Lord of the Rings Fanatics Plaza

Rules:
1.)This is a Free RP, a thread where you may roam where you wish
within Eriador.

2.) Please review the Roleplaying Code of Conduct before posting https://lotrfanaticsplaza.com/forum/rol ... of-conduct . No spamming or godmoding please. To preserve the sanctity of the Tolkienesque atmosphere, no sexual allusions/content/jokes are allowed and fandom/franchise crossovers are forbidden. If I see or am notified you have crossed lines or incur OOC complaints, you will be asked to edit your post. Thanks for understanding.

3.)The year is TA 3014 but "Flashback RP'ing", writing in the past, is welcome.
You may write alone and mark your post(s) as private or you may team up with a member.
The Rivendell Activities OOC can be used for out of character posts and plotting.
Tharmáras RPs Aragorn and Gandalf in this thread.

viewtopic.php?f=10&p=791#p791

Rain sheeted down on the outpost of Esteldín, a time-worn fortress of the North Downs accessible by one path each from east and west. No surface was exempted from the deluge: those that might have expected to remain dry in an ordinary soaking rain were defeated by the wind’s temperamental gusts. Every structure within the stone walls that had shutters saw them barred tightly against the weather, and only rarely did fireglow stand out through windows against the early darkness and fog that the weather had brought with it. Here and there figures moved about in the wet gloom, for work did not stop with the weather. The resident population of Esteldín was supplemented by an ever-varying number of rangers, and one such of these strode rapidly and in silence across the wide central yard of the fort, opening out from its gates. Heavily cloaked against the downpour, this ranger made for the encampment just within the walls, to the side of the inner gates: a semi-permanent series of structures, largely heavy oilcloth tents, designed to house the itinerant rangers that passed through at all hours. Outdoor firepits dotted the area, no more than smoking black hulks at the moment, and the interiors of the smaller tents, mere shelter for one or two, would no doubt be chilly and damp. But the larger tents were equipped with wood or coal burning stoves for both heat and cooking, and it was to one of these that the ranger made, and ducked easily inside the propped-open flap.

Grath Longfletch pushed back the hood of her cloak as she straightened within the tent and unclasped it in the same motion. It slithered off her shoulders, only to be caught in her hands as she turned back towards the tent door. Shaking the heavy cloak at the entrance, she divested it of its coating of standing water, before hanging it on a hook suspended from the rope that lined the roof seam, next to another that held her stout yew bow, and the quiver of long, green-fletched ash shafts that habitually accompanied it. Grath was wiry and compact, neither tall nor small, and moved with a vulpine looseness as she crossed the floor to drop herself into a rough chair beside stove. Her skin was tanned and roughened by wind and sun, but no amount of weathering could disguise the scars, two puckered ridges of tissue beginning in a point just beneath her right eye and one near the temple on the same side, running down the cheek, intersecting and departing again, and scoring her neck in a manner that would leave any onlooker to wonder how a human could survive such an injury, disappearing over the collarbone and down beneath her tunic. This garment was the color of wet moss, and lay beneath a sleeveless leather jerkin of a deep bay color, which fastened with a sweeping row of buttons up the left side. Both of these fell to just above her knees, with the tunic extending slightly beyond over the tough black trousers that tucked into tall brown boots. Her hair was long, but its mahogany curls were bound back, plaited into cord to keep it away from her face. The marks of long travel were all about her, and though sturdy, her every garment showed marks of wear, repair, and stain.

She was of a clan of Dúnedain who had long lived apart from the others, in a place called the Holt, named for the otters from which the clan had taken their totem. Under the leadership of Grath’s father, Lutra, the clan had flourished, growing stronger and repelling bandit and orc alike who strayed from mountain and moor, making safe their stretch of the Hoarwell west of the Hithaeglir. It was in this world which Grath had grown up, daughter of the chieftain; young, strong and warlike. With the others, she had guarded and patrolled the north and east of the Lone Lands, with one or another of the clan traveling two to three times a year to report to Osdolen. Occasionally new men had come, and occasionally some had gone, but Holt Lutra was primarily one large, highly extended family; jovial, bardaic, and free- happy in their remote independence. Until the occasion, three years ago now, when a mixed band of man and orc had descended upon her clan’s holdfast and dealt with them in wholesale slaughter. When she had awoke, grievously injured, and emerged from the pile of corpses that threatened to suffocate her, it was to discover that she was the only soul left breathing in Holt Lutra. Weeks passed in a haze before she was well enough to leave the death-ridden dwelling. When at last she had gained the strength, Grath had sealed the Holt and burned it, before starting her trek to Osdolen. There she had reported the events to Khallador, and begun her search for the one member of her family unaccounted for in the ruins: her younger brother, Inbar.

It was Inbar that sat across from her now, on the other side of the stove’s radiant heat. It had taken Grath nearly a year to find him, but find him she had, still captive at the hands of the same bandits that had razed Holt Lutra. The mission to retrieve him had left her with more scars to join the myriad tracing her body, but such was nothing compared to his return. Since that day they had travelled together as rangers, Grath instructing her brother in the ways of the Wild, and the sword. Inbar had learned the bow in his youth, when his sister was already ranging out, and such was his skill that their father had given him the surname Trueflight. But Inbar preferred scholarly pursuits, and it was not until they had been reunited that he had taken to serious martial training. As her clothing steamed in the heat of the stove, Grath drew a much-folded letter from with in her jerkin and flapped it against her knee, gesturing with it to her brother.

“Well, I’ve spread the word as much as I can in the day since this came. Now we’ll have to see who takes us up on it.” The letter had come by swift bird from Osdolen, in the hand and cryptic tones of Moriel, an elusive ranger Grath had met on more than one occasion. She had written of a mission from Khallador, relief to the village of Trestlebridge, and a hunt north to Deadman’s Dike to root out the orcs that harassed it. The orcs, Moriel had been clear to say, were marked with the red claw of Angmar. Grim lines creased Grath’s eyes at the thought, turning their grey-green to hard flint. It was not enough that orcs and men marauded, but now they must be organized by the intelligence of the Iron throne. “And we shall see if Moriel arrives to join us, but I doubt it. I do not think she would have written handing this venture over to me if she planned to be here.” Those who wished to join the company had been instructed to meet them here in this tent, and soon they would know what kind of force they would set out with. Grath’s gaze dropped to Inbar’s hands, busy with knife and small block of wood, which was transforming into an as-yet unidentifiable figurine. The corner of her lips quirked up slightly, tugging at the tight deadness of the scar.

“What’s that one going to be, then?”

Rhys Eldshaw

The rain had already been pouring down when Eldshaw woke in his scrap-shelter, and there was no hope of keeping his things dry as he trekked the final miles of his journey. Still--it was good to have come at last to the ranger stronghold of Esteldin. The young ranger had not visited the community -- which consisted of a shifting cast of characters, whichever rangers had stopped for news and fresh supplies on their many journeys across Eriador -- since he was a child, with his mother and sister. All the intervening years Eldshaw had spent in Bree-land, a safer post perhaps than the North Downs (for the last few days, the distant shadow of the mountains of Angmar had loomed cold and dark to the north) but a far busier one as well, what with all those who passed along the West or Northern roads through Bree.
But now he was here. It had been a coincidence which drew him back northward--a chance journey to Osdolen, to visit with his ailing mother, and then a half-heard conversation, a desperate curiosity.
Trestlebridge needs aide, and Deadman's Dike clearing. Rhys had never been on a mission with more than a pair of other rangers, and even those were usually his mother and sister. But he had come here, at least, to see if they would have him.
And here was Esteldin. Even flooded by rain, even in ruins, even when the inhabitants lived in temporary dwellings scarcely sheltered by the worn stone walls, the ruins of the North-Kingdoms could not help but take Eldshaw's breath away. There was power here, once, he thought. And there will be again, with the blessing of the Valar.

Now, as he searched for the correct tent, his mother's words came back to him. Just walk in, introduce yourself. Not too proud, but no groveling either. You are Dunedain, same as they. And don't do thatthing where you make it sound like you're a terrible hunstman because you don't want to brag. Your woodcraft is as fine as any in Bree. Eldshaw took a deep breath, and adjusted the leather case which held his unstrung bow and kept it safe from the rain on his back.
He'd found the tent. Now was the moment.

He stepped inside, lowering his hood but not unclasping it -- no need to make it look like he was making himself at home when he'd never met these folk before. Inside, drying themselves by the fire, were a woman and a man (Grath and Inbar). The woman was hard and wiry, scarred and sunswept. She looked the part of a Ranger. The man, too, was muscular -- but there was something about his eyes, the sharp look of a scholar. Like those who occupied the library of Osdolen, that one was. Like Yssa, his sister. Eldshaw wished she was here--she was better with words than he, always had been.
." he said, finally. "I think--I've come for a mission? There was a call--I'm sorry for not being here earlier, but I heard of it in Osdolen only yesterday and had to march through much of the night to get here. I'm--My name is Rhys. Eldshaw, I mean. Rhys Eldshaw. And I'm not a half-bad huntsman, in the right circumstance. I mean--I'm an alright shot, and a better scout." He could hear his mother wincing, all the way from Osdolen. "Anyway, I'd like to help, if I may."

Inbar Trueflight
Esteldín, ranger outpost

He had always liked the rain. He loved the smell of the earth as it opened up. He loved the relented drumbeat of droplets on the old thatched roof. He loved the way the rain felt as he pelted his skin. When he was younger, he would watch the summer skies of any sign of rain and would play in the rain for hours and hours. He would sneak his father’s, the Chieftain, quarterstaff, the one he had cut and carved himself under the tutelage of the elves (so his story went anyway), and practice. He would swing the whip thin piece of wood for hours and hours, battling the monsters of his imagination. He would return home, soaked the bone and half frozen to death. His mother admonished him, cuffed him motherly on the back of the head; his father would simply smile, shake his head, and ask for his quarterstaff back. His sister, encouraged him too, at least that’s how he chose to see it. She would tease him about his lack of form and his sloppy technique. They played in the rain together sometimes, teaming up to fight a bigger foe or to go on missions that she would devise for them. His youth had been one of happiness and joy, and it had always been connected to the rain. He learned the bow and arrow, practiced day and night, rain and shine, until only his sister was the superior marksman. It was during a torrential downpour that his father had given him his old bow and told him to try it out. Naturally, he ran into the storm and, channeling the ferocity and violence of the storm, used the bow to take down a bear that had been menacing many of the families nearby. It was raining when he set out for Lindon, set to follow scholarly pursuits, and while it had been raining, the sun shone clear through. His mother said it was a blessing from Súlimo himself, a sign that he was on the right path. It was rained the entire journey from the Holt to Lindon and everyone but him was in poor spirits by the end of trip. The rain hadn’t been for them though, it had been for him alone, and he reveled in the great spring downpour. Even now, he could remember the transparent sheets of water as they collided with the light and how the sky burst forth with color then. Since then, he had never seen a more beautiful sight. He learned under the watchful, stern eye of Finnbarr Galedeep, the free diver. He learned more about the sea in a month from the elf than from all the books written in the library there. He spent three years there, in that vibrantly melancholic city. Something happened then, something he could not explain. A feeling washed over him, a longing, a loneliness. The day he decided to return home, it rained. The rain this day though, was not from Súlimo. The rain came in the form of a tremendous hurricane. He managed out outride the storm until he made it home. There, where he thought he would be safe, the Holt, his home, the lands of Lutra, was where he learned to hate the rain. The very night he returned they were attacked. His father and mother killed and himself taken hostage. His sister, Grath, had been left alive, more by chance than design. He did not see her again for a year. She tracked the band of orcs and men that attacked their home until they were all dead. That had only been two years ago. Yet so much, so much had changed. He was a different man now. He still longed for the pursuits of knowledge and wisdom, but the call of the bow was stronger now, it’s trumpet blast rang through the hills and furrows of his mind. He learned the sword from Grath, but never, never in the rain. He hated the rain now.

Despite the downpour outside the tent, the night was quiet. Inbar whittle absentmindedly, carving off little bits and pieces of wood until the pile of shavings on the ground was larger than the piece of wood still left. He looked up as Grath entered the tent. She looked troubled. He did not like that look. When she got that look in her eye that meant they had a mission, given to her likely by the man that helped her save his life: Khallador. The mission was a not so subtly reminder to Inbar that they were Rangers now, well and true. A cold sensation rushed through him and he shivered despite the heat of the stove. He looked at his sister, studying the scars on her face and arms, all of them received in service to the Rangers or in his rescue. His own seemed to throb in response, a massive faded white line across his forehead from above his hairline that twisted and curled until it ended just above his right eye. The wound that been given to him that night three years ago when he learned to hate the rain. It had festered and never healed properly. His eyesight had suffered for it. His depth perception had nearly been ruined. Still, he had been given the name Trueflight and he wanted to earn back his name after exhaustive work with the bow, now supplemented by the sword, taught to him by Grath herself. He was no longer the transcendent bowman he once was, now he was merely excellent.

He opened his mouth, a slow, sad smile play that the tips of his eyes and mouth. A flash of lightning and a peel of thunder preceded his words, filling the tent with a rumbling energy. He sighed and put the knife and the figurine down.

“It was going to be an otter, a sea otter. Finnbarr once showed me a raft of them, nearly two hundred animals all told, all holding hands and holding against the current.” Again, he searched her eyes, there was something there. “How many do you think will show?” he asked, abruptly changing subject.

As if his words were a summoning, a man came through the tent flap and announced himself as Rhys Eldshaw. Inbar looked the man over and nodded. “Glad to have you with us Rhys. We can use all the help we can get.”

Before he finished another person came through the tent, a woman (Rien). He smiled wanly at her enthusiasm. “The more, the merrier,” he said with a nod. “My name is Inbar, this is my sister, Grath, she’ll be the one leading us. And who are you? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Círeth strode swiftly along the muddied path. Despite the slick tufts of grass beneath her boots, she moved nimbly and with purposeful haste, hoping she wasn't late. Her hood shielded her face and dark features from the worst of the lashing rain, but even still, water dripped down her cheeks and from the tip of her nose and chin. Every now and again, she blinked hard as droplets caught on her lashes and blurred her vision. She would be happy to find the shelter of the outpost soon.

The young woman was from Osdolen and had ranged just a few times with groups in its vicinity. Peldir, the old curmudgeon who'd once run the training grounds, was her uncle. As a girl she'd followed him around the grounds, watching at first and then joining in the training as she reached her teenage years. She was a hasty thing, leaping forward to strike at the slightest provocation or feint, not pausing to consider the larger context of the fight when she sparred. Peldir had told her more than once she had more heart than sense. The old ranger had hoped that, as her years lengthened, so too would her wisdom grow. Impatient with his chiding, Círeth had asked repeatedly, "And what would the rangers be without heart? Shadows flitting from tree to cave? Daring little and helping not at all?" At 20, she was young enough not to know the value of a long-term investment.

Still, Peldir saw strength in her and believed she could learn. And so he'd pushed her to venture out and join the group gathering at Esteldín. He had heard whispers of the mission and knew that exposure to the wider world, without his support (or nagging, as Círeth preferred to think of it) would do her some good. She was unlikely to learn any more lessons in patience from him without a bit of outside help and, perhaps, a bitter taste of reality. Círeth, for her part, had missed his intention completely in her eagerness to prove herself and had set forth brimming with confidence.

She approached Esteldín from the east. At last, she passed the walls of the outpost. A word to a stranger, cloaked as she was against the downpour, got her the information she needed to find the group. "Just beside the wall over there," he said before hurrying away. She called her thanks after him, but her voice was lost amid the steady pounding of rain on the rooftops. Círeth hastened to the tent he had indicated, throwing back her hood and shaking the rain from her face again as she entered its shelter. Heat pulsed like a heartbeat from a stove within, and only now did she notice the numbness that had crept into her fingers in the chill of the deluge. Several figures had already gathered.

"Are you the group gathering for the mission?" she asked breathlessly, by way of introduction.

Gaeron, joining the mission at Esteldín

It was a dull, wet day in Esteldín as Gaeron followed the path down to the tent. The rain whipped around him, and he pulled his cloak in closer to his body in the hope of keeping some part of him dry. It had been a hard journey from Osdolen, but hearing of the approaching danger was all the motivation he needed to head off to join this Ranger mission. While he usually wasn't one for group missions, the recent years and growing bravery of the orcs and other foul creatures made lone missions more and more dangerous. As he approached the tent, he heard voices inside. It sounded as if many members of the band were new to each other. "Good," he thought, "I won't be the only outsider." Not that such a thing bothered him, but if there was one thing he knew about group missions, it was always harder to be the lone outsider as they would not have the experience of working with the specific group. But if all, or nearly all, were new to each other, they would quickly have to learn how to work as a group, rather than one person learning how to fit in.

As he approached the tent, he saw a figure enter only a few steps ahead of him. Gaeron ducked under the tent flap and stepped quickly inside. He pulled his hood down, letting his ruddy curls loose. For all his efforts at keeping his head dry, he was still wet from head to toe.

"Am I in the right place for the mission?" he inquired, looking around at the group that had gathered. He knew no names, but perhaps one or two faces were familiar, but it was too dark in the firelight to tell at the moment. He stepped towards the fire and extended his cold and wet hands towards the welcoming heat of the flames.

Rhys Eldshaw
Meeting his Fellows

Eldshaw smiled at Inbar's kind words, then stepped to the side as a woman (Rien) swept into the tent. It was good--she looked as young as he was, or at least less weathered. Perhaps Rhys would not be made the foolish hanger-on of this mission by simple virtue of his relative inexperience with proper ranger operations. Although, on the other hand, you never could tell with Rangers. Sure, some of them were the road-wearied folk you saw passing through Bree-land, but others had spent their whole lives in Homely House, a place to which Eldshaw had traveled only once, and knew more of Elf-lore and Forest-lore and the Lore of Orcs and Dark Things than you would think, given their youth. You never could tell with Elf-magic.

"Suilad!" said the woman. "If there is any signing up to be done, I'm in too. I am good at anything you want me to be good at. I'm a quick learner." So yes, perhaps she was as young as Rhys. Though truly, that might not matter much. He had never thought himself much a learner at all, but rather a bumbling fool who happened to be better at peace in the woods than with a tutor.
Inbar and Grath. So those were the names -- and brother and sister, too. No doubt they would make a powerful team, especially with a leader as clearly well-educated in the hardships of the world as Grath, Rhys hoped again that he hadn't made a terrible mistake in coming here.

After that came Cireth, who looked something more like what Rhys had expected of the proper Rangers of the North. She entered the tent with a kind of practiced familiarity, as though there could be nothing more natural than entering a group of strangers and casting back her hood, shaking the water free from her hair as she stepped inside and asking permission only after, asking confirmation only once she was already there. Oh, to have that confidence with others -- but, no. His were the wooded hills and grassy gullies of Bree-land. His were long quiet nights, alone and out of doors. People were not for Rhys...

And perhaps that was why the arrival of another man (Gaeron) calmed the young Ranger's rising nerves. Of course, Eldshaw didn't want to make any presumptions but there was something in the man's cautious glance around, the question with which he began which seemed to suggest that the newest stranger was at least somewhat inclined to similar hesitations around other people.

Speaking of, the tent was getting rather full and with each new entry Rhys had to shift a little further into the corner. Not that he minded -- but it was driving the first person who had followed him (Rien) closer, and Rhys couldn't help but note that she had been eyeing him with a curious half-smile. Not an ugly look or a glare, at least, but still -- it made Rhys uncertain.

"Hallo." he finally murmured, as the rest of the eyes in the tent were drawn to the newest entry. "Have we met afore?"

