek to heal.”
“Be watchful, observe carefully, and rely on your keen senses.”
“Mm,” the elf agreed.
“Boss!” Morgan suddenly stopped, panic flashing across his face. “Something grabbed my foot!”
Before finishing, he drew a dagger and swung wildly into the weeds—only cutting the air.
He fell backward, dropping his dagger.
Gandalf gripped his staff—white light spiraled at his palm.
Luna pulled her bow taut, aiming deep into the forest.
Aedric’s reflexes were lightning-fast. In a flash, Mithreleth gleamed, slicing cold arcs through the air, severing a twisted shadow lurking among the grass.
Gimli rushed forth, pulling Morgan away from danger.
With a chuckle, he teased, “Gruel, you’re really such a coward!”
All eyes turned to the flushed Hobbit.
“I told you, those brambles can’t catch me!” he protested.
Careful to tread lightly, he'd avoided the hateful black thorns. His feet, protected by thick fur and tough skin, bore the spikes with little harm.
A slight sting, but nothing unbearable.
“Get up, now,” Gimli encouraged. “There’s nothing to fear here!”
Morgan prepared to protest again.
“Someone’s here!” Luna shouted, drawing back her bowstring.
A pale, mistlike figure swirled in the branches ahead.
It had no face, only a hollow darkness that chilled the heart to perceive.
A black iron crown adorned its head.
Clad in noble armor, its grey cloak flapped eerily.
The figure wielded a battle-axe, deflecting Luna’s arrows effortlessly.
Its gaze was fixed on the white light dancing from Gandalf’s hand.
“Now’s our chance!”
Aedric moved swiftly, knees bent, feet pounding the earth.
He leapt with the speed of an arrow released.
Mithreleth’s blade glimmered, trailing silver light.
Like smoke, the shadow darts—but hesitates.
Mithreleth grazes its leg.
“Argh!”
Metal clashed with axe.
A shrill, beast-like cry trembled through the air.
Aedric’s mind blanked as he stumbled, bashing upright with his shoulder.
The shadow, evidently wounded, darted away, cursing in a language unknown but fraught with malice.
Every hair on Aedric’s body stood on end.
“Be safe,” Gandalf warned before pursuing the shadow deeper into the forest.
In moments, he vanished beyond the shadows, leaving four companions alone and bewildered.
“See? Told you those brambles couldn’t catch me!” Morgan picked up his dagger and faced Gimli.
“There’s something dark lurking nearby,” Morgan added. Though he could not see the shadow, the encounter chilled him.
“I know, I know.” Gimli waved off further talk.
Suddenly, sharp cracking sounds rang out.
The brambles twitched, lengthened, and curled into barbed soft whips, swarming with shadowy forms that lunged toward them.
Gimli raised his axe, bracing for attack.
In a gust of wind, Mithreleth's blade flashed like a crescent moon’s glow, slicing through brambles.
“Hold them off! Cut their roots!” Aedric commanded, spinning to strike with silver arcs.
“Good!” Gimli roared, charging forward.
Whip-like shadows attacked, but Gimli ignored most. Fiercely, he swung his double axe through the nearest brambles, severing roots and dissipating shadows mid-air.
A dull crack echoed as the final bramble snapped across Gimli's back, tearing his linen shirt to reveal shining chainmail beneath.
Dwarves' resilience was legendary; their armor was both lightweight and durable, worn beneath everyday clothes.
“Die, foul things!” Gimli roared, refusing to yield.
Ignoring strikes to the torso and head, he swung wildly—his axe spinning a storm that scattered the brambles.
The black flies swirled and then scattered, showing no desire to fight.
Breathless and victorious, Gimli smiled down at the broken bramble.
The ambush had failed.
Just as he relaxed, an excruciating pain wrapped around his right leg.