Círeth stepped aside as a young man (Gaeron) followed her into the space. Having noticed the chill in her extremities, she balled her hands into fists and blew into them each in turn to bring feeling back to her fingertips. She nodded at the man who'd come in after her in silent greeting as she did so, then glanced keenly around the tent to size up the situation.

Counting herself, there were six people present. Three men, three women. She smiled. She might not know any of the gathered rangers well, but she was satisfied to see that there were no grouchy old men like Peldir here to tell her she needed to take a step back. She loved her uncle like a father and credited him with her skills, but she also could not help resisting the reins he tried to put on her. She saw not the youthful folly of this sentiment, only the possibility for great and important deeds.

The two individuals farthest into the tent were a man and woman (Grath and Inbar). The shadows within the tent obscured their features. Another two (Rien and Rhys) were already in conversation. This woman in particular looked familiar. Judging by the grin that split her face when she laid eyes on Círeth, she knew Círeth by sight as well. She stepped over to them, and without batting an eye, engaged them in conversation. "I've got a similar question as this fellow here. I have a feeling you and I have crossed paths. Osdolen, no?" She smiled. "You might know my uncle. Peldir. Used to run the training ground at Maenorthrond."

Satisfied that the feeling had returned to her fingers, Círeth began wringing out her soaked hair a handful at a time. She was blissfully oblivious to the fact that she'd neglected to introduce herself. Water dripped to the ground beneath her, some splashing her boots. Adrenaline and something like elation coursed through her at the thought of having something to do and others with whom to set out on a journey, no matter how soaked-through she might be.

Gaeron

He could finally feel his fingers again, which judging from the nature of the upcoming mission, might be the last time he would feel warm for days, if they were lucky, but more likely for weeks or even months. He looked around at the other Rangers in the tent, a few faces looked familiar, perhaps they had passed by in Osdolen once or twice, but then, he had never putting names to faces, at least, not right away. He looked around, realising that many of those in the tent were wide-eyed, eager, young folk. He had been in their shoes not too long ago, but had also seen much and fought many battles over the last ten years. His eyes told the stories of long travels far away, of fights with both orcs and men, of a desire to keep the lands at peace.

The woman, Grath, who seemed to be in charge of this entire mission, explained the plan. It naturally included delivering some relief supplies to affected communities, but as with far to many missions these days, the primary focus was on destroying orcs. They were to be joined by a group of elves, which Gaeron silently approved of. Like many Rangers, his travels had taken him into the valley of Rivendell from time to time and he had greatly enjoyed the company of the elves on those occasions.

At the mention of the red claw, Gaeron inwardly shuddered. Orcs in general were ill-met, but these ones, were even more vicious if the tales were true. Grath spoke of the danger of the mission, and after laying everything out as clearly as possible, asked if there were any questions. Gaeron stared into the fire for a few moments, pondering the new information. "How long have these orcs been devastating the surrounding villages?" Dark times were coming, but how had orcs been permitted to walk throughout the regions, destroying all in their path. It had only been in recent years that the activity of the evil forces from the mountains had increased, but so often they were stopped by Rangers before they got close to the villages. What had been distracting the Rangers to allow these orcs to come so far?

Inbar Trueflight

As was his normal wont, Inbar remained quiet as two more individuals entered into the tent and began to converse with those already arrived. He nodded to each of them, a cursory greeting for now. He would speak to them more once the mission itself was underway. There were too many people in a relatively (at least to his mind) small tent. Each time the tent flap opened to allow them entry, a blast of cold, wet, mildewy air came with them. Each time they entered, he thought he could hear a woman's voice on the air. He shook his head, clearing his mind. No. That was just his imagination and the storm playing tricks on him. He sighed and rubbed his face, scratching the stubble that had begun growing along his jawline. He looked the group over again and nodded. It was not a bad group, all told. He knew none of them but it seemed like a few of them had at least a cursory knowledge of each other. That was good. He was not completely sure of the numbers and variety of dangers they were about to face, but he felt at least a little hope blow into the tent. His apprehension, that ever present companion of his, relaxed. He put down the knife and the piece of wood he had been carving and gave the room his full attention, not just the people within but the space itself. There was a heady, humid feeling in here that had very little to do with the rains outside. A nervous tension wove itself in tight, intricate knots from person to person. None of them know the exact extent of the mission, even himself; Grath had given him the overview but none of the details. He knew what they would be doing and where they would be going, it beyond that he was in the dark. He didn’t mind, he trust his sister implicitly. She would tell him exactly what he needed to know and when. As a scholar this would have driven him up the walls with frustration and angst, but as a Ranger (fledging though he may be) he knew it was part of the structure.

Finally, his sister spoke. She began detailing the particulars of the mission, a supply run and extermination. It seemed simple enough, but Inbar was no fool, he knew that if it was as simple as that then the mission would have already been carried out. His apprehension was back, like a wet, angry dog. His mouth worked itself into an expression of mistrust at her mention of the Moles. He knew next to nothing about them. What he did know came directly from his sister and her opinion of them was mixed at best. He could sense the misgivings in her voice as she spoke of them, though it was likely only he caught it. He shot her a concerned look quickly, then relaxed his expression to one more neutral. There was already enough to stress about this mission without adding his own misgivings to the fray. Then she mentioned Angmar. A chill ran down his spine and, unless he was mistaken a very strong gust of icy cold wind blasted against the northern side of the tent. He swallowed hard. It made sense. Any sort of organization amongst the orcs and men of the area came from there. It had supposedly been abandoned for years, but Inbar knew that wasn’t true.

As she finished, he too watched the faces of the newcomers. Not knowing any of them, he felt it part of his responsibility to gauge their reactions to the information. Without looking away from them, his fingers found the small wooden figure he was carving and squeezed reflexively. This was going to be a hard mission. But he was ready. He inhaled deeply and glanced back at his sister. Despite the dour tone of the atmosphere around them and the grim news and orders, Inbar smiled.

“This will be good practice for my bow,” he winked, touching the scar. “And the sword too, suppose. From the sound of it there will be plenty of targets for both.”

Isolde & Beren
Legendary Journeys of Long Ago

"How did I ever let him talk me into this?" She asked herself as she poked at the fire burning before her. The answer was simple. He was Beren and that cursed grin of his talked her into many things she normally would have let pass...and he did have some fun ideas too she had to give him that. She'd found herself in unfamiliar lands and not really sure how much further she should go the young Rohir decided to make camp after finding a comfortable alcove that would work for shelter for the night.

Her mare Anlicar nickered in the background. "I know..you don't have to tell me. " She half answered over her shoulder then stirred the pot of stew that bubbled over some hot coals while her pot of water started to boil. Waiting she pulled out his letter. Turning the parchment to the fires light she read it again, checking the directions once more.

Nope, she wasn't lost...at least not according to the parchment. She felt lost though and she never liked that feeling. Maybe that was why she felt she could strangle him at the moment. When a long braid of russet hair slipped over her shoulder she tossed it back over the same shoulder with a quick flip. Her tea wasn't ready yet so she pulled a flask from her pack which rest beside her. Pulling the cap she took a long drink. The burn slipped down her throat but it eased the need to hurt her dear friend so she took another till the feeling was gone and her tea had seeped enough to pour a cup.

@Aigronding Mordagnir

Hrafnhildr had traveled for many days, south and east cross-country from the Cape of Forochel. The going had been easy and her pace swift, miles devoured by her tireless legs from dawn to dusk, and many hours besides. She was not one to tarry in idleness, least of all now. The summons from Carn Dûm had come unexpectedly, and the task it proclaimed was tasteless, but irrefusable. Though it were hardly high summer, descending into more southerly regions had seen her shed a number of outer garments as she traveled: Hrafnhildr was Lossoth, and used to existing in the ceaseless winter of Forochel and its Icebay, where the wind would blow through the unwary and snuff out their lives without consideration, leaving behind only a swell in the snow. Even the hardiest such as she were given no mercy by their homeland, and if one failed to respect Forochel even for a short time, it would exact its revenge without thought for loyalty.

So it was that when she made camp in the Ettenmoors, her pack bulged with the extraneous material, leaving Hrafnhildr garbed in trews of reindeer hide, weathered and softened to grey, their cinched cuffs tucked into the tops of sleek sealskin calf-boots, their sturdy soles used to repelling the cutting ice of Forochel well adapted to the current environment. In place of the substantial fur parkas and insulative upper-body layers of the far north, she wore only a single long-sleeved tunic of light, fine-spun blue wool so dark it seemed almost black, obtained in trade with the Dúnedain. It echoed the shape of a fur parka, extending to just about her knees with a split up either side to just below the hip, and a curved hem front and back. At the throat it was split for easy removal in a cut that extended to mid-sternum, currently laced shut with sinew-cord. Its cuffs were long and loose, and embroidered with a design of snarling wolves. Around her waist was tied a gut parka, for though it was not cold here, the clouds above these mountains were likely to unleash heavy rain at any moment. Pulled overhead, the hooded coat, prepared and sewn of seal intestines in the extreme conditions of Forochel, would protect both woman and pack from the most severe downpour and wind.

Upon her arrival to this region, Hrafnhildr had encountered one of the trolls after which it was named, and been obliged to kill it. It would listen neither to reason nor intimidation, nor to the minor wounds which she first inflicted. The hill-trolls were larger than any man, but not so large as some of their cousins, and no more intelligent. It had been the work of moments for her to eliminate this specimen, alone as it had been. The weapon which had struck the killing blow rode now on Hrafnhildr’s right leg, strapped to the outside from knee to hip: a snow knife, a curious straight long-knife unique to the Lossoth, and sheathed with its sharp edge facing forward so that upon drawing with the same-side hand it would be held at the ready in a reverse grip. Hrafnhildr’s legs were longer than the rest of her kind, and so was her snow knife. This particular blade had been made in the traditional manner, of bone, though there were many of steel among the Lossoth now. Her snow knife had been carved from the femur of the great white bear she had slain in her youth, and specially treated so that its integrity rivalled the best of steel. The base of the hill-troll’s skull had been no match for it.

Though the troll was no good for eating and nothing upon its person of particular use, Hrafnhildr had tracked it back to its hide when the sun arose, bearing with her the hammer it had wielded. Here she stashed the hammer, in case of returning for it later- with her skill, size, and strength, she could use such a thing, but there was no time or need now to carry its weight along. In the hide too she found a store of dried meats and added these to her pack, along with a number of small valuables the troll had no doubt stripped from less wary travelers. Thus enriched, she returned to her original course: a ruined fort on the southwest tip of the Ettenmoors. It was there she had been instructed to meet the pair of men -if you could call them that, though each for different reasons- who were coming north, one to be transferred to her custody for the remainder of his journey to Carn Dûm and the Iron Queen. The fort was at a good vantage point, on top of one of the large hills that abutted the mountains behind, surrounded by rock and coniferous trees behind, with a clear view of the flatlands below from which they would come. Hrafnhildr had set up her camp in a crumbling watchtower, enough roof remaining to shelter her from the elements, and a south-facing window both for ventilation of her fire, and a view of the inevitable approach. Satisfied with her ability to see danger coming from any side, Hrafnhildr had settled in.

For three days she had waited, resting and eating in relative luxury, the bolas habitually carried bound about her hips providing plentiful fresh meat in the form of mountain hares. The ease of their acquisition was a novelty, and Hrafnhildr’s only regret was that she had not the time to make use of all the parts of the animals as she normally would, but by casting the inedible detritus back into the mountain forest, she at least allowed some other predator or scavenger to take advantage of them. It was late morning on the fourth day when at last, her quarry hove into view. Hrafnhildr had been seated on her perch of rubble at the window, idly carving a stick into some fanciful shape with her skinning knife, when a movement attracted her eyes. Turning her head, she squinted slightly, and in the distance it became clear: from distant scrub and the lifting fog, emerged two dark shapes, resolving quickly into mounted figures. Hrafnhildr straightened, brushing back the strands of hair that had broken free of her thick white braid, and folded her arms on the stone sill of the window. She lowered her chin into her arms, and waited. The figures grew larger and larger, and were soon visible as two tall men: one of whom she estimated would be only slightly taller than herself, and the other who would tower over them both even when not ahorse.

They were headed this way with haste. Hrafnhildr would let them come to her.

Frost and the vampire travelled for a week without stopping, only breaking in their long trek northward to sleep and eat. Frost, and his destrier, were beginning to feel run ragged by the pace of the trek. His muscles were knotted and sore, more than once they had spasmed and cramped as he dismounted and he’d fallen to the ground in a heap of pain. The wound on his hand from the knife still throbbed and pulsed. At night, the Númenórean swore he could see the wound glow with a pale light. His dreams were filled with visions a woman with flaming red hair, with blood, fire, and death. He never saw her face, but with every dream he felt the connection with her grow stronger, whether that connection would spell his demise only time would tell. He was tired. That’s all he could focus on now. His body was sore and stiff, his mind was slow and sluggish.

The sun was setting as they rounded a hill, setting the western horizon on fire. A cold wind blasted through them. Frost wrapped the cloak about his thick frame to block the chill. He could still feel the cold creeping in, like the fingers of a skeleton wrapping his sore muscles. There was a scent of snow in the air. It was still early in the year, but the further north they travelled, the colder and more vacant the air became.

There was a village not a league off from where they stood, tiny pinpricks of light dotted the enshadowed hillside, the sounds of life and civilization came to Frost’s ears. It felt strange, alien.

“We’re stopping here,” he announced.

The vampire, sitting high in his stirrups, turned to regard him then the village, as if it was the first time he’d seen it. “No. We keep moving. You are already far behind schedule. The Delgaran –”

“Will not likely be pleased with you should I arrive dead,” Frost cut the vampire off. He looked his companion over and for the first time in a week, really examined him. The dying light cast long, sinister shadows over the marble like structure of his face, but Frost could see elven features, high brows and pointed ears, things he had noticed in the flight hither. “My horse is tired and I need supplies. Surely one night will not rupture your schedule too much?”

The vampire said nothing. His golden eyes surveyed the landscape with lazy indifference. He looked back at Frost and dipped his head slightly. “One night, and thusly you will owe me a favor.”

The Númenórean squinted dubiously at his companion. “Owe you a favor? What kind of favor can a mortal do for a vampire?”

The vampire stood tall and silent. He was unmoving, even his horse beneath him stood stock still. It was an eerie sight. The image brought to mind what others might see in the Nazgûl. Only this creature before him was far older than they. For the first time since they’d begun traveling together, Frost felt a slugging, creeping fear seeping into him. It was unsettling to say the least. Even if he was going to be forced to spend his time amongst the strawheads tonight, he welcomed the company of simpletons to put a barrier between himself and the vampire.

So, they traveled down the hillock, Frost taking the lead. The village was barely more than a few houses, a barn, and a tavern, but it would do for the night. The closer they came the more the Númenórean could distinguish the sounds merriment. Voices, instruments, the howling of dogs and the yowling of cats. It was the cacophony of life. He’d missed this, even if was only a week. The silence that existed between himself and the other was beginning to grow unbearable. There was often silence on his sea voyages, when the crew were too busy to speak or at night when there was nothing but the sound of the winds and water, but the silence of the past week had been something else entirely. It was not just an absence of sound. There was no void into which an easy conversation could affix itself. There was something there, something that normally existed underneath sounds but never had the chance to exist on its on merit. The silence was full of creeping doubts, monstrous suggestions, and terrifying implications. He would be glad to be rid of it for at least a few hours. All Rohirrim were awful at conversation and they’d all point and stare at the tall, black haired Umbarian like slack jawed simpletons, but at least they’d not stare at him as though they might see him as a steak to chew on. Frost could feel yellow eyed gaze on the back of his head. There was an itch between his shoulder blades that would not dissipate.

He was right. As soon as the duo cleared the trees, young oaks that stood in clusters near the road, all eyes turned to stare at them. At first Frost could feel all eyes staring directly at him, then once Arioch cleared the trees, Frost was nearly forgotten. Murmurs rippled through the townsfolk like a wave. Even as the sun was setting, there was enough light to cast a terrible shadow. The only thing completely visible were his glowing yellow eyes, great pits of sickly light. A few of the plebeians made a gesture as if to ward off evil and hurried out of the way, back into their thatched roof cottages.

They moved along the streets in silence. The only sound was the gentle, rhythmic clopclopclopclop of the horses’ iron shoes. They headed directly for the inn, the only place that now had any sound. A musician was playing something, a ballad about one of the ancient kings of the Rohirrim before they were Rohirrim. The song and the minstrel faltered when Frost threw the door open and entered the establishment. The horses were stabled nearby, Frost’s eagerly partaking in the apples and hay that was provided him. Arioch’s own flaxen chestnut horse did not, he merely stood at attention until the vampire whispered something to it. Frost was too far away to catch it but the sound was unmistakably Black Speech. The horse relaxed and began to eat slowly, still hardly moving.

A wave smells assailed him; stale beer, meat on edge of going bad, straw, sweat, winter vegetables in a stew. It was not a bad smell altogether, but it did make him miss the smell of the sea air. The light was minimal at best, a few torches were all the provided any visibility. The windows all faced the east.

Frost sat down at the nearest empty table, Arioch sitting across from him. The Númenórean removed his hood and surveyed the interior as best he could. There were at least a dozen men in here, all of them looking at two newcomers without actually looking at them. Conversation and music started up hesitantly.

A young man approached them, wearing a dirty apron. “Can I get you gentle…men anything?” His voice was friendly, but his eyes wandered from one to the other with a nervous tick.

“Two ales,” Frost said, staring the boy directly in the eyes. “And a bowl of that stew I smell.”

The boy swallowed hardly and scurried off. Frost watched him and involuntarily his hand went to his hip to wrap around the hilt of his sword.

“Well,” Arioch said at last, “is this what you were hoping for?” He waved his hand about dismissively. “We’re the center of attention here. I hear you like that sort of thing. I wonder how much it would cost you to try and bed them all.”

Frost rolled his eyes. “You’re so funny.” His eyes did dart from the vampire to the rest of the crowd. They were doing a better job of not looking at them but he could tell they were still the center of attention. Alone, he would have caused a stir; a tall, dark, handsome man appearing out of nowhere. There were legends about such men, haunters of the dark, lurkers at the threshold. They made deals with unsuspecting bumpkins, and ate the souls of those unable to pay them. A cruel smile slipped over Frost’s lips. He ought to try that at some point, it was bound to help him along with his goals.

“Hey you!”

He was brought out of his thoughts by a large, dirty blonde Rohir with a gut that spilled over his waist.

“Yes?” Arioch placed his hands on the table and rolled his neck to look at the newcomer, letting out a mocking chuckle.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” The man’s voice was hard, but Frost noticed a hint of panic. This man had not chosen to confront them, he had been selected by his peers. Frost peered around him and noticed the serving boy with his dirty apron. He was clinging to a decayed wooden frame like his life depended on it.

“We’re taking in the sights and enjoying the fare,” Frost said before his companion could come up with a response. “Is there something wrong here?”

“You aren’t welcomed here. We’re Bema fearing folk here and we don’t want to break bread with the likes of you.”

“I thought you’d say that,” Frost said with an exasperated sigh. “You bloody strawheads are all the same. In the capital or in the hinterlands where cousins are the only viable partners. I have a signed proclamation from you king granting us safe passage through here. Would anyone care to look at it? Can any one of you read?”

A man stepped forward from the crowd, the only man here that seemed to have bathed in a month. “Let me see it,” he demanded, his voice hard.

Frost’s eyes glittered, the wound on his hand pulsed with hungry, avarice life. He took the parchment from his breast pocket and handed it over. The man looked like he was in the Cavalry as well, his clothing was too fine, compared to the rough spun potato sacks the rest of the pissants were wearing. He looked over the note slowly. Frost grumbled, grinding his teeth.

“I thought you said you could read,” he said at last.

“I’m just being thorough,” the Cav member said defensively.

“I’m always happily surprised when the muckrakers learn a skill other than rutting with the farm animals. It gives me such hope for you mortals.”

“You son of a –” the first man, the fat one came out from behind the cavalryman, swinging his beer stein above his head. He had been aiming for the vampire’s head, but Arioch was far too quick.

Before the man was even at top of his swing, Arioch slid from his seat, somehow passed through the three other men that had gathered around them and gotten behind him. Before the man could so much as acknowledge this, Arioch had taken the man’s arm in both of his and ripped backwards. The sound of tearing flesh and crunching bone echoed. Frost cursed under his breath. The man let out a blood curdling scream. A gout of blood splashed across the table.

The room exploded.

Frost watched the two men Arioch had bypassed converge on him, moving inhumanely fast. They had knives in their hands but Arioch was faster, he whirled around one, grabbing him by the wrist and slamming the knife he held into his compatriot’s belly. He grunted. Arioch let go of the man’s wrist, shifted to his other side then wrapped his unnaturally pale hands around the man’s throat. A quick snap and the man’s head was turned the wrong way around.

Frost’s attention was taken by the cavalry member though. He had a sword drawn already and was moving to attack Arioch’s blindside.

“Goddammit,” Frost muttered.

Out came his sword, a longsword, roughly five and a half feet in length forged from the molten heart of Orodruin. The blade hissed when he pulled it free from the leather sheath. There were hundreds of swirling folds detailing the black steel. Runes danced along the edges. The knife wound in his left hand pulsed with glee.

He caught the guard’s blow and thrust it aside and, in a maneuver normally associated with dancing, moved between the vampire and the cavalryman.

“Stand down son, this is not a fight you’re going to win. Let it go and let it be.” He knew his words for futile as soon as they left his mouth. He hadn’t even meant them. In truth, while he hadn’t been looking for a fight here, he was going to make damn sure everyone was laid low. He was going to enjoy this.

The serving boy came out of nowhere with a bloody meat cleaver, shouting some nonsense in Rohirric that Frost didn’t bother listening to. He shoved the cavalryman aside, knocking him over the edge of a table to send him flying then, in a wide arc, bisected the boy, slicing him from the right side of his neck to the left hip. He didn’t even have time to realize he was dead before his body slumped in two pieces. He flicked the blood away and moved on the cavalryman who had since recovered. He beat him back with short, angry blows, none designed to penetrate his defenses but to keep him off guard. The man lost his footing, tumbled over a chair and Frost’s blade sliced upwardly through his sword arm. The blade skittered to the floor. Before Frost could finish him off and put him out of his misery, a man grabbed him from behind in a monstrous bear hug, howling with rage. Frost slammed his head backward, connected the back of his head with the man’s jaw. There was a crunch. A shiver of pain went down the Númenorean’s spine, but he was released. The man tumbled backward and Frost swung his blade across the man’s belly, spilling his intestines out on the floor. He slumped, trying to fit his guts back inside him. Another man came out of the woodworks. Frost slammed a fist it the man’s face. He stumbled back and Frost leapt on him, forcing him down to the ground. He rained punches down, howling as he felt the man’s skull give with each punch. The sounds of ripping and slurping filled the air, Arioch was dealing with his opponents with ease as well it would seem. A final slam and the man’s face caved in completely. Frost wiped the brains off his glove and stood up. A fire had started in the kitchens somehow.

Frost cracked his knuckles and sighed. “Of course it’s fire. These strawhead fools love their fire. You’d think they’d have progressed to the point where fires could be contained but apparently not. They should still be living in caves.”

Arioch was covered in blood, from head to foot. He was grinning, Frost could see the blisteringly white fangs peaking through the miasma of red.

“Happy now?”

“Very,” drawled the vampire.

As he turned, another man came through the flames of the kitchen, each hand wielding long, dangerous looking knives. Frost sidestepped him, twisted around so that he was facing the man’s back. He muttered something under his breath, a cantrip to add force to his blow, the slammed his fist through the man’s back and bursting out of his chest, holding his heart in his hand. The man went limp immediately and fell face first on the floor. He dropped the heart next him and looked back at Arioch.

“We have to kill everyone now, you know that don’t you?”

The elven vampire shrugged, as if the thought had crossed his mind and it was already a foregone conclusion. “Men, women, and children. The fire should help with that.”

Frost looked back at the kitchen. The flames were beginning to get out of control. Soon the place would be a lit with orange, rapacious flames. He could hear the roar and the screams in his head as the flames leapt from building to building. He smiled.

“Do your work. I’ll get the stragglers.”

He wiped the blood from his blade and sheathed it. Right below that sheath rode the dagger he was to deliver, he removed it from the sheath and looked at the blade, almost getting lost in the mirrored surface.

He went to work with it, he cut the cavalryman’s throat and let him bleed out. The dagger seemed to drink the blood. The edges of his mouth curled in a hungry smile. He finished off three more men, slicing their throats from ear to ear. It was not that he wanted to end their suffering quickly, it was more that he was tired of the game and was ready to move on, and their suffering was not over, not by far.

He had wanted a night of restful, comfortable sleep. These void beguiled imbeciles could not let him have that. No Rohir could ever give him peace. He’d been attacked tonight, that was the only way he’d been able to slaughter them and not break his oath. He would soon find a way around the rest of the oath and help destroy this place, rick, cot, and tree. The Delgaran would sweep through here like a wildfire.

Screams filled the night air. Men, women, and children. Frost took one last look at the tavern, took a swig of one of the ales that had not been knocked over, savored it, then walked out, knife in hand.

Another week on the road and they were out of Rohan, out of Dunland, and into the Ettenmoors. Frost’s wound had still not healed, it bled from time to time, and his dreams were more and more of this woman wreathed in fire and destruction. Magic woven about her like ribbons in her hair. When he awoke, he only had the vaguest memories, the haziest inclination, that there had been more in the dreams. Had she spoken to him? Had he actually seen her face this time? Where had they been in these dreams? The unknowing frustrated him. After he used the knife to kill the villagers the dreams had grown more vivid, it was then that he finally connected the two. Though how they were related and why were still a mystery, as much as the woman in his dreams.

The journey had continued on in that same loud silence as before. Frost though, brooded and kept his mind from wondering. Arioch seemed in good spirits though. He was more dangerous than ever.

It was on an overcast afternoon that they finally spoke again.

“That favor you owe me will soon come to payment.”

“The… the favor? Stopping in the village where you massacred everyone? How is that something I need to repay? You ought to repay me.” Frost put a hand on the knife. They were about ten paces apart, each atop their mounts. Frost had seen how fast the vampire moved when he was going in for a kill. He was not going to take any chances.

“You agreed before any of that happened. That’s not an issue with me, that’s an issue for you. You got something out of it too, if I recall. You are no one’s paramour, Frost. You are a killer. I helped remind you of that. I saw the look on your face when you shoved your fist through that man’s chest. You enjoyed it. You felt powerful. You are, as long as you don’t get sidetracked by the temporary pleasures of the flesh.”

“What’s the payment?” Frost asked impatiently.

“You will see soon enough. We are meeting someone. Someone who will be taking you the rest of the way north.”

“Another escort?” Frost whistled and spat. “How many escorts do I bloody need?”

“Just the one more,” the vampire’s smile was wicked, holding a secret.

“Well, where are they?” Frost asked.

“She’s near. Over in that ruined fort on the crest of that hill.”

Frost squinted through the gloom. Atop the hill was a broken shell, barely a fort. “Then we mustn’t keep her waiting.” He grumbled. Two weeks with this vampire had set him on edge. What more tortures in the Delgaran have in store for him? Something told him it was only just beginning.

They made haste, Frost’s great black destrier taking the lead once more. A soft rain began to fall. The mists were getting thick.

Soon enough, he crested the hill and entered the shattered remains of what once could have been called a fort, now it was a haphazard pile of stones. But in the center, there she was.

She watched until they reached the foot of the hill upon which her fort perched, then turned from the window. Hrafnhildr replaced what contents of her pack she had removed and cinched it shut, turning down and buckling its rainflap. A pattering on the stones overhead and outside of the open portal into her tower indicated that the heavy clouds had begun to give up their rain again, and she tugged on the gut parka before sheathing her snow knife on her right leg, her skinning knife on the opposite, and binding the bolas back about her hips. Having long since doused the fire, she kicked its ashes to disperse them, and turned to the door, shouldering the pack onto her back. The soft sound of approaching hooves reached her ears above the softly falling rain, and she left her haven of the past days. The courtyard below was just as empty as it had been since she arrived, but this was soon to change. Hrafnhildr strode to the staircase behind the broken battlements, and descended from the wall with her eyes fixed on what had once been the gates. Even as she reached the center of the courtyard and came to a halt, there they were.

Two tall figures on horseback as she had seen in the distance, now standing before her. The first to enter, the object of her journey. The second, the taller one, looked amused with himself, and Hrafnhildr met the vampire’s lurid yellow eyes. She knew who he was; the Delgaran had described him in her letter, but further than that, tales of this creature and his ilk had been told around the campfires of the Lossoth for generations. A lean, towering figure; eyes yellow as a lynx, with stark white hair that seemed to move of its own accord: Arioch, denizen of the mountains of Angmar, ripper of throats and drinker of blood, Thuringwethil’s spawn, the last great vampire. Or so the stories said- Hrafnhildr wouldn’t have put it past the beast to have spread rumors of his own greatness. The sense of his fell presence was palpable, but she held his eyes, hard and unafraid. She had seen more fearsome things.

“Arioch,” she greeted him flatly, pushing back the hood of her gut parka just enough to reveal her face fully, resting behind the peak of her white braid. “Took you long enough.”

For the first time, she fixed the man she had come to guide with her glacial gaze. He was, as she remembered, slightly taller than she; his hair as dark and his face as pretty as she recalled, despite the passage of years. There was an air about him, though, of things unsettled. Her lip curled. “Frost.” When Hrafnhildr spoke this name, it landed like a glob of phlegm on the courtyard stones. “You look sick.” Her eyes flicked back to the vampire. “What have you done to him? She wanted him whole.” Not giving Arioch a chance to respond, she looked to Frost again. “I am called Hrafnhildr. Some know me as Ylva.” She considered him. “You may call me Hrafnhildr. I am to convey you safely to the Delgaran.”

Frost looked the woman up and down. She was severe and dark; her eyes were angry swells of storms. She wanted to be his escort as much as he wanted one. Still, there was a beauty within her, feral and spartan though it may have been. Her eyes, the set of her jaw, her hair, they all reminded him of someone. He couldn’t put his finger on who though. The question was destined to be an itch in the back of his mind until he figured it out. The more he looked at her, the more he felt like whomever her resemblance to should have been obvious, but the answer remained shrouded in smoke and flowing flurries of snow. The mystery frustrated him, but he remained as calm as he could. She and the vampire seemed to know each other, and both seemed to have a dismissive attitude toward each other. The Númenórean grumbled under his breath and pulled his cloak closer about him. The cold was setting in, he could feel the icy bite of the wind deep in his bones. Unable to find words suitable for the occasion, he gave the woman a perfunctory nod. She knew who he was, and was utterly uninterested in learning more about him, so Frost guessed from her attitude, and thus he was in no hurry to learn anything about her. However, the shadowy images of ravens and wolves followed in her wake in his mind. He squinted; she was someone he should know; he could feel that. “Ylva,” he finally said, testing the name he was not allowed to use and chuckled, she was prickly enough to be a she-wolf.

The rest of this trip was going to be even more dry and silent than the first half. For the umpteenth he wished he hadn’t tarried so long in the god forsaken country of strawheads. The impromptu mission he’d decided to embark on, the twisting and breaking of one of the Marshals to become a spy, witting or unwitting, had resulted in not only a lose of time, but the leeching on of lovesick puppy. Frost was normally quite good at espionage; however, he hadn’t expected the woman to latch onto him the way she had. Desperate, lonely women were often easy to break and bend to one’s will. She was a different kind of animal. Lonely and isolated, she clung to him like a newborn kitten. But he was no mother cat and had no patience for it. He was going to have to explain himself to the Delgaran. He had a very vivid idea what the punishment would be for this. Blasted Rohir! The whole lot of that country were useless. A pockmark on the landscape of Middle-Earth. Fully incensed by his own thought spiral, he hadn’t realized the woman spoke to him again until the vampire scoffed and oozed off his horse like liquid shadow.

“I did nothing to him. If anything, I saved him from deteriorating further. He has one her knives and decided to use it on himself to swear an oath. Humans have a deep love for the overdramatic, this one especially” His voice was mocking and casual. “We stopped by a village and I allowed him to engage his fighting spirit. Allowed him to use the knife in a way that would actually benefit him.”

Frost cast a glance over at the vampire and glared at him. He’d suspected that Arioch had deliberately provoked the already on edge townspeople but hadn’t broached the subject. For several days and nights, he had felt much better, more alive and aware of his surroundings. Yet still, his mental acuity had been declining, his awareness too. His body cramped at odd intervals, several times nearly causing him to fall from his horse and random flashes of heat threatened to burn him from the inside out, despite the deepening chill in the air. The knife. It all came down to that knife apparently. He grumbled again and tried to pull himself up and over his horse but as he swung his leg over, it cramped. The sudden and unexpected pain caused him to lose his balance, his horse reared up, startled, and Frost fell like a sack to the earth. The ground was cold and hard. He landed on his side. A mix of rage and humiliation, he picked himself up stood on unsteady legs. “Are there any dolmens around this area? Any tombs or mausoleums? I have a need to destroy something.” He hissed, looking from Hrafnhildr to Arioch. “Well?” He gripped the knife underneath his cloak. His hands were beginning to numb from the cold, but he felt the metal digging into the flesh of his hand, the wound he’d caused himself still raw and writhing.

The vampire chuckled dryly.

Frost wheeled about, pulling the massive sword from the scabbard. “I am in no mood, vampire. Where?” In his fury, Frost didn’t realize until he looked at his free hand that he was holding the dagger again. It gleamed in the frosty air. Frost’s vision blurred at the edges. He could have sworn he saw the blade writhe in his hand like a live serpent. He gritted his teeth angrily.

Arioch had not moved; his arms were cross over his chest in a display of casual indifference. Lazily, he looked over at Hrafnhildr. “You are going to have your hands full; the growing belligerence is a sign of his weakening resolve. Neither of us need Delgaran’s wrath over his demise. That wrath ought to be reserved for him.”

Frost’s knuckles cracked as he tightened the grips on his weapons. “Tell me vampire, or I swear I will send you to that void you have so long wanted to stave off!”

That got the vampire’s attention. Arioch placed a hand on his arming sword and before Frost could move into a defensive position, the vampire drew the blade, swept across his body in a sharp arc that knocked Frost’s larger weapon from his grasp. “If you were but in the fullness of your health, Son of the Morning, I might have cause to fear your threat. But you are an empty shell.” There was something in his voice that forced an echo into Frost’s head, a shrill piping of flutes. “The closer you get to her, the worse it will become. No deal you made can help you in her domain.”

On cue, Frost’s runic tattoos began to burn. They had burned like this once before, in the presence of Sombelenë. Strength ebbed from him and he crumpled to his knees in a wordless howl, the wound on his hand bubbled. Still, he was defiant. “Where is it?”

The vampire took another step, grabbed the hem of the cloak and wrenched the Númenórean back into a standing position. “Like your tutor, I am not one to be trifled with!” he spat. The vampire released him, whose unsteady footing nearly caused him to topple again. “There is a tomb not far from here. An ancient crypt belonging to one of the ancient Rohirric kings. I think that will suffice for you needs.” His bass voice resonated in the air. With a long pale arm, he pointed east.

Frost wordless climbed back on his horse and, without explanation, spurred the beast in the direction Arioch had pointed.

“He’ll be back,” Arioch said to Hrafnhildr, almost as an afterthought. “There’s a ritual he’ll want to complete in that crypt. Then he’ll be more fit for travel. And then we can talk about the price for my involvement in all this. Have you seen Keziah?”

Frost rode his steed hard. His wrath was a cauldron boiling over; it was the only thing sustaining him now. He needed something to rebuild his strength. Only once in a very long time had he been so weak. In Umbar, five years ago. He’d completed a ritual meant to draw a fey out of hiding that had left him frail and aged. The ritual was vampiric in nature, drawing on his own lifeforce to call something out from an aeonic slumber. He used another spell on a woman he met that day, or began working another spell, she had run off before he could siphon away all the years he’d lost. The lost little noblewoman, so sure of herself in a land of wolves and monsters. He presented himself as the only shining light in a land of shadow of void. Little had she known that he was the blackest thing that could have found her. Soon he came to an unnatural mound, crowned with a white stone covered in rudimentary pictographs of horses and riders. He paid little heed to the images though.

“There are voices in the air,” he began to sing, “There are voices in the air. They always find me, oh they find me, no matter where I go. There are voices in my head, oh there are voices in my head. They won't leave me, never leave me, no matter where I go.

“There are chains now in the field, there are chains now in the field. There's no freedom, no freedom. There's no freedom in the field. When I finally stop to breathe, when I finally stop to breathe all the voices, oh all the voices will only linger in the field, will only linger in the field, will only linger in the field.*”

The song was an old one, something for the old country, from the island paradise that had been stolen from his people. He hummed the tune as ripped the stone down. The earth groaned and protested as he tore away at the burial mound. He could the war of exhaustion and rage waging in his muscles. He howled wordlessly as the stone began to budge. Deep within, the rage began to build and build, pushing the exhaustion aside. Strength and warmth returned to him as the stone toppled and rolled down the hill. He snarled like a ravenous beast. He followed the stone to the entrance to the tomb. A single stone, circular and smooth stood in his way. His knuckles popped in anticipation. He pulled the stone away, his fingers finding a hideous strength as his quarry lay within reach. A stench burst forth from the now open tomb, but Frost was able to ignore it. His focus was sharpening. He entered the darkness, air thrumming around him in an aura of dangerous potential energy. His tattoos buzzed.


The incantation vibrated into the empty, hollow space. The stench fled and the tomb was replaced with an emptiness so complete that the air was suffocating with extraneous, hellish heat. The words died, echoing longer than they should have in an enclosed space like this. Frost was alone. Before he was a large stone sarcophagus with a heavy lid lain upon the tomb. The Númenórean took a deep breath, gripped the edges, and pushed off with his long legs. The lid creaked and groaned then roared as it toppled over, crashing and shattering on the ground. Frost spat contemptuously and looked into the opened grave. A skeleton dressed in kingly finery lay exposed and vulnerable. Rage filled Frost like warm mulled wine. He picked up the skull of the long dead king and laughed. “Did you think you’d lay here undisturbed until they came back to set all things right? Did you think you’d ride at the right hand of Bema?” He squeezed and squeezed, and the brittle bones began to crack. “You were nothing. He never even knew your name. You are nothing now and you were nothing in death.” He squeezed more and the skull burst into myriad shards of bone. Frost inhaled the stale grave air and felt invigorated. He took one of the thigh bones and placed it in the folds of his cloak. Strength began to return to him; he felt the way he had when he drew the dagger across those Rohirrim’s throats. Ecstatic with rage, Frost began smashing the bones, cracking and splintering them until there was naught left but dust. His breath was ragged and uneven, drool dripped from his chin as howled like a wolf. “I am the Son of the Morning! I am the Anathema of Light! I am the Child of Black Stars. YOU. ARE. NOTHING!” Where the bones had once lain peacefully, he drew a rudimentary crown, the crown resembling his master, his lord, the Witch-King. “May the Ice be cold, and the Iron be cruel.” Life surged into him again, he breathed deep and he howled again, filling the empty, silent air with ravening, rapacious madness.

He returned to the broken fortress, where both Arioch and Hrafnhildr were waiting. “Well,” he said, “What do we do next?”

OOC: (*lyrics taken from Borknagar’s “Voices”, ** lyrics adapted from Behemoth’s “Messe Noire”)


NPF edit: *Macklemore's Glorious begins playing in the distance*

Of course his first thought was to mouth the name she had denied him permission to use. She wondered how he would react if she should call him by his unchosen name- but this would lead to question she did not wish to answer, and so Hrafnhildr held back the barb. He stared at her, and she stared back, impassive in his searching gaze. Arioch explained the source of Frost’s ill countenance, and she could not restrain a snort. Again she held back any cutting remarks and rather watched as he attempted to dismount his horse, and whatever physical calamity he was suffering gripped him, causing the horse to rear and the man to crash to the ground like an unschooled child. Her eyes had flicked sharply to follow his progress, but Hrafnhildr remained still. And silent, as Frost demanded to know if there were any sites nearby he might defile for his own selfish purposes. Arioch was no more forthcoming than she at first, but when Frost produced the dagger, both of their attentions sharpened. The weapon was indeed a twin of that which Hrafnhildr herself had seen on the hip of the Delgaran in Carn Dûm- but naked, it seemed alive in the man’s hand, as if calling out in thirst. Frost had whetted its appetite, and the deceptively jeweled thing was thirsty.

Swiftly however, Arioch’s mood soured. He threw down Frost’s sword and the man himself returned to the ground, howling with pain and clutching his festering wound. Still he insisted, and the vampire relented, pointing Frost in the direction of an ancient tomb nearby. He was gone without a word, and Hrafnhildr returned her attention to Arioch. “No,” she replied; Arioch’s lover was known to her, but had not shown herself since Hrafnhildr had taken up residence in the ruin. She folded her arms and waited in silence. If the vampire was after payment, he would have to take it up with the Delgaran. It was no business of hers. The rain pattered on the hood of her gut parka, dripping from the branches of nearby trees, from the manes and tails of the horses, and tan in rivulets down the decrepit gutters of the ruin around them. Beneath the parka and the fine wool of her tunic, a faint tingle traced patterns in Hrafnhildr’s skin. She turned her head to look at where Frost had gone, her eyes narrowing fractionally. She continued to watch the empty edge of the forest without expression, until the faint echo of a human howl reached them above the sound of the rain. With a soft noise of dissent through her nose, Hrafnhildr looked away. The tingling, which had intensified over the time she waited, began to fade, and had gone entirely by the time Frost returned to the ruin.

As if in answer to his question, the breathless rush of vast dark wings announced the arrival of Keziah, come silently on the rainy winds to this derelict place. So swift was her descent that she might have sprung up from the ground rather than the air, the massive burgundy-black wings that wrapped her body as she landed folding back and away to reveal the column of vampiric woman. Warped by the fell power which had transformed her ancestors and imbued itself in her, Keziah stood nearly as tall as Arioch, and where one might have expected to see whites in the eyes, hers were bloody-crimson, surrounding the pales of irises. Her hair, which seemed to have landed slightly later than the rest of her, settled about her in a thick black wave, seemingly untouched by the rain, and here and there glimmering with an echo of her wings’ hue. Keziah turned, an unnatural movement led by her chin and seeming to wrap around her body in a spiral until it reached her feet, and settled her gaze upon Arioch. “My love,” she greeted him, her voice like the rustling of pearls, “It is time, is it not?”

He sat atop his black destrier who stamped at the ground impatiently. They stood on a ridge overlooking the ruined fortress. He felt invigorated, energetic, fiery. Where before he’d felt sluggish and drained, as if his life essence was drifting away, now he felt full of life and vitality. He did not try to suppress the twisted grin that found its way onto his face. It was like he’d eaten a feast, a feast prepared for him alone. He was ready to ride out and destroy everything in his path. Verily, his hands twitched with anticipation. Even his horse, the nameless beast he’d ridden all the way from the White City, thrummed with energy. His vision had cleared. Instead of fog and vague senses of color and light, he saw things with a sharpness he had not experienced before he touched the dagger. He saw more shades of blue, grey, and brown. Textures were alive, he could almost feel them just as he looked at them. His periphery was wider too. Atop the ridge he could see far, far beyond him. Looking straight at the ruins, he could make out, just in the corner of his eye, the trail he’d made to the desecrated tomb. His senses of hearing and smell were increased too, he could smell the rain, the crisp, clean, icy sensation on the tip of his taste buds.

He forced himself, and his horse, to remain still. He watched the fortress as the rains continued to come down. The drizzle had slowly given way to sheets of rain and sleet. The air was lethargic. His breath was a great white plume of smoke that swirled with the rain. He watched it rise, stretch out, and form the silhouette of a ghostly spider. He exhaled again; the fog wrapped around the spider like a web. A sourceless, directionless light backlit his creation as it expanded and expanded, finally dissolving a moment later. “May the ice be cold and the iron be cruel,” he whispered.

The Númenórean chuckled grimly and turned back to the broken fortress. He didn’t know what it was about the place, shattered, decrepit, and abandoned, but he liked it. The towers were long crumbled, and the walls had collapsed in multiple places. Still, he could see the place restored in his mind’s eye, the towers restored and shrouded, its walls reinforced with ice and web. Having a tower this far north, a place between Angmar and Mordor that he could call solely his own, his domain, his realm. He gripped the reins tighter. Being this far north again awoke something in him again. Something he thought long dead. A strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, a longing. Nostalgia? He inhaled the frozen air and felt the icy wind stab through his lungs like a frozen knife. It felt good to feel that cold again. He missed it. He missed Iduna. But he was never getting her back. She belonged to a past he could never return to, a life he could only live out in his imagination. The three of them. It would not have been an easy life, but it would have been worthwhile.

“Well,” he said, “What do we do next?”

He’d barely said the words when she appeared. Frost had not been unnerved many times in his life. He could count on a single hand how many instances he’d been worried about his survival. The instant she appeared, a coiling, swirling mass of black and crimson. She was a sanguine whirlwind. She was taller, taller than him. She was a spike of black energy, the air sizzled and sparked with necrotic energies. If Arioch was the picture of hedonism and decadence, she was the picture of feral vitality, a huntress in her apex form. Frost had heard rumors about her. Tales whispered in brothels from men who claimed to have spent an evening with her. He had known they were lies then, he confirmed it now. This creature, Keziah, would have torn through them and eaten them screaming. The horse whinnied nervously and tired to step back. A swift, carefully aimed boot and a strong hand on the rein were the only things keeping the beast from bolting. Frost did not blame it. They were a terrifying, unearthly pair, these vampires. What was she doing here? There was an itch in the back of his mind, like the tingling of a strand of web. He looked up in the sky. The sun had not gone down yet, but the sky was rapidly darkening. The darkness was coming sooner than it should have. Something monumental was about to happen here. Frost tightening his grip.


The vampire smiled, his mouth twisting into something animalistic, and hungry. She had arrived. The air was alight with her power and energy. Instinctively, he moved closer, his energy and power craving hers, craving wholeness. “It is time indeed,” his voice was like a roar contained within the bounds of a whisper. He took her hand, pale but alive with an infernal heat, and kissed it. His black wings spread out about them, wrapping and encapsulating the two of them within their own world. The world outside, the rains, the horses, the humans, they were all of utter insignificance now. As it had for nigh on two thousand years that they had met, drawn together by the scent of slaughter to indulge in their instinctual feasting. They had devoured a countryside that night, and then each other.

“The stars and planets have come ‘round again to that moment when we met all those years ago. The alignment has perfected itself.”

Arioch furled his wings, vast black pits of woven midnight dissipated and vanished like fog before the morning sun. Reluctantly, he tore his gaze from Keziah, her eyes as enrapturing, hypnotic, and seductive as they had been that night. He turned and moved so that he stood next to Keziah, facing both humans. He looked from Frost, his vitality seemingly restored, and Hrafnhildr, a statue of shimmering ice. “You are two are to be witnesses to the events of this night. It will be the greatest honor of your brief, mayfly lives, and the greatest of responsibilities. Two thousand years ago, I met this woman, this fallen plague angel. I knew then I would claim her as mine, as she claimed me that night. The stars have wheeled and whirled above us ever since, dancing and skittering until they finally reach their starting positions again. It is on this night, in this place, the ceremony must take place.” He took a step forward, his hard, yellow gaze never leaving Frost’s, he assumed Keziah’s was locked on Hrafnhildr. The man, still ahorse, did not move. “It is our custom that we wait until the stars and planets realign to the position of our first meeting. We are not like the virtuous elves,” he spat the mocking words, his yellow eyes becoming colder and hungrier, “we do not rush into monogamous unions. Such things are anathema to us, creatures of passion hedonism. We delight for aeons in the company of others whilst holding that one glorious exemplar of the hunt, we set the world aflame and look to force our vision upon it. We do not wish to merely vanish into the trees or live under rocks like the ‘First Born’, the children of stars. We are revelers and revelators.” The Númenórean’s horse stamped nervously and took a step back as the vampire lunged forward, his form shifting from one place to another rather than conventional movement and grabbed the reins from the human, yanking them from his hands. “You, Frost of House Nûlukhô, will be the Challenger.” He waited a heartbeat to see if there was a hint of recognition on the Númenórean’s face, there was not so he continued, his grasp firm on the horse. “The so-called ‘Worst Man’. It will be your duty to battle me for the hand of Keziah.” There was a look of shock in the ocean blue eyes. Arioch smiled viciously. “Should you be victorious and slay me, then she is yours to attempt to claim. However, if I win, then our union will suffer no challenges from that moment to the moment of our utter dissolution.” He stated the terms in such a way that did not brook argument or bargaining, did not allow the human to wiggle out or refuse. If he did not, then Arioch would force him. He looked at the man’s sword, strapped to his hip. “And you must convince my bride to be,” he broke the intensity of his gaze to turn back to Keziah, his eyes drinking in her silhouette like a ravenous wolf, “or she will drink away that life you hold with such an iron grasp.”

He took a step back, releasing the horse. Keziah would explain the part Hrafnhildr was to play in this performance. There was still one more player that needed to arrive to play her part: his stubborn, rage-filled familiar, Belisaria.

Belisaria! Belisaria! It is time for you to have fulfilled your duty. You are called to me now, with the rings I charged you with procuring from the Tingdain in the tree light infested city of Imladris. Come to me, I command you. Belisaria! Arrive and attend to your mistress.

The troll-fells passed beneath her, mounds of earth rising and falling in wan hues which matched the gravelly skin of the trolls who had once inhabited those lands. Belisaria had flown above and even among them in those times, harassing them by diving at their eyes and scraping at their stony flesh. Those had been happier days than this one. She could feel his presence nearby; the reprieve she had been granted when he had been sent south ended sharply with a sudden tightness in her chest, as if his fist were gripping her little heart in an act of coercion.

She opened her mouth and hissed in his direction. While their connection had surged painfully back to the fore of her awareness, she was bound south - away from him, for now - on an errand.

Belisaria had been born in ancient days, meant to roam freely and far, for the whole of her short life. He had taken even death from her. But his grip upon her was not so complete that she could not indulge in spiteful detours as she fluttered south to complete her task. She saw in her mind’s eye the shape of a hawk drifting serenely upon a thermal updraft, and she veered off course to meet it midair. Although the hawk was the swifter of the two and easily matched her unnaturally large wingspan, Belisaria was strong enough to overpower it. She also possessed a keen intelligence, another unwanted gift from her master. She attacked from behind, sinking her claws into its back and initiating a downward spiral of loose feathers and blood and shrieks from both hawk and bat. She channeled her rage into a frenetic effort to strip away the hawk’s wing and tail feathers. She clicked and hissed as they tumbled, then opened her wings wide at the last moment to take to the air again as it plummeted, unconscious, to the ground like a stone. She ate well and left behind a shredded mess of entrails for some unhappy traveler to discover. It would do for now.

She came upon the valley of elves at dusk and clicked her disgust at the lights shining brightly below her. The building to which she was bound was set apart from the rest, which meant fewer eyes and fewer fires glowing up at her. Her every instinct strained against the task she had been set, but still she descended toward the lone building, easily spotted from above by the plumes of smoke rising from tall chimneys. A forge. She dove swiftly and fluttered through an open window. How careless and arrogant of these elves, to leave their treasures exposed and vulnerable. She felt her master’s smug satisfaction rising within her when she hooked her claws through two large, golden rings. They were not trivial burdens, either; both were set with gems which sparkled in the firelight and whose light made Belisaria wince. As swiftly as she’d come, she left through the open window. No one would know what had become of the rings.

The journey north held fewer chances for sport, lest she lose one or both of the rings in the wild. That did not preclude her from considering dropping them into a large ravine which yawned below her. They could tumble downward, into the river which had carved away the stone, and out to sea. Belisaria herself could do so and end her suffering. But a will that was not her own prevented her from making the dive and sent her hurtling northward again as fast as her wings could carry her.

The grip on her heart intensified as she neared the spot where Arioch stood. His thought rang clearly in her mind, and she flailed momentarily in the rain which had begun to pour, soaking her to the bone and causing the rings to slip in her grasp.

Belisaria! Belisaria! It is time for you to have fulfilled your duty. You are called to me now, with the rings I charged you with procuring from the Tingdain in the tree light infested city of Imladris. Come to me, I command you. Belisaria! Arrive and attend to your mistress.

Despite the pain of her muscles beginning to seize with the strain, she clenched her grip around the rings and flew on, drawn to him like iron to a lodestone. Four figures - why four? - stood below her. Her master, a new mistress, and two unknown to her. She had arrived. She released the rings at last, letting them tumble through the rain to Arioch, before gliding down to settle reluctantly upon his shoulder.

My task is done.

She was having trouble keeping her eyes open. The sun was barely at its zenith, just touching the midpoint. They’d been riding since pre-dawn though, pushing through field and forest, over rills and gullies, along dry riverbeds and vales. She never imagined a world so large. The world had always been small to her, either existing within the narrow confines of her terrestrial reality, limited to the farms and homesteads and horses, or within the past, in stories of yonder years and days gone by. The first day after they set out from Edoras she’d burst into tears, unable to comprehend or process the exponential expansion of her world. She was ready for such things as imagination transmuting into reality. Lucky for her companion, her tears were not tears of grief, uncertainty, or uncontrolled anguish, they were tears of joy, of introductions, of new life. They had to stop early that day. Soon after she started crying, she began to laugh. They stood at the edge of a valley, a verdant expanse that engulfed the horizons, tall grey mountains on either side of them, rising until their heads were lost amidst puffy white clouds. Birds sang, hundreds of them, dozens of species, filling the air with a wild natural symphony. In the distance, along the rim of the valley she saw a tiny, crystal blue waterfall. Nothing like this should exist. Places like this should only exist in stories. But it was real. It was all real! She had never seen anything like this before. Even in her mind’s eye when reading stories of ancient heroes and impossible quests, she’d never been able to picture something so, so perfect. Exuberant nature, though, would not be denied a place within her pools of memory. It refused subtlety, revealing itself in wild, absurd grandiosity. What did it mean, that such places could exist, places out of imagination? Walpurga didn’t know. She’d stared, standing at the lip of the valley, too dumbstruck to move, to think, to process. The only proper response to such a bending and stretching was to cry, to laugh.

Kamion, to his everlasting credit, gave her the space she needed. He’d seen it all before of course, had likely seen this valley, this sight a hundred times by now. Was the surreal beauty lost on him yet? She couldn’t figure him out. She’d been trying for days now. Had been since he’d helped her escape Edoras and all its sour memories. He was a good man, that much she knew. But there was more to him, had to be. There was no such thing as just a good man. He had to have depths. Did he know he had depths? He was so stoic, so duty bound, she wasn’t sure if he did.

He rode ahead of her, a mountain of a man on a mountain of a horse. He kept a quick but not hurried pace. She rubbed her eyes, stifling a yawn. Her vision blurred. A squeak from her side brought her attention from the dusty, well-trod road to her side, to the pack she kept slung across her shoulder. Another squeak, and then a third. Walpurga grinned and opened the flap, keeping her balance on Svanhildr by squeezing her legs. Out popped a tiny fluff ball, black and white. Sally, the middle child of her baby skunks squeaked, mewed, and skittered up her shoulder, nestling in the spot where shoulder met neck. It was her favorite spot. Ecthelion, the male, and the oldest, came out next. He was larger than his sister. He took his place on her lap, resting his tiny head on the head of the stirrup. Last, came little Pinig, the runt of the litter. She might have been the smallest, but she had the fiercest attitude. She took her spot on Walpurga’s hip. It was a precarious position but she refused to be moved, squeaking in protestation every time Walpurga had tried to move her to a spot that would have been more comfortable for both of them. In the end, the battle of wills was won by the tiniest, floofiest creature Walpurga had ever seen.

When they’d set out, none of the skunks had names. She’d had them for weeks, had tried a half dozen names but none of them were right, none of them fit. Sally was the first to get a name. Kamion asked her name (after recovering from the shock of seeing a trio of skunklings pour like water out of their mother’s pouch) and immediately suggested Sally after learning they still had no names. The skunk that would become Sally chirped her agreement and that was the end of the debate. That night, around a fire, Kamion, after a dozen questions from Walpurga, told a partial telling of the Fall of Gondolin. When he was done, Walpurga decided that the boy ought to be named Ecthelion after the great elven hero. Immediately upon receiving his name, Ecthelion skuttled to the fire and began digging, throwing enough dirt to put the fire out in a flash. “Appropriately named, I’d say,” Kamion had said, picking up Ecthelion and rebuilding the fire. The last, the tiniest, hissed and whined, sensing that she was the last without a name. “Pinig,” he suggested, “Sindarin for Little One.” And just like that, all three of her skunk babies had names at last.

Brocktree, the badger cub she’d rescued on her first, and only, mission with the Rohan Cavalry, claimed Kamion as his throne, often climbing up on his shoulder to watch the horizon. They made a strange troupe: two humans, a horse, a pony, three skunks, and a badger. Yet, as she reflected, there was no other way it could have come to pass.

Walpurga was grateful for the easy pace. Svanhildr was as well, she suspected. The unfamiliar territory, at times, felt like it would overwhelm and consume her. The world was bigger, far bigger than she’d imagined possible. Each day the horizon was further and further away. The road was an endless, meandering serpent without head or tail, an ouroboros. As awestruck and full of wanderlust as she was, there was a nagging feeling of smallness in her mind, the way a leaf must feel being swept along in a great river. It was exhilarating and wonderful, but it was also terrifying. There was never any telling what might lie around the next bend or beyond the next hill. But Kamion never worried, and she took comfort in that. She watched him like a hawk, the easy way he moved, graceful as flowing water, and did her best to emulate him. She was a gawky, awkward girl but with more than a little concentration and focus, she found that she could ride Svanhildr, her little feral pony almost as well and easy as he rode his giant equine beast. She watched how he examined trails, watched the horizons, observed the skies. A hundred questions filled her mind, wanting to burst from her lips like a torrent, but more often than not she stayed silent, doing her best to learn by observing. There was still a lingering doubt in her mind, a doubt of who and what he was. She knew many things he was not, but there were many gaps to be filled. Yet she had no idea how to ask him, she’d never had any precedent on how to ask questions. Their roles were still undefined and nebulous. Neither of them seemed able or willing to break the unspoken barrier of definition that sat between them.

Despite leaving with a clear conscience, the young Rohir often looked back those first few days, back to the silhouette of Edoras. She didn’t regret leaving the city, not one bit. She knew she’d made the right choice to leave. She’d been afraid to do it, been so scared that she’d be trapped forever if she didn’t, but now that she had, she couldn’t help but wonder at the circumstances. Pure happenstance, pure chance. That was all that had freed her from the bonds of that city, of that society. How could something some random change her life so profoundly? If it had not been Kamion, would it have been someone else? Would she have finally found the courage on her own? How long would she have waited? She looked back at times, scared that she might see that Marshal riding them down, wielding sword and reprimand, admonishing Walpurga, calling her a coward and a traitor to her oath. But she wasn’t even in Edoras when Walpurga and Kamion had left. She had sent Walpurga a “gift” the day before she left: two of the three wolf skins they’d killed on the mission they’d been paired together. Walpurga couldn’t believe the audacity of the Marshal. She’d chastised Walpurga after the fight, called her thoughtless and foolhardy, as if she were her mother. The Marshal was a strange woman who often looked at Walpurga when she thought she wasn’t looking in the strangest, most uncomfortable ways, like she was assessing her, inspecting her. The gift was an insult, a reminder that Walpurga wasn’t in control of her own fate. But she rejected that. She gave the wolfskins to the innkeeper and her husband, regifting an insult to her agency and turning it into something good. It felt right.

They were on the road to a place called Tharbad, a ruined settlement that had once been a thriving city of the Númenóreans in the old days. Every time Kamion mentioned the Númenóreans, Walpurga sensed something, not from the Dúnedain’s words themselves but images they provoked. She couldn’t pin down exactly what the feeling was though. Each time she thought she could put a name it, it escaped and flittered about her before vanishing. Her father. It must have been. From the bare descriptions she wrung from her mother, the appearance of Kamion and his description of the ancient, sunken island’s people, she surmised he must be from that stock. But the only folk that still called themselves Númenóreans were down in Umbar, and she’d heard and read enough stories to know that poking around that particular cave would be a bad idea. Still, seeing a ruin that she could claim a connection to would be astounding. There was certainly going to be a gloom about it, a sadness, but it was sadness she knew she needed to feel, to understand. If she was going to find her place in this every expanding, infinite world, she needed to understand that kind of sorrow. She had been so consumed and trapped with her own grief and longing that she had not been able to seek out other emotions or perspectives. She would do that on this journey with Kamion.

As Kamion explained it, beyond Tharbad there was a bridge over the River Gwathló, Greyflood. She had vague ideas from stories she’d heard and books she’d read about the river, but it had never been within her grasp. It was the furthest place in her world she felt like she had a connection to. Cities like Minas Tirith or the Grey Havens were of mythical status, existing in a place both real and unreal, but the Greyflood was real, just on the boundary of her imagination.

They would be within sight of the abandoned settlement by evening at their current pace. Walpurga itched to go faster, to reach their destination faster. She very nearly thrummed with nervous energy now, yet her eyes were still heavy. She existed in that moment in a place in the middle of both anticipation and exhaustion. Her skunks could feel her inner turmoil. Ecthelion began to paw at her, making biscuits the way kittens often would; Sally changed her sleeping position at least a dozen times in half an hour, and little Pinig chirped an endless, no doubt enthralling story. They could all sense that something big was on the horizon, just below the next hill. Kamion, from Walpurga’s vantage point, didn’t have the same anxious anticipation. He was as outwardly stoic, logical, and rational as he had always been.

“How long ‘til we can see the ruins?” she finally asked, unable to maintain the pretense of composure any longer. She smiled, her deep ocean blue eyes sparkling in the sun.

When the trio of skunklets had appeared from Walpurga’s bag, Kamion had done his very best not to look utterly flabbergasted. Skunks?! Who on earth kept skunks as pets? Apparently Walpurga- and as he looked at her earnest, anxious face, he couldn’t think of any way to tell her she couldn’t bring them. Instead, he had joked that she’d have to make sure they, too, gathered their share of the firewood. While he had been occupied with the revelation of the skunks, another creature had emerged from the bag, unnoticed by the Dúnadan until it began to climb up his leg: a baby badger, all soft-striped fur and shining black eyes, its nose twitching curiously. At that point there was nothing he could do but laugh, detach the badger from his trouser leg, and suggest that they get on their way. So they had, departing from Edoras without fanfare as dawn began to creep over the city, and when they had crested a rise on the North-South Road some time later to overlook the valely beyond, Kamion brought Faran to a halt. He had given vent to a deep, appreciative sight of the valley beyond, a sight that never got old, and a clear indication that Rohan was fading behind them. Walpurga had burst into tears, followed by gales of laughter. Though her reaction was more extreme than he had expected, Kamion wasn’t completely surprised. The wide world was an overwhelming place, even when it was with beauty, and he couldn’t imagine what this young woman was feeling seeing it for the first time.

He had wanted to- not comfort her, for her outburst was not of pain, but to offer her whatever support she might need. For the moment, his instinct was to simply allow her whatever time or space she needed to react to this new world, without judgement. He was in no rush. That first night around the fire had been eventful, with the exercise of his storytelling skills and the naming of the other two skunks. The full complement of Ecthelion, Sally, and Pinig, somehow seemed pleased with their names, and that was also the first time Brocktree had clambered up Kamion’s back to perch upon his shoulder. It was a broad platform for the young badger, and the Dúnadan found that his soft, musky scent was not at all unpleasant. With a tickle of his finger under Brocktree’s chin and the feeding of a bit here and there of his dinner to the badger, their friendship was quickly cemented. Despite the relative ease of that first day, the animals seemed to be settling in more quickly than the people. The next few days were not exactly uncomfortable, but there was that invisible barrier that always exists between people of new acquaintance, and they had not had the leisure to get to know one another and break it down before leaping into a scenario where they must trust each other, and where he must be responsible for her safety. Kamion did his best to behave normally, and to not interrogate his companion, though he had many questions about how she had come to find herself in such a situation.

These were the easy days of the journey, and for the most part he held Faran to a companionable stroll. Svanhildr, as Walpurga’s pony was called, was much smaller than the ill-tempered gelding and, he suspected, no more used to long journeys than her mistress. Though Faran could be incomparably lazy when he felt like it, he at first expressed his resentment of the slow pace with disgruntled whisking of his tail and frequent rumblings of complaint. But eventually he seemed to realize the purpose and accept it grudgingly, even going so far as to sleep near Svanhildr when they stopped for the night. Today, they were approaching Tharbad, and the border into the north that was Gwathló, and with them, the end of the easy peaceful days. Of course, there was no guarantee that they would have anything but an easy time of it on the remainder of the journey, but the difficult river crossing was symbolic of the increased danger of the lands they would be passing into. Kamion glanced back at Walpurga as they rode, catching her staring off into the distance. Quickly he looked ahead again. Her boundless amazement delighted the Dúnadan, but his brow furrowed as he thought. Walpurga had been -if short lived- a member of the cavalry, and yet she had brought no weapon with her, not even a knife. Kamion was confident in his ability to protect her should the need arise, and he had escorted the defenselenss before, but he had a feeling she was not one of those. Perhaps tonight he would make it his goal to find out the extent of her training. Part of Faran’s burden as they journeyed north was a bundle of swords to be delivered to Kamion’s northern kin, and if Walpurga was comfortable with one in her hand, Kamion would be happier. Brocktree chittered in his ear, and the Dúnadan laughed, reaching up one finger to scratch the badger beneath his chin.

“Not paying enough attention to you, eh?” Brocktree chirped and flattened himself on Kamion’s shoulder, his snout pointing forward to watch the road ahead. Aside from Faran and his predecessors, who could hardly be called pets in the frist place, Kamion had never been one to keep a pet. And Brocktree was not his of course, but he could feel himself becoming quite fond of the odd creature already. They had begun a long climb, not steep, but a steadily upward sloping of the road that carried on for miles, and Faran leaned into it with a will, pulling further ahead from Svanhildr. But when Walpurga called out from behind them, Kamion shifted in his seat and Faran sighed, but obeyed, slackening his pace to allow the pony and its mistress to catch up. Kamion looked down at her and smiled back- he would have done anyway, but her eagerness was infectious, and his eyes crinkled deeply. “Not long now! We should be able to catch a glimpse of them from the top of this hill.” Together they reached the end of the climb at last, and Kamion brought Faran to a halt.

“There,” he said, leaning slightly and pointing to what from this distance were grey smudges on the horizon, “It’s closer than it looks, but there’s bound to be some mist between here and there.” It had been over a hundred years since Tharbad had been ruined, but Kamion still felt a strange pang every time he drew near it. “I wish I could have seen it in its prime,” he confessed aloud to Walpurga, “My father tells such stories of what Tharbad used to look like before the Fell Winter. Even then it was nothing compared to what it had been, but the shapes were at least the same, and so he says, you could imagine the Númenóreans of old here at their shipyards, and the scenes of victory after the Battle of the Gwathló.” His eyes brightened as he looked upon the land before them and recalled his study of the battle. “From there,” Kamion pointed to the southwest, where the mouth of the Gwathló would lie, “king Tar-Minastir sent his fleet. And there,” he pointed to the north, “Gil-galad the High King came with his elves and the Númenóreans who rode with them. And both forces fell upon Sauron there at Tharbad, and routed him,” he brought his hands together, pointing toward the ruined city. He could almost hear the sounds of battle, and see the ghostly hosts of elves and the Men who were his ancestors. Smiling at his fancy, Kamion looked back at Walpurga, and now his voice was serious.

“From here, the road grows rougher and more dangerous, both in itself and what we may meet along the way. The crossing at Tharbad is treacherous, but will save us several days of travel if we choose to take it, rather than going around to the next ford. I’m relying on you to tell me when we get there if you think you and Svanhildr can handle the crossing. Don’t answer now before you’ve seen it. Come,” his tone lightened and he winked, taking up the reins again, “would you care to pick up the pace?”

Walpurga inhaled, took in a breath of the cool, damp air, it smelled something very like petrichor, but not quite a strong or as vibrant. She nudged Svanhildr to hurry her pace until they reached Kamion and Brocktree. Having the virtue of being taller and sitting atop a taller horse (and likely a host of other advantaged Walpurga had yet to suss out), he could see further than she could. What he pointed at looked a grey smudge against a wide swath of green and brown. She looked back at him, observed him. She hadn’t had much of an opportunity to do so until now. The potential fatherly aspect of his countenance had faded, it had been replaced by something she hadn’t quite put a name to. It was not quite brotherly, it was too distant for that, too unfamiliar. A mentor, perhaps? Protector? A mixture? She looked at his eyes, there was something there, an unspoken desire perhaps? There was something missing, and he was searching for it, always searching. His eyes were restless and elegiac.

It was then that Brocktree appeared and made his presence known. She smiled, her ocean blue eyes twinkling. They had taken to each other, Kamion and Brocktree. Neither of them seemed in desperate need of companionship, but they both needed it, she could tell. Brocktree, without any other badgers to play with, had been forced to play with three much smaller skunks and, while he never seemed upset or discontent, he never lived his full potential. With Kamion, Brocktree seemed to blossom. He became more expressive and noisier, his mischievous personality had begun to assert itself, often to the amusement of the humans watching him play. Kamion, too, seemed to benefit from the friendship. He was brighter, less pensive. Walpurga was happy they’d found each other. Faran, Kamion’s warhorse, and Svanhildr had also come to some sort of camaraderie. Faran making sure that little pony did not fall too far behind and had a friend at night. He was still ill-tempered and impatient, but Svanhildr never on the receiving end of the fouler parts of his temper. All in all, the animals seemed to fall into an easy rhythm as time had gone on.

Walpurga could only hope that eventually she and Kamion would as well. They had not been awkward, that was the wrong word for it, but they had been very content with the distance, the impenetrable space that existed between them. He had not pried too deeply into the reasons and catalysts of her journey, nor had she offered. She wanted to, but something held her back. A warning voice in the back of her mind, the voice that told her he’d never understand, that he’d reject her like all the others had in the past if she unburdened too much. In truth, she had told him far more than she had ever intended. Far more. She spent a good portion of her solitude telling herself she’d been a fool for that, that that was the reason why he was so distant now. She’d violated some sort of mentor/ward statute and was now being punished for it. Still, his presence was comforting, and he was not unkind.

He was an excellent storytelling. Ecthelion, as if summoned by the start of tale, perked up in her lap and watched the Dúnedain expectantly. Walpurga, too, listened with rapt attention. Tharbad was not mentioned often in the books and stories she’d read. It had once been an important place, but it had fallen into disrepair and as trade and culture shifted toward Minas Tirith it was mentioned less and less. She’d read a romance poem about a man that lived there, who looked out on the bridge each day for his lover to return, each stanza ended with the man feeling more and more alone until he finally decided to stop going to the bridge at all. It was then he’d found that the sailor snuck around him, hiding so that when he returned, he could surprise him. It was a nice poem, long and full of long-winded descriptions of sadness and moroseness but ended with a beautiful description the bridge.

She caught a look in Kamion’s face as he told his story, a short history of the now ruined town. It was only there for a second, she blinked, and it changed. She almost thought she’d imagined it. It was a wistful look, sad, but mixed with hope. She felt the overwhelming urge to ask him more about Tharbad, about his father. But the look in his eyes now, one of serious focus and determination forestalled her. Now was not the time.

Influenced by his sudden mood change, Walpurga felt herself grow more serious and focused as well. His demeanor serving as a reminder that the world she was adventuring into was fraught with potential dangers around every corner or beyond every hill. The air seemed a bit chiller, the wind picked up and blew away the scent of petrichor. A knot formed in her stomach. She wasn’t afraid. That was the wrong word for it, but the sudden reminder and awareness of the risks that surrounded her had certainly taken hold. There was a balance to what she was doing. She was excited, she was finally branching in the world of stories and tales, into the unknown, but she was also journeying to places where a frivolous, overeager step could be the last. There was no greater reminder of this than when she looked back at the ruins of Tharbad. The mists still clung the broken grey, monochromatic buildings. The ruins looked, not sad, but melancholic. They had been a great site many ages ago, a place of grandeur fallen and forgotten. The broken bits of buildings, monuments, and artistry chilled and broke her heart all at once. This had been a place where children ran in the streets and played, where sailors came in, where people lived, thrived, and grew old, where people plied trade, wrote love ballads, studied history. It was more than just a name on a faded map. It had existed once, but now it was barely a whisper. No children laughed in its streets, no sailors called to their loved ones, no street criers extol news of faraway. All the happiness and life and been sifted out. What was there now? Sinister thoughts entered Walpurga’s head. She thought, here and there, she saw something in the mists, something creeping and skulking. But surely that was her imagination.

She closed her eyes and inhaled. The air had the faintest scent of decay on it, rotting undergrowth, earthy. She opened her eyes, looked at the ruins again, and gave it a sad smile. “Lead the way, my lord.” She hoped her light tone would cover the fact the sneaking doubt that entered her mind. It was not fear so much as a vague sense of misgiving. There was nothing she could see, but the ruins held so a force of sadness and forlornness that she wanted to be through them as soon as possible. She gripped the reins. Svanhildr protested, swishing her tail irritably before starting. The skunk triplets seemed eager as well, they squeaked and chittered and milled about, restless as she felt inside. “I’ve heard stories about the bridge here,” she said at long last. The hill behind them. “That there’s some sort of elven magic to it. Is there any truth to that? Did your father ever see it before it... ” her voice trailed off as she watched the grey shapes loom up out of the mist and shadow.

The muzzle of the beast broke first through the smothering gloom. It bellowed in it’s silent prowl the undisputed advance of a predator, and silence reigned, perhaps in breathless intrigue of this, the latest trespass. There had been no predecessor to their arrival in years now uncounted, and the ship might have gone utterly unmarked save for a pair of roosting birds, that took up to the sky, vomiting an eerie echo of alarm. Maybe the brute head of the ferocious figurehead had been enough to spook them, for the oars of the black-hulled carrack merely licked the cheerless depths of dark forbidding water. The vessel manouvred with a stealth that belied it’s impressive stature, all voices aboard were stifled. Maybe in awe of the alien landscape. Or in wonder at the motive of the Man who had mastered this cargo to such shores.

Uhta Halsad drank of their surround, one hand boasting a curved cutlass, to make plain his hostile intention in the foreign land. Not that he expected to find much here in the way of opposition, not in the first place. That would surely come in time, as word spread, as he hoped it might. Still, there was a nagging sense of being watched and the corsair would not have them look anything less than imposing. First impressions counted, particularly on your first venture as Captain. Being raised in Umbar had taught him the benefits of offence as a sure defense. In the young man’s experience, if your very visage discouraged folk from daring to stand up to you, then half of your job was managed by sheer reputation and rumour, before you ever were required to lift a finger. That sort of thinking was enough to raise a smile in his round, sun-painted face.

“What depth do we have ?” he broke the silence, and was assured enough that he ordered the ship fold her sails, like a bird tucking away her wings. Oars were resumed, as was the dare to allow their steady stroke, prodding the sleeping titan of the ghost town. The ship itself was named the ‘Spectre’ and was one of three crafted by the Gameela logging industry. While Uhta’s father was abroad, caught up in clandestine occultist endeavours, the pirate’s mercenary mother Jenahda had oiled the allegiance with their affluent neighbours. Jenah’s father was a chieftain of the Jackal tribe which scavenged Far Harad, and had paved the way for Kfir Gameela to obtain much timber of the southern jungle, in return for the schooling of her three sons on the high seas. After just as many years as the students and their instructors could manage alike, the Halsad triplets had been rewarded with a command each their own.


Matsu, the eldest, had wasted no time in naming his the ‘Scourge’, taken from that young man’s own nickname (which he had himself insisted folk call him). Keket, middle child, had elected for the ‘Scythe’, and established a trend in accordance to his brother’s flagship. Uhta had desired to call his craft, in his turn, the ‘Spook’, for the supernatural was as fearful to the youngest triplet, as anything upon the earth, or sea. But he had been encouraged to tweak this toward ‘Spectre’, which he was assured, would strike fear in the heart of a far wider audience. Uhta cared little for the specifics of language, but found his ship had been dubbed in paint as his brothers’ decided, and had yet to get around to altering the fact. Still the ‘Spook' he called her, to himself at least. Thus was each ship granted new identity, as much as ever their respective Captains, though all three bore the same brutish and identical figurehead of a snarling jackal, a condition of their grandfather’s involvement.


Jackals were not indigenous to Lond Daer, and indeed the climate convinced Uhta why the inhospitable land was empty, of nigh all life. Death though lurked here in droves. It whispered in the wind that left it’s moistened handprint on the sailors’ skin. It stared impassively out of the gaping crevices, forgotten doorways and glassless windowframes. The half-crumpled carcasses of buildings and the broken bridges, like skeletal spines that rose out of the dark tide, .. the tapestry of neglect fanned out all along both banks of the almighty Greyflood river. An avenue of black-barked trees extended their clawing reach, with thin twitching limbs that gestured abruptly in the breeze like an arthritic conjurer.

The ‘Spectre’ did not stall but stared back, emanating a primal vulgarity of disrespect for the failed attempt to civilise this bellicose domain. A hush bore as testimony to the dregs of defiance. Lond Daer was a long abandoned battlefield, which had been fought over until there was naught left to entice further conflict. Well, that was about to change, now that Uhta was arrived. He had been sent hither with a purpose, with a clear goal. And Lond Daer was about to find that even at the state it had been warped unto, war was not yet quite done with her.




Almost as though compelled to present another faction, to ensure that dissension was ever the flavour of Lond Daer, … a lone figure came at last to reason for his long and lonely watch. The Ranger had never laid his eyes about a corsair ship before, but there was no mistaking that this hulking beast of malice was the advent of some new storm to rain down upon the ancient harbour. Gwandhyra wound the stained hood of his weather-beaten cloak so that it capably shrouded his features. Just as surely as the long unlooked for sight had cast a shadow over the Man’s heart. He had encountered the sigil of the jackal before. Last time he had scarcely lived to tell the tale. Last time he had lost … everything. Now that he had finally recovered some semblance of a life, of things that would matter if he were to lose them, now the menace from his past had exhumed all his worst fears.


History has a terrible way of repeating itself, after all. And every action has a reaction, a consequence. The Gondorian exhaled a curse not heard outside of Harondor for some twenty years. The south had ventured to remind the north what lay beneath, beneath the thinly layered pieces of recovery from an abhorrent beginning. Would there ever come an end to such an emnity ? Not when darkness follows light as dusk will follow dawn. And so the world goes on …

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"But we don't know that, Gladhron!" Gwestion protested, walking alongside his brother as the pair traveled. "Our sister has some skills in fighting. We saw evidence of that, remember, and she has always been rather good with a bow and arrows." the twenty-two-year-old young man pointed out. "She may well still live, somewhere--"

"It has been years, little brother." Gladhron interjected. "I wouldn't get my hopes up overly high, were I you, of ever finding her again. Much less of finding her alive." He spoke grimly, far less optimistic than his younger brother. "It would be wonderful, were we to find her again, but it is very unlikely now. And you know that Gwilithiel would not have us wasting our entire lives searching for her in vain. There are other matters to attend to, now."

Gwestion kept his jaw clenched shut. He knew that to argue with Gladhron was like arguing with a rock. But he was not going to give up on their little sister, as Gladhron would have them do. He was determined that he would search the entire land until he found some sign, one way or another. If she had been killed, he wanted to know that much, at least; for closure. But if she were alive, he would do all in his power to rescue her from whatever prison she was in.

The brothers walked on in silence, leading their horses for a long way before hearing a bird cry, shattering the silence. Gladhron stopped short. Gwestion looked up from under the hood of his cloak. "What is it?" he whispered, peering through the gloomy fog. He could barely make out the shapes of the broken parts of what was once a bridge, but he knew something else had startled the birds, and it was not the brothers, for it was further away than where they stood.

"I am not sure," Gladhron replied softly. "Let us move closer, but quietly." The brothers paused to tie their horses to a nearby tree. "Whatever is ahead, it may be dangerous." He made sure his sword was ready, in case of danger, and crept forward more cautiously.

Gwestion squinted through the darkness as he peered ahead, intently. Was that a ship he saw? Frowning slightly, the young man followed his brother, as silently as he could manage. His own hand strayed briefly to his sword hilt, but he had no need to draw it at this time. He moved to one side, separating from his brother so that they came toward the shore from different directions. He thought it might be useful to flank the possible enemy from each direction, though he had no idea who they were dealing with, at this time. It could be some innocent ship that had gotten lost somewhere on its way to the Gray Havens, though he seriously doubted it. It had a menacing look about it, though he couldn't tell much about it from here.

As he took one careful step after another, doing his best not to make any noise, a sudden sound startled the young man. He froze in his steps at the sound of a foreign word, a curse from the sound of it, uttered from somewhere just ahead of him. Did the ship have enemies already waiting on the shore, or did they post spies ahead of time to fight off any foes who may try to intercept it? Gwestion's gray-blue eyes searched through the dark mist ahead of him, trying to find where the man was hiding. One hand rested on his sword, tensed and ready to defend himself if he must. Where was Gladhron? Was he still within range to hear if Gwestion called for help? Taking a quick glance toward the direction he'd last seen his brother, Gwestion didn't see him anywhere. Well, perhaps he was on his own. He debated whether to speak out and confront the stranger, and demand that he show himself, or just wait and see what happened. He preferred stealth, so he decided to go with the latter.

That is, until a bird nearby suddenly noticed the person standing directly under its perch, and took off in fright. Gwestion cringed slightly and froze, having a suspicion that the noise would give away his position to the other man. He gripped his sword hilt, preparing to fight if he must. He held his breath, listening as his heart beat harder in his chest, waiting and listening.

The hulking vessel stole all thoughts of the Man. It robbed him seemingly of all warmth also, for he shivered, as though some iced bone had trawled like an insect down the length of his spine. His own curse echoed in his ear, all sound amplified by expectation. Apprehension. He was as reluctant to move as he was to stay stood as he was. Where he was. Alone ? He felt at once both alone and exposed for all to see.


The clap of bird’s wing close by gave him cause to startle, and Gwandhyra’s dark hair cloaked his pale face as a low crouch took him to grasp the ground in both his hands. It was cold to the touch. Cold and crumbling. And he might have begrudged the instinct to cower, here of all places. In a land which had stood once a pinnacle of his peoples’ ambition, pride, success. No more. Still, finding his head bowed, his knee bent, the Man rose on principle, gathering a hunting knife from where it had been stowed. The thicket of mist swallowed his dramatic reveal. It rendered him near blind, or else devoured all the world around him until there was naught to see.


The sole consolation he might muster to bestill the hammer of his heart, was that any else cast adrift in the same tide of fog, would surely prove as affected as himself. Slow as ever silence dictated, he unearthed the sword of his ancestors, so that the great blade which rose forth in his free hand soon shamed the humble, and battered scabbard which none would imagine housed such awe. As eyes proved here little use, the Ranger turned to ears to guide each hand. He was so absorbed in moving without any sound which may betray him, that he heard not the soul who was far easily more practiced in the art.


In the very same moment that Gwandhyra leant his knife against the side of Gwestion’s neck, he was spared the triumphant crow of some witty remark. The Man of Gondor slumped in some amazement toward the strange Man’s shoulder, as a voice brought words, and no sight of their speaker, to the promise of a fray.

“You are lost,” the surround informed them, like a distant storm beheld on the horizon. There, but not yet breaking upon those within his reach. “Lay down your arms.” It tried, and then with a sigh, and a good deal of frustration at his own self, repeated the command in Common speech. Gwandhyra gave a wry grin without relaxing his stance against the stranger. Never thinking but that the Elf was here to succour him, not the Stranger he had found.

“You had better do as he says,” the Ranger suggested to Gwestion, marrying an odd but deliberate blend of accents to cloister his own origins. He at least had recovered his humour, recognising the presence of an ally, in the moment that they were faced with an unknown threat. “Then we may better see what we have caught here.” the man proposed, already scrutinising the stranger at hand as far as he could in the miserly light. Such that he was utterly oblivious to the presence of the stranger’s brother, whom the unseen Elf was in fact addressing, as he too drew close.

The noise of the bird taking flight was still echoing in Gwestion's ears, far too loud for his liking. Then many things happened, seemingly at once, or else very quickly following one another. The young ranger suddenly found that the man he had thought he was sneaking up on had actually turned the tables on him. Gwestion heard the sound of several blades drawn, nearly all at the same time, which made it harder for him to be sure how many blades were drawn. 'Did I just walk into an ambush?' The young man wondered, just before feeling the cold blade to his throat. He tensed, swiftly thinking about the best thing to do in this situation. Through the fog he could make out a hooded man before him, but he couldn't make out any features of his face. And there was another person, nearby. Was than an elf? An ally, perhaps?

Confused, Gwestion's eyes searched through the fog to find the elf, listening carefully. Was he ordering Gwestion to lay down his arms, or the other man? Gwestion's heart raced as he assessed his situation. Twenty-two was far too young of an age for him to die now. He might be able to get the knife away from his throat, if the man were distracted, but there was also the risk of cutting his throat by accident, in the process. He could try to draw his own weapon and fight, perhaps, but then there was that ship, and if this man was with them, he might be able to call for allies from it. Gwestion questioned the best thing for himself to do, thoughts racing at this unusual situation.

“You had better do as he says,” spoke the man whose blade rested on Gwestion's throat. “Then we may better see what we have caught here.”

Where might he be from? The man spoke in a strange manner, which left Gwestion unable to determine what sort of place he might have come from. However, his assessment of the stranger could wait. The elf had been the one to order the surrender, yet the stranger seemed to think he had won. He thought so, did he? 'Not quite...' The young man thought, defiance flaring up against accepting that he had been caught. The elf may not know Gwestion, but that didn't matter. They must be allies, and therefore, would certainly aid one another. "You have caught no one," Gwestion replied, perhaps prematurely, yet with a small sense of satisfaction. And then, hoping the man was distracted enough for him to succeed in his attempt, the young man took a small step back to put some distance between his neck and the blade, while the hand opposite the stranger's reached to grasp the knife arm to twist it around, or at least to try to. If he succeeded, it would put strain on the man's arm and almost force him to bend downward and hopefully, drop the knife. He couldn't tell that the other man also held a sword in his other hand, nor could he be sure whether the elf would come to his aid. It was hard to be sure of very much, with hoods shrouding faces and mist shrouding everything else around them. Gwestion's main thought right now was getting out of this tight spot he had found himself in...


Crouching behind a bush, Gladhron watched the ship move silently through the waters. It should not be there. He couldn't quite think of where it might have come from, partly because he could not make out very much about it in the fog. Yet, he knew it was not one of the ships of the elves, and did not belong here. Its purpose for being here, he did not know, but he was sure it was not a good purpose. Venturing close enough to make out the figure head on the ship, the young man frowned. What sort of creature was that? Some sort of wolf? He had not traveled very far past the borders of Rohan, so had never seen such a creature as that before.

Retreating back toward where he had last seen his brother, he walked softly. At first, his thought was to sneak up on his little brother and have a little fun with him, despite the serious situation. He considered Gwestion to be still 'learning the ropes', although he had proven he could do just as well as Gladhron, (if not better) in stealth and other matters. Yet, when Gladhron approached where he believed his brother to be, he heard various sounds which he did not expect. Swords being drawn, and low voices speaking of laying down weapons, someone having capturing someone. As swiftly and silently as he knew how, Gladhron moved behind the nearest tree so as to stay out of sight. He couldn't tell anything about the people involved, but he heard Gwestion's voice among them, and Gladhron could only guess the worst; that some enemies had been lying in wait on the shores and had captured his little brother.

Although worried, the young man knew his brother could handle himself. Still, they had not expected to encounter any other person here. It could be someone from that ship yonder. And he was sure that they were enemies, therefore it seemed entirely likely that these on the shore were also enemies, particularly given the words that he had overheard. He had no idea how many enemies there were at hand, but if Gwestion was outnumbered, he might be in serious peril. Gladhron knew he must do something to assist his brother. That's what big brothers are for, isn't it?

Coming to a decision, the ranger eased his own blade from its sheath, silent as he could manage. He held it ready in his hand as he stepped out from behind a tree, moving forward with all possible stealth. As he moved through the fog toward those he believed were enemies, his eyes made out the shape of a slim person, with bow and arrow aimed... not at the cloaked figure nearby, but at Gladhron! He froze, heart pounding in his ears. Why would an elf be threatening himself and Gwestion?

"Nay, we are not lost," He replied in Sindarin, trying to make sense of this situation, allowing his sword to dip toward the ground, unthreateningly. "It seems, rather, that we have happened along at just the right moment." Confused as to what the situation actually was, Gladhron was torn between two possibilities. One, the elf was an ally, and they had come along in time to aid him in some dire situation. Or, two, the elf was, for some reason, allied with the enemy, and they had come in time to stop some terrible thing from happening. Either way, they were just in time, as he saw it.

Glancing toward the one he had thought was his brother, Gladhron now saw that the sword in his hand was most certainly nothing which Gwestion had ever owned. Gladhron paused as he realized his mistake, and now wondered where in all of this his brother might be. Hopefully, he was not injured or otherwise harmed. "And where is the other, whom you claim to have caught?" He asked, this time in Common, with a little harder edge to his voice. If his brother were harmed, someone would be paying dearly for it.

“An interesting name, it must be said,” Gwandhyra returned to the man he’d found. He might have offered yet more mirth at this fellow titling himself ‘Noone’, save that he was all too soon distracted, by the stranger’s efforts to evade him, however belatedly. Not to mention what sounded like a second Elvish introduction not too far away. The odds of this unlikely circumstance were odd, to say the least and threw new light, which was to say cast all into confusion, regarding friend or foe. The Ranger was already thrown offguard some even before the youth capably manouvred out of any immediate harm. Gwandhyra scarcely felt his own arm drop, knife still in hand, harmlessly, to his side. Though he brought the other up by proxy, brandishing the great sword to dispel the pup, who managed to be as was mist himself. Beyond all means of grasp.

“Noone is my captive then,” the grizzled man sighed moments later, administering a lazy, back-handed scratch with his knife about his lantern jaw. “Yet someone still abounds,” he added, throwing out in Sindarin himself now to urge the Elf come back to play. Or Elves.



“Nay, we are not lost …”

The Elf relaxed his stance as Gladhron declared himself friend, not foe. He started delicately toward the young man as his weapon fell into the muted glow of his silhouette.

“Your arrival is indeed most timely” the Immortal’s fair face fell toward a mask of gladness and soft feet brought him, palms high, to meet this maybe samaritan. “You are Rangers, yes ? Can you then tell me where am I ? For I am, in fact, lost. These stone shapes you people cast around the land like runes are fell as landmarks when all look the same .. ” Celedir lowered his own arms, and considered Gladhron’s confusion. “You are in truth Rangers, are you not ?” the speech of the Immortal's people continued to be employed in efforts to locate the truth. “I saw you .. all … from the tower ..” He pointed to an unseen sanctuary which the earnest look about his features promised into existence.


Gwandhyra’s laughter startled several more birds, before he recalled that they stood in some state of peril still, with the ship yet ghosting in the backdrop. The abruptness of the silence he then came to was as eerie as if he had become ghost himself. It might of course be fortunate that he could not be too well seen. For the Man of the South was draped in clothes whose crumples betrayed his long nights sleeping on the ground. His cloak was stained so many colours that it was a worthy camouflage and the Man's worn boots had clearly been trenched so deep in mud that there were now tide marks that spoke of a harassed passage through the marshes. His hooded face might have been similarly speckled by mud or else bristles of a beard that thrived in places without mirrors, or women to complain about .. He dropped his sword from where it hovered between he and where the stranger had last stood, with a low nod of belated resignation about his shaggy head. Though if any had believed him cowed to fatigue, they would regret the assumption !



Rangers were so rare of course in such days that a one could spend his whole life traversing the same wild lands and not spy another of his ancient kindred for months, years at a time. Or if he should chance upon a one, it was not known they would ever after meet again. The young man he’d just rediscovered, was lesser in age than himself, possibly even half his count of years if he was honest, though clearly garbed likewise as a nomad, now that he was afforded the chance to see properly. Another Ranger ? Or perhaps merely a wise traveller, used to drawing no great attention upon himself. Recalling the bird, Gwandhyra leant toward the first option. A Ranger then, though young. Travellers certainly did not tend toward such a desolated tourist trap as this. Until now … the ship …


“Confusion has made itself the captor of us all,” the Gondorian relented, finally, to Gladhron’s enquiry, though he contemplated holding out a hand, he chose to not. He did stow his knife away from sight, though not the great sword. Not yet. “To the tower then !" With a shrug he narrowed eyes to spy whatever tower Celedir had been holed up in. For who knew how long, or why. "At any rate, we ought not come at one another out here for somebody to see. And hear.”

“Agreed,” the Elf found his accord. “To where we shall all find ourselves and none be lost, stars willing."


“Will you come or will cowardice keep you from obtaining answers ?” Gwandhyra, now slowly becoming more removed from all threat to his life, glanced for better scrutiny at his ‘opponent’ and the latest newcomer as well. There was a twang about the way this latest arrival spoke, not so dissimilar to the first youth. They were of a kind together or he was a mewlip. At the very thought of such beings, the fog knitted a tighter mire which swallowed their feet all. “For who knows how many other yet shall leap out of the gloom ?" he added, pointedly.

There was no need to mention the ship, for surely it and what it might mean were upon the minds of all. So without waiting for an answer, the Southerner started after the grace of Celedir, allowing for the other pair to find and follow after. It would not do for the two youths to be captured by the Umbarians, and be forced to give up the whereabouts of their ‘friends’. And if fates should prove that the pair were in fact not as they seemed, well, they would be more easily dispatched in some concealed refuge where all should be finally revealed for what it was.

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Confusion was, indeed, abundant in the fog which seemed to be thickening slowly as the evening grew darker and gloomier, blocking out what light might have come from the setting sun, or the rising moon. Ordinarily the light of the moon and would have helped matters, casting light upon the land so that more could be seen. However, in a situation with enemies at hand, the fog was just as much a help as it was a problem, for it would surely prevent their enemies from seeing them, if they could not even see one another properly.

Gwestion still felt tense, even after the stranger had let his knife hand drop. He didn't bother to respond to the joke about his name being Noone. He was content that his maneuver had worked, and he had not been harmed even when the stranger attempted a swing with a sword, which Gwestion hadn't seen. Though, noticing the man didn't try too hard to keep the knife to his throat, Gwestion began to suspect that perhaps he was not such a foe as he had first thought. He had spoken in elvish, though of course, that didn't automatically mean he was a friend. Before the young ranger had a chance to ask who he might be, the elf was confessing that he was lost, in answer to Gladhron. At this, Gwestion couldn't help feeling a small amount of surprise, but he had little time to ponder on this matter. As he listened, Gladhron's voice became quite serious, asking was the one whom they had caught. He must think Gwestion had been captured, and considering that was something along the lines of what Gwestion had thought was happening, moments ago, he didn't blame him for that misunderstanding. For a moment, Gwestion debated whether to speak up, or see how things played out.

“You are in truth Rangers, are you not ?”

"Of course we are," Gladhron replied easily to the elf, causing Gwestion to cringe at his brother's lack of secrecy or care. Not that anyone saw him. "At least," Gladhron went on, "I speak for myself and my comrade," He added with a frown. "Wherever he may be." He cast a glance toward the cloaked man who could be an enemy... "I know not this man, nor whether he is an ally or not."

Relieved that Gladhron was finally exhibiting at least a small amount of suspicion, Gwestion couldn't help but silently agree with the older man, who pointed out that they ought not stand around where anyone might see them. Although, he doubted the enemies would see much, with this fog covering everything. The 'invitation' did not go unnoticed, along with the possible attempt at provoking the brothers to anger, although Gwestion did not reply. Unwilling to rise to any challenge of cowardice, he stood silent in thought as the other ranger (for Gwestion was becoming more and more convinced that he was indeed a ranger) vanished into the fog.

"Wait... you have yet to answer what you done with the other who was here..." Gladhron spoke up, annoyed, though he kept his voice hushed lest those in the ship should hear echoed voices.

"I am still here, unharmed." Gwestion spoke up finally, to Gladhron's reassurance. With a wry smile, he added, "What would I ever do without you to come to my rescue?" Through the fog he stepped toward where his brother's voice had come from, revealing himself so that Gladhron could see for himself that he was unharmed.

Gladhron started slightly at the sound of his voice, surprised as Gwestion emerged from the fog so close to him. He recovered quickly, giving a soft laugh. "If you think you have tricked me, you are mistaken, dear brother." He informed him with a grin. "I knew you were there all the time, of course..." He added as he sheathed his sword, seeming to have no use for it, at least not yet. "I merely wanted to test whether we could trust these two."

"Yes, of course you did." Gwestion agreed quietly, glad that the fog hid the rolling of his eyes. "Let us now follow them, and see who they may be." He added, not finding the situation quite as humorous as his brother. "I believe they are allies," he went on thoughtfully. "And I do suspect the man is, indeed, another ranger, as we ourselves." He started in the direction where Gwandhyra had gone, and hoped that he would not get lost in the fog.

"Wait," Gladhron hurried after Gwestion so not to lose his brother yet again. "This fog makes it far too easy to lose one another," He muttered, trying to keep the other two from overhearing. The brothers, or at least Gwestion, who was in the lead, soon caught a glimpse of Gwandhyra's cloak ahead through the gloom. Quickening his stride to follow him, he reached back to catch onto Gladhron's sleeve so as not to lose his brother. Together, the three rangers followed the elf, silent until arriving at the shelter that they seemed to be heading for. Gladhron hoped that Gwestion was correct in thinking these were allies, and not foes. For, he thought it possible that they might be walking into a trap where many more enemies lay waiting to ambush them. The memory of the figurehead on that ship had not faded from his memory, and he was sure that those on the ship were up to no good.

The stairs wound up the height of a neglected tower, the echo of Gwandhyra’s vigilant steps to count their crumbling number. Celedir made no sound, for such is the way of Elves. Or might be that he simply had already made his way to their destination, far ahead. He was after all, the only one who knew where they were following. As a moth drawn to a torch, the Ranger trailed in his wake and all too soon Gwandhyra’s footsteps mingled with the pair who followed him. He hoped they were all that they appeared, and no more. Of course, he had been wrong before ..

The memory of a Jackal, of what it meant, as though such a beast had reared out of the gloom to bite him, made the Man flinch, and one hand caught at the wall to steady himself. The cold stone infected his skin with a soothing calm, and he took a couple of deep breaths, berating himself. By the time he passed through the door into a dilapidated, round room, it sounded as the two younger men had closed some of the gap between he and they. He could but hope they had not borne witness to his fleeting fear.


“It is not much,” the fair immortal shrugged, a little defensively, “but it is a comfort to have means of watching, without being watched.” He signified the window where a sliver of space fractured the wooden shutters. The wind screamed through that crevice, no compensation for the glass which was long absent.

“You are lost ?” the Ranger queried, insisting on his own silent inspection of the refuge, as though he expected for Dunlending squatters to leap out from under boxes, knives in hand.

“No longer for, see ? You have found me,” was the light-hearted reply, which invited a scoff, though not of cruelty. “I have seen you in the valley before now, with …” Celedir’s face darkened, and Gwandhyra sighed. He tested the latch on the door last, to feign not spying on the other mens’ progress, then finally seemed to slowly settle. Like dust after a gust of wind.


“I have not seen you, in the valley,” the Ranger put out quietly, for fear of other conversations being shared. The Southerner cast off his dirtied hood and the shadow of subterfuge gave way to a pair of potent, tawny brown eyes, which considered their ‘rescuer’. “Why are you alone and here ?”

“Not alone,” A single finger pointed at the two later arrived Men and a smug expression raised Celedir’s smooth chin even as he shook his head. Liberated from the shroud of fell climes, the Elf’s light hair fell about his long face like a fall of feathers. “Now we are something !”


“The two of you are brothers,” The Southerner remarked, turning in annoyance from the flighty immortal to seek out more sense from his own kind, and put paid to any assumption they could fool him. For sure he had heard one man name the other his ‘brother’ when they had not yet come inside. For a short and somewhat awkward moment the three Men seemed to size each other up.

“Take rest. And a seat,” the Elf bade all to forego their vigilance. “That we may come to know each other better now that it is safe to do so. To start, I am named Celedir and I would not have any of you fine folk poking holes in one another, blinded by ignorance. Be wise then ! Welcome clarity and put up your feet.” the kind invite, as close as he could replicate of ‘mantalk’, dwindled to nothing as he and Gwandhyra’s eyes met, across the state of that Ranger’s actual feet.

“None here shall thank me for removing my boots,” the Ranger threatened in a grim jest, and moved backward protectively, against the wall. Indeed, he had worked hard to shroud a camouflage of the wild desolate lands he frequented. “I am still troubling over how an Elf be lost .. ”


“You are not the first Rangers I have met,” the Elf smiled, selective of what he engaged with, and glanced between the two younger men as a preference now. “Though yes, your specific arrival is timely. You have questions ? We, I think, all have the same, and most important, question on mind.”

“The ship” The older man watched the youths for a reaction, putting eyes on each in turn, his sword still within grasp. As a crutch. As an incentive. “What do you know of it ?” he wondered, if that telling would speak anything of they themselves; a subject just as compelling as what had seemingly brought them all together.

Bringing up the rear, Gladhron and Gwestion walked side by side until arriving at the door to the tower. Gwestion paused to look up at the structure. He had not even seen it, through the dusk and fog. This being the first time the young man had actually come to this particular place, he was a little surprised to find that there was a tower here at all. It nearly seemed out of place in this ancient, crumbling harbor. Gladhron started up the stairs ahead of Gwestion, who had paused to look back through the fog, toward the ship. He had yet to see much about the mysterious vessel, and hoped to learn more about those inside it.

Once the brothers had both arrived in the top of the tower, Gladhron stepped aside to allow Gwestion entry, and both young men took a look around the interior. The moment they entered, the unknown man addressed them, almost as if accusing the two of them of being brothers. Gwestion regarded him somewhat warily, and did not answer. Not that he had any need to, for Gladhron spoke readily for the both of them.

"Indeed, we are brothers," He answered with a smile, after a brief moment of surprise that the stranger had guessed it so easily. "I am Gladhron, son of Gwedhion, a valiant ranger in his time. This is my younger brother, Gwestion." He introduced the quieter of the two, who was giving his brother what might be interpreted as a scowl of annoyance.

"You speak too freely, Gladhron." Gwestion muttered, in a vain attempt to rein in his brother's 'loose tongue'. He should have given false names, or at least given Gwestion the option to introduce himself as he saw fit! It irritated the younger brother to no end when Gladhron did these things. Would he never learn caution?

The older brother rolled his eyes, ignoring Gwestion's quiet rebuke. He couldn't help a small grin upon overhearing Gwandhyra's response to Celedir's suggestion that they remove their boots and relax. "I must agree with him," He told her. "None would thank any of us, I should think, were we to remove our boots." He shook his head with a slight smile. "I think that none of us shall be taking the time for such leisure, anyway. There are other matters more pressing, if I am correct?" At this he looked toward Gwandhyra, the most senior ranger present, perhaps as confirmation that he was right in his guess.

Gwestion meanwhile, frowned deeper still. "You seem are too trusting of us, who are strangers to you," The younger brother spoke at last in a quiet tone, addressing his words to the elf. "My brother has declared the two of us to be rangers, and you take our word for it. How then can you be certain that we are not enemies who have merely assumed the identity of rangers, to better deceive you?" He questioned, his demeanor clearly more solemn than his brother's. His intense blue-gray gaze moved from the elf to the man, curious how they might react to this suggestion.

"Pay him no heed," Gladhron spoke up with a dismissive gesture, then shot an annoyed glance at his brother, lowering his voice a little as he addressed him now. "Do you want them to think us enemies, Gwestion?" He wondered, astonished that the young man would say such things to those they hoped to have for allies. "You told me yourself you think they are allies... do you now doubt that? or do you wish cause them to doubt us?" He turned toward the other two shaking his head a little. "My apologies, my brother can be somewhat too suspicious at times..."

Gwestion gave his brother a small frown but fell silent as the question of the ship was brought up. Gladhron spoke while Gwestion remained silent, studying the other two during the conversation that followed. "I know not what you speak of," The elder brother answered, "but we were on our way elsewhere and spotted the ship out there," He explained. "This ship," He frowned a bit as he recalled what he had seen. "I was able to get near enough to study it more closely. There is a figurehead upon the bow which is in the likeness of no animal I have ever seen before. I feel certain that it is some enemy, but I know not what enemy it might be. Alas, this is all that I can tell you." He looked at Gwandhyra. "Do you have any knowledge of this ship, or its occupants?" He inquired, feeling a little troubled concerning this thing unknown to him.

The air was choked with contention and debate, as the room brewed a collective forged of fate, rather than of choice. Years past, Ages now renown, Men and Elves had co-existed and campaigned side by side, through the most epic chapters of their each respective peoples. But those peoples had both since dwindled and wandered from regular alliance.

Throwing a barrage of queries at the two young brothers, Gwandhyra observed how they answered, both in what they said, and what they did not have to. It took little time at all to gauge that Gladhron was the elder, or at least the bolder of the siblings. Their new acquaintance barely concealed a smug shine to his glance, as they agreed with his assumption. Gladhron it was after all, whom introduced them both and conducted polite responses to both the Gondorian and Elf. He was evidently used to speaking for the two of them. Gwestion seemed to wait on his turn, or rather to give himself enough time to concoct thoughts of his own upon each matter which he would then express, with less regard for alarm or etiquette. When he did utter some offering, it was as though hindsight which the other ought be reflecting too late. By waiting and berating the frankness of the other, he did not save either of them, but to possibly reveal some contention that brewed far beneath the surface.

Or perhaps not so far beneath after all, as the pair almost fell to bickering amongst each other. Gwandhyra glanced toward Celedir just once throughout this performance, but the Elf’s face was impassive.

One thing was certain, at least. He had not merely imagined his seeing such a ship, strange though it may be, within these waters. The atypical appearance was the one thing that all gathered had in common, for the ship had conjured mutual curiosity and/or concern. All had confirmed that they had noted it, independently. Gwandhyra was not entirely sure yet whether he ought be relieved or perturbed by the fact.


“The vessel is of Umbar,” he allowed, freely, “And it’s folk are known collectively as Corsairs, when they trek the waters of the world. ‘Pirates’ may be a word you would better know here in the North. In the south, those two terms have been long synonymous. Since the Kinstrife they have been our foe, fallen in with dread foes and revering their mutual fell motives. One of my own kinsmen sailed with Ecthelion of Gondor, and with Thorongil the brave, to besiege the harbours of their hostile city. We were led to believe that the strength of that Enemy was thenceforth diminished.” The Ranger cast his eyes from the room back through the slivers of night beyond the scarred shutters, as though he could not face his fellows when even uttering the grief. “But that was nigh on thirty years past now. It is my sad duty to assure you that they have begun to clamber back out from aneath their rock. The animal you saw,” he flicked a none-too-happy explanation for Gladhron, “it is a ‘jackal’. A wild dog, if you will, of the distant lands where such things scavenge and tear their own kind to pieces, for scraps. That should provide some hint of what I fear we are up against.” he sighed.

That the Man had no thoughts of the intruders having ‘chanced’ upon the harbour by some strange errantry or luck, was apparent in his tone. There was not a tinge of mercy or the slightest doubt in Gwandhyra’s mind, that the Umbarians must be dealt with, and by that he meant decimated. That even the thought of them ought be banished from Northern shores. The question though was the best means to manage this, particularly when so many factors of their strange scenario were yet up in the fog-drenched air.


“You trust that we have indeed taken you at your brother’s word ?” The Ranger took his gaze to find Gwestion, who had voiced such doubts. “Noone has yet said they believe you. I have known before now those who are not as they do claim, or even as they do seem, and if you trust no other thing I say, trust this. That there is no word which can not be a lie, as much as ever it may be the truth. I do not hold with what Men say and not say. But rather with what they do, and do not. You harbour as much suspicion as your brother does courage. Both and neither one are any use when wielded alone. So I would advise you learn well from each other, and never believe that you are never wrong. For we all are, at one time or another.”

His counsel concluded with eyes at Gladhron before Gwandhyra shook off what might have been a cold embrace of concern for his own part. “Now we can sit and test each other’s wits all night, or we can set our wits against that which must be handled. How would you suggest we make the best use of our chance encounter ?”

"Jackals.." Gladhron repeated the word thoughtfully, pondering over the information given by Gwandhyra. He had not heard of such an animal, but that made sense, seeing as he had never been to Umbar, nor to Harad. The description offered did not sound very pleasant, and if that was to represent what manner of men these on the ship were, Gladhron was more determined that they should not reach these lands unhindered. Yet, he was reluctant to battle them with only four against however many were likely to be on that ship.

"My answer is that we must ensure these foes do not reach their destination, else they may pass by this place unhindered and move on to trouble other lands, such as Tharbad, where they may gain control of the North/South road. We cannot take such a risk. We four must do all in our power to stop these foes from whatever evil designs bring them to these shores. We must work together, of course, but as to the best means to do so..." He paused, considering, while giving a very light nudge into his brother's side. Though it was unlikely, given that one is an elf, he attempted to make the gesture unnoticeable to the other two.


Gwestion had fallen silent, for a little while, deep in thought as he listened to the others. He gave a vague nod of acknowledgement when Gwandhyra replied to his statement. It was good to know, at least, that they were not merely being trusted blindly, however annoyed it might make Gladhron. It was some comfort to Gwestion, for if the man trusted anyone who says he's a friend, how good of an ally could he truly be? Even as he reflected on those thoughts, he noticed his brother 'bumping' his side slightly, during a brief pause. With a brief sidelong glance at him, Gwestion understood that his 'gallant' elder brother was giving him an opportunity to voice his thoughts. Translated as, 'I can't think of a good plan, so you come up with something and help me out'.

Clearing his throat softly, Gwestion glanced around. "If I may," He spoke again, softly, coming to his brother's rescue. "Perhaps you will all disregard what I say," He was aware that he was the youngest one here, and that except for Gladhron, they were both far older than himself. "We have an advantage on them, I think, in that we have seen them in their ship, yet it is unlikely that they have seen us... we can use the fog to our advantage." He added. "Stealth and confusion may be our best weapons against their greater numbers." Having spoken his thoughts on the matter, Gwestion then fell silent, though his gaze passed from each person to the next, watching to see how the others would receive it.

The matter of their predicament was no more settled for all it’s being identified. And if any amongst them wondered how the elder man knew so much about their assumed invaders, naught was said upon the matter. Gwandhyra lowered his blade, that the flat edge tapped against one leg, thoughtfully. A reminder that the weapon was yet at hand, as much to reassure his allies as threaten any foes.

“This one is not lost,” Celedir mentioned, with a nudge of his head towards Gladhron, approvingly. The Elf had calmly made out his own ignorance of the surround so far, to test whether the Mens’ sense of direction leant any strength to any of their stories. Rangers haunted this vicinity, after all. The fortune of his having run into what seemed like as many as three at once, was just one reason the Immortal was failing to seem as grim as his new acquaintances. The ruse was slowly beginning to bear fruit and as though a fog was lifting here within the ancient tower too, the Men he had met began to form into more distinct shapes of character. Even as he watched.


“Elves may see through fog as sure as day’s bright dawn,” he interjected, even as the youngest Dunedan made known his thoughts. “But the blood of Numenor are long since diluted from even coming close to that advantage. I worry for you walking back into blindness. Already you have come close to annihilating allies for the sake of seeing not what stands in front of you.” He ran a gauntlet of the gathered Rangers’ eyes before swallowing.
“The Men on the ship must wait for the break of clear skies to advance a safe passage through these treacherous waters. Recall quite how out of place they are here, and how unused they must be to traversing the river. Their progress shall be slow. I do not mean to disregard your plan,” Celedir ducked his fair head towards Gwestion, respectfully, “but would it not be wiser to keep watch and wait a while before plunging back into the mire of the unknown ? Or gather our own strength before we chance alerting them to our presence at all. I might stay here with at least one of you, and hold watch, while the others go gather reinforcements from Imladris. For we may not know how many of them there are, but I never heard of a ship that size being managed by a number equal to our own. So yes, they shall outnumber us,” he agreed with the young stranger, at least at this last.

“It is true that our chances of thwarting the Enemy much improve with a swollen number to match their own,” Gwandhyra allowed, in response to Celedir. “For the might of the Free peoples would come at them, then, from both head and tail But Gwestion is correct that the corsairs are still likely unaware of us as yet,” he considered their predicament and did not forget to fold the younger men into the conspiracy. “And that is an advantage we can ill afford to waste.”
The Southerner could see there was a hesitance in the Elf’s steady silence, but he had to say his piece. “If even some of us stay here to observe on the Corsair’s progress, slow as it may be, then any others who may go a-seeking reinforcements shall return here .. only to find no Corsairs, no allies, for our having moved off in the meantime, in stalking them elsewhere. Thus to reap no benefit for all our reinforcements’ trouble in turning up in the wrong place !”


Gwandhyra strove to read his little audience, aware that he had commandeered the spotlight for some time now as though he thought perseverance would win out. It wasn’t even entirely his own idea he was proposing, but really a combination of what Celedir and Gwestion had each ventured. A compromise. And yes, so maybe the sabotage that he was teetering toward, that was his alone. But really, the only thing they’d all agreed on yet was that they ought ‘stop’ this alien ship. He was simply taking the next step further from what had already been broached, was he not ?

“So what if we do make good on what opportunity presents,” the Ranger dove back in, outlining the amalgamation of their various contributions. “Some of us stay here as a backup and a watch, ready to run for reinforcements, while some others of us only sneak briefly about the ship, and find a means to slow or halt it utterly. So that then any we send for reinforcements shall know our foe be grounded where we stay her. Whatever meagre means of light the Corsairs have employed meanwhile to see their own hands before their faces on the ship, we can use that to see just what we are dealing with. Then thwart, from our hidden seat wreathed amidst the vapours, their any planned migrations toward other quarters of the realm. We keep them from threatening any further inland without compromising our own ability to present an ongoing deterrent. It shall not be without risk, I give you that, but should the worst happen, there shall remain still enough of us to go for help. Or come and help. If it should be that we are caught, we are not utterly without the means to still obstruct them.”

He leant back, failing to properly conceal just how excited and eager the ideas were setting him. Perhaps it was the company. It had been a long time since he had debated his next move with anyone but the voices in his head, in the wilderness. Or it could be, of course, that other thing. The fact of vengeance, and the want .. nay, the need, to hungrily devastate anything that even dared incite the thought of Umbar ..this far north.

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Gladhron could not help feeling pleased to hear approval of his words, coming from an elf. That must be high praise, after all. As the suggestion was made by Gwandhyra that they split up and spy on the ship, whilst the other half remain in vigilant watch, ready to ride for aid, Gladhron began to smile. He nodded as Gwandhyra laid out his plan, showing his support of it. "I like it." He declared, once the man had finished speaking. "The corsairs would surely never expect such a daring move. Especially since they doubtless do not know they have enemies near." He grinned, intrigued with the idea of them sneaking on board a pirate ship. What sabotage might they contribute, to thus ensure the corsairs remained where they were, like sitting ducks waiting for an army from Imladris to come upon them? All the while the pirates would believe that their voyage into these parts had gone unnoticed!

Gwestion, listening carefully to Gwandhyra's outline, nodded slowly, thoughtful. He kept his face as unreadable as he could manage, both while Celedir was speaking, and seeming to shoot down Gwestion's thoughts, and while Gwandhyra was speaking. Gladhron readily spoke up, voicing both brother's opinion as he replied. Therefore finding it unnecessary to repeat what his brother had just said, Gwestion added only what he felt was missing. "Indeed, it is a good plan. But there still remains to decide; which of us shall go aboard, and which shall remain to watch?" He inquired with a slight tilt of his head, curious whether Gwandhyra had anyone in particular in mind. Perhaps he intended to take the elf, whom he may feel more comfortable trusting, and leave the brothers behind... for although Celedir had been more in favor of keeping watch, he was still far more qualified for the job than any of the three Men.

Gwestion's question set Gladhron to thinking quickly. Though he agreed with the older ranger's plan, he didn't actually want the job for himself. Observing the enemy's movements from inside the tower seemed a far more appealing task. But Gladhron certainly didn't want to appear too eager to claim it, so instead he took a moment to consider how to graciously decline and give Gwestion the job that he didn't want. With a glance at his brother, he saw that Gwestion had glanced at him, as if expecting him to volunteer. Just because he's the older brother, most likely. He turned to Gwandhyra, "I believe I shall step back, this time, and allow my younger brother the chance to accompany you. I have no doubt he would benefit from the experience," he looked at Gwestion with a smile. "Alas, you shall have a chance to investigate this corsair ship ahead of me. As much as I would enjoy participating in this adventure, I shall let you have the chance. Seeing as someone must stay behind, ready to ride for help, I shall just have to miss out, this time. My horse is swifter than yours, anyway, which is an advantage, should I have to rush for aid." He pointed out, adding more strength to his argument for why he was the better choice to remain here.

Gwestion raised an eyebrow at his brother and considered a sarcastic remark in regards to his 'noble' sacrifice. It was all he could do not to roll his eyes. Instead, he merely inclined his head in acceptance of the 'offer' before turning back to Gwandhyra. "Then I shall go with you, unless our elven friend prefers to accompany you?" He glanced toward Celedir, offering a chance for him to take his place, though in truth he hoped he would pass. Gwestion would much rather go with Gwandhyra than to stay behind. In fact, he decided it might be best to get away from Gladhron for a while. Gwestion found that his brother was beginning to grate on his nerves, as he was prone to do when they were in disagreement about some matter. Besides that, perhaps Gwestion might be able to learn more about Gwandhyra, this way. He still had no name to assign to him, but even if he had, that would tell Gwestion little about the man himself.

The exchange between the two brothers caused the Southerner to smile, despite himself. Brothers, he stopped just short of shaking his head, entertained. A sadness numbed the edge of the sentiment, and he spared a moment to ponder upon his own brother whom he had not seen for nigh on twenty years. Still a myriad of memories assailed him, as though they were leaned upon the door of the name, Addhor; and no sooner had Gwandhyra thought it, but the past was summoned. A myriad of memories indeed, of his elder brother telling him what to do, or assuming that he knew best, within any situation …. Or so it had seemed back then, so very long ago. As he might have expected, Gladhron, the eldest, came to a conclusion for the brothers both before him, by selecting his own plan. That left the younger, Gwestion little choice, lest he wished to reveal disagreement before company.


“I shall stay,” Celedir threw his own hand into the ring, or retrieved it from consideration. Either way, he glanced toward Gwestion and Gwandhyra to gauge their opinion on having been thrown together, without their intention. “My eyes can see from here what it shall take you the going there to match. And perhaps we shall all come to trust one another better if we switch up our alliances.”

This last was not a question, but the Elf hoped that it inspired thought as a response. If the two Men who’d declared themselves brethren were in fact in league with the foes on the ship, then they ought not be allowed to report back on what, or rather who, they had found hereabouts. If Gwandyra were the one in cahoots with the Umbarians he seemed so familiar with, then he should have the most suspicious of companions to test his true condition. Of all the Men, the scout was most convinced of Gwandhyra mostly for his age – spies tended to be young and swifter – and also because he was still rather convinced he had seen the Man in Imladris before now. The other two he knew not at all, but the prospect of spending time now with Gladhron seemed the most congenial of all his choices.


The Eldest Ranger nodded his head mutely to acknowledge the positions of his comrades, for that was now what they must be. He might have remarked that they all assumed he would be one of the two heading for the ship .. maybe he had given off more of an impression that he knew what he was doing here ! Still, he was eager to see for himself what was on that ship, or rather, who. Meanwhile, an Elf would certainly be the better watchman or the most hardy to find their way back to Imladris if it came to that. And splitting the two mortal siblings up would half their threat, until he could properly determine if they were in fact a threat at all.

Apparently the younger Ranger agreed, to the choice already handed him as well, and Gwestion’s new ally sought to find resignation or resolve within the young man’s tone. For all that this was the one so keen on asking questions, he did not seem quite so eager to give too much away. Gwandhyra began to wonder if he might not have gotten more information out of Gladhron, but he could hardly use such a guess as reason to insist. Their plan thus fashioned, the Gondorian lit out and commenced down the winding staircase, assuming he need not call for Gwestion to follow. It was Celedir who raised a cry after him, to learn of some name that they might call him, at the last possible moment.


“I am known in these parts as Gwandhyra” the Southerner admitted, though it told them little for he was no hero or infamous warrior. What Elves he knew preferred his company for that very reason.

“You suspect I am a Ranger as you are yourselves,” he met the younger Ranger with further conversation, as they reunited after a silent descent, now at the ground level entrance. Their exit. “So you did spake afore following myself and Celedir unto the watchtower.” A cool gaze left the other to determine the cause of this conversation. “He no doubt heard you, for I did,” he confessed. “Fret not,” a hand raised between them, before aught else might. “For I do say you guessed true. Of a sort. And if you be of a mind to safeguard this realm from those might come here uninvited, and for ill, then you are in good company. That ought be enough for now at least.”.


Gwandhyra made then strides from the watchtower, though he walked a line against the ruined ramparts of a fallen wall for shelter. Shadow blended there with shadow. “You speak the Sindarin tongue as one who has not been taught it by the Elves themselves,,” the guess rustled out of the darkness, to allow the younger man to locate his accomplice. “I too,” he confessed “It is not important. All that is, .. you have a sword, do you not ?” he thought aloud, pondering over the details from when they each had taken the other unawares not long before. As though by way of suggestion, a vast broadsword caught in the rare glimmer of a chance of moon, and in his own hand. It beckoned, an invitation.





They had jilted the sun and all that warmth which was it’s merry ensemble. Far away and distant the sweltering climes of home would encourage all Umbar to bask in the baking heat. Here, the clouds had sunk it seemed, heavy with despair, to ground, and although the ship had come to nest amidst the raw rushes of a neglected riverbank, the world all about them swirled still. A dank, colourless sea of wet mist spilt all across the deck and painted it in shades of shiver. Like a cat, the vapour curled about the sailor’s ankles. Uhta knew, for so he had been schooled, that he had brought his folk to a point of advantageous landmark. Still he frowned and pulled his massive coat close around shoulders. The result was to enhance a well-built man to the point of solid boulder status. Mist sashayed around him, like a stream around a rock. But for all the layers he felt plastered to his form with damp, it seemed that the weather carried right on through even the strongest man. It seeped through skin, gathering about bones, and encouraged a fear of fumes drowning thought, though the Umbarians stood on firm ground.


Uhta stamped his feet as though he might see off the cold. “Four” he surveyed the crowd and decided. When none moved, the vast bulk of their leader bowled toward them, casting two on either side as he made passage through. Turning then where he stood, the youngest (and largest) Halsad brother crossed his arms. The unhappy men who found themselves separate from the flock shuffled amongst themselves and as Uhta was forced to take steps toward them, they fled to press backs against the gunnals.

Without warning, he made full use of his mighty strength and saw two of the four over the side of the ship. “Now you are already wet and cold,” he laughed at the pair of unfortunates. Those two who had escaped such a fate were swift to join their captain in expressing amusement. “Scout out our landing to warm yourselves. I shall know if there are any out there to put eyes on us. Return when you have news enough.."


Both of these remaining ‘volunteers’ gave the jubilant Corsair a wide berth, not stalling to witness their friends scrambling ashore. “There will be a watch,” they were bade to mind their own instructions, and drew most attentive lest they should meet displeasure. “One to port, one starboard. Let lanterns the length to show the Spook’s great size, and have any ghouls creeping in this gloom think twice on what a thing they may wake.”

Few were aware of the Corsair’s unease with the supernatural. Matsu though had teased his sibling with stories of barrowrights and mewlips which were said to prowl the north. Uhta had no proper understanding of what either of those things might be. Still he must have fallen to thoughts of the eerie and unknown when he forgot to not call his ship the ‘Spook’ in public, as he just had done. Still, as half the crew at least had not been raised to recognise a term as ‘elegant’ as ‘spectre’, he felt sure that they would know what a ghost was. And the notion of their vessel being the largest and scariest of any things about was something he could get behind.


“All others to rest,” he declared, meeting a wave of applause from those about him. “Tomorrow we take from the ship and see what the mist seeks to hide from us.”

Turning with a flamboyance of amused authority, Uhta hastened to his cabin. Away from the cold unpleasant land they’d come to, and whatever might be lurking thereabouts. He would hope upon the sun returning come the dawn. And if they were fortunate, news from the scouts as well.

Tilting his head slightly in consideration of the elf's words, Gwestion wondered what he might mean by his statement. There was little else to be said, for the choice had already been made for him as to who was to venture forth. He was pleased with the turn of events, regardless of how they came to be. This way, he would be better able to try and learn something of his new ally, and hoped to become more sure that he was, indeed, an ally. With a nod of farewell to first his brother, then Celedir, Gwestion silently turned and followed Gwandhyra down the stairs. A sudden thought caused him a little worry. If Gladhron let his mouth run freely, what might he tell in Gwestion's absence that would be better left untold? Thinking on that, Gwestion paused briefly in hesitation, glancing back when he heard the elf call after them. His inquiry reminded him of another matter. Indeed, what should they call the man? With his ears attentive to the reply, Gwestion filed away the name that was given, in case he should need it later. Gwandhyra. The younger man thought carefully on what he knew of languages, particularly elvish. It did not seem to be an elvish name, however, at least none that he could place.

Not expecting much conversation, Gwestion was therefore was somewhat surprised when the older man began to speak almost as soon as they had arrived at the bottom of the tower, quoting his own words back to him, from earlier. He remained silent, listening until he had finished.
"...if you be of a mind to safeguard this realm from those might come here uninvited, and for ill, then you are in good company. That ought be enough for now at least.”
A silent nod from Gwestion was the only reply for now, when the elder ranger glanced back, in acknowledgment that he had heard and understood. Following his new companion closely enough that he did not lose him in the fog, Gwestion still remained guarded despite Gwandhyra's assurance that he was no enemy, and that the two were on the same side. At his next words, however, the young man paused in his stride. The observation about how Gwestion speaks Sindarin had caught him off guard, and he was not sure whether to reply, or if so, how to reply to it. Thoughtful, he continued after the other man, listening to the rest as they traversed across the dark land. He was pleased to note how observant the man was, at least. It showed that Gwandhyra had experience, if nothing else. A back part of Gwestion's mind suggested that he might have a few useful tricks to teach a younger, less experience ranger...

"Indeed." The younger man answered softly after a moment. "You guess correctly." He kept his voice low, fearing that it might carry across the water and alert their enemies. "On both accounts." He added, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "My blade is, by no means, as great a weapon as yours, yet it serves me well enough." He fell silent after that, having nothing else to say. He wasn't about to volunteer any information, and thought it best to limit speech for fear of being overheard by enemy spies. Still, one couldn't help noticing such an impressive sword as the one Gwandhyra wielded.

As Gwandhyra and Gwestion made their exit, Gladhron turned back to the elf who had become his ally, smiling reassuringly. "I have all confidence in my brother," He confided. "He will do all in his power to accomplish their mission, and he is quite skilled at many things. Though, of course, I mustn't speak too highly of him in his presence, lest his head grow too large." he joked, though he wasn't sure if Celedir would get it. Crossing the room to take a look out of the small window, Gladhron thought about how much nicer it was here in the tower than out there in the fog. "He will ensure that the mission is completed, rest assured."

Suddenly, while thinking on how glad he was to be comfortably inside out of the damp, gloomy fog, Gladhron remembered the two brothers' horses. Being half Rohirrim, his horse was very important to him. The young man did not like the idea of his beautiful horse being left in this cold, damp weather. Gwestion was sure to feel the same about his own horse, he knew. Frowning, Gladhron spun away from the window. "Alas... our horses!" He lamented, his hand slapping his forehead. "I must retrieve them, I shall return swiftly!" He informed the elf, hastening down the stairs before the other had a chance to reply. He had noticed on the way in that there was a place for horses to be sheltered near the base of the tower. With any luck, it would not take him long to find the horses. But where did they leave them? He took a moment to think, then nodded to himself and set off. He attempted to remain cautious of his surroundings as he hurried toward the place, but thought that speed was of more importance at the moment. The pirates would surely not venture into this fog, he told himself.

Soon the young ranger located the two horses, standing patiently in the cold fog. Gaeroch, the larger chestnut horse belonging to Gladhron, fled away a few paces upon seeing the cloaked man hurrying toward him out of the fog, but soon Gladhron was able to reassure his mount that he was no threat, and offered him a piece of apple as a treat. Leading both horses, Gladhron returned as hastily as he had come. He did not like to leave the tower undefended even if he did not think it likely that there would be any danger. He also did not like to think of Gwestion and Gwandhyra returning to find him gone.

It was just then that Gladhron learned that he was incorrect in believing that the pirates would not have left their ship and that all was safe enough right now. As he came within sight of the tower, the unwary young man was ambushed. The horses were startled as a shape came out of nowhere, lunging at Gladhron. With a startled cry, the young man raised his left arm to block the blow on instinct. He grimaced in pain as the enemy blade cut a deep gash into the ranger's forearm, slicing the lacing on the leather bracer he wore for protection. The next instant, his own sword was out and parried the next blow, while his injured arm hung by his side, throbbing painfully. "Identify yourself!" He cried, recalling the confusion from earlier.

A foreign language greeted him, and it did not sound friendly. An enemy then! Gladhron aimed a slash at his opponent, which was met with a clash of steel. After a brief exchange of attacks and blocks, Gladhron was surprised as yet another enemy appeared out of the shadows. A second shadow moved and Gladhron barely had time to duck. His foot lashed out and caught someone in the stomach. Wondering how many more assailants he would be facing, Gladhron worried that he might be outmatched. But for the moment there were only two of them. So long as more did not come, and his arm was not bleeding too heavily, he thought he would be alright.

His sword flashed in the dim moonlight, and he caught a glimpse of the face of the first man. He appeared to be an Umbarian, and the ranger guessed he had come from that ship. So they had sent scouts after all. He gritted his teeth as he felt a dagger pierce into his thigh, and stumbled a bit. His sword found its mark in one of the men at last, and he had only one to deal with after that. Unfortunately, the elven-made weapon was knocked from his hand a moment later, and he found himself grappling with his opponent to prevent the other's dagger from becoming far too-well acquainted with his ribs.

His wounds made things more difficult for him, but at last, he managed to wrest the knife from the enemy's hand. He thought of taking the man prisoner, as it occurred to him that they might be able to gain information from him. But the fight was not over there. The man pushed Gladhron off of him with such force that he stumbled back, knocking his head against something hard. Seeing stars for a moment, the young man nearly lost his grip on the newly-acquired dagger but tightened it once again when he felt the enemy trying to regain it. They struggled over the weapon for a moment, until at last Gladhron prevailed.

Breathing heavily, he looked down at the two dead foes. Then, a thought presented itself to him. Could there be more of them in the tower? Perhaps these two had been left outside as sentinels. Was the elf being swarmed by enemies from the ship? Forgetting his pain for the moment, adrenaline lent him the strength to pull himself to his feet, though he favored his right leg a little. Limping a little, Gladhron moved swiftly toward the tower door. He smiled grimly to himself upon catching sight of the two horses sheltering inside the gatehouse where a portion of the wall had broken, allowing a large enough gap for the two horses to pass through. Apparently, they had taken refuge there when the fighting began. This was a relief because that was where he intended on putting them anyway.

Now assured that the horses needed no caring for, at this time, Gladhron focused all of his efforts on returning to the tower. Perhaps it was too late, but he would fight any enemies who may have made their way into the tower. A sense of urgency led him to push himself despite the pain in his leg, though he attempted to use caution just in case. However, upon entering the tower, tensed and ready for battle, gripping his sword in his good hand, he saw nothing out of place. Breathing hard, Gladhron glanced around, then slumped down against the wall in relief and exhaustion. Closing his eyes, Gladhron tried to will his wounds to stop hurting, and bleeding. Not that it did any good. Maybe if he rested for just a few moments...

Dressed in shadow, the two Rangers shuffled in their dirt-caked boots, the dried mud here muffling their steps upon the fractured stone. Gwandhyra grasped his sword ‘Reaper’ aloft in one hand, as though it might prove some understudy to the torchlight that they ought not dare to risk. If naught else, the weapon fuelled it’s bearer with a strength of comfort. Of familiarity. The young Man here, Gwestion, seemed to have marked the broad blade as was; a set apart from typical more agile weapons, which would see him better to identify his ally if they were abruptly accosted by foes. Rather more though, ‘great’ should warn the youth of what a strength the tool demanded, to wield with any skill. It had been a labour of love for the once young Gondorian to become accustomed. If there were some smarter way of broadcasting a confidence in such a time of training and of honing skill, the Southerner could not conjure one to mind.

“Your sword is not your weapon,” he mused, and his words were those of Addhor. Much repeated. Long treasured. “You are the weapon. You make use of the sword. If you are robbed of a sword does that render you of no use ? It ought not.” Of course, his brother had no doubt lectured him so, to keep him from stealing the ancient heirloom for his self. To no avail, as it had turned out in the long run. Still the sentiment stood as sense. Though he might be here remembering himself, rather than admonishing a stranger.


Isolation had bred more of a want in the Ranger, to indulge in company. More than he had expected, and more so than was wise to allow with conversation. For all that Gwandhyra might tell himself he was just probing the young Man, truth was that Gwestion had found the better wisdom in restraining his tongue. It was not beyond the old dog to learn a new trick, and he wondered how quick was the young man’s mind ..

“The willow-wren bird is rare heard this far from Nin-in-Eiliph,” the Gondorian mentioned, seeming random. Before Gwestion might imagine his ally to have lost his mind, or perhaps to secure such an assumption, the Southerner shaped his lips about the call of the small bird. Not a decent effort, if he did say so himself. He was far more adept in the mimicry of birds native to Gondor, but the willow wren was a bird of the north, a bird that Gwestion should have heard before, if he was as travelled as his garb suggested. The Corsairs by contrast would not yet have met with such a sound of song this far down river. "So if you require to seize my attention .." He repeated the example.

Lending an ear then to see if Gwestion might embrace their secret alarm, it was some other sound which the Man caught. A Swordsong. More than one sword by the sound of it. Had the Enemy observed or, more likely heard, them after all ? Could Corsairs be now heading toward the very tower where their friends were ?



Halting not to attempt birdsong or some other means of clandestine exchange, Gwandhyra put thought and feet toward retracing their steps. All that greeted their breathless approach though was the somewhat satisfaction of observing a distant Gladhron limp, victoriously, back toward their secret base. The elder of the two spies turned a corsair corpse over with one foot, and without ceremony. Both had been effectively dispatched, and their valiant murderer seemed injured but alive. Surely the best place for him to recover was where he already was headed.

“He shall have a tale to tell of some doubtless valour when we return,” the Gondorian smirked, knowingly. “But come, we must at least endeavour to match it. For see, your brother’s trials have ended our own.”

Kneeling beside one of the fallen Corsairs, Gwandhyra tore at the dead man’s crimson cowl and proffered it to Gwestion, returned that young man’s own supposition from earlier now. “For how do you know that we are not enemies who have killed two Corsairs and assumed their identity?"

He wondered if the young man would now recognise encouragement within the wolfish glare of a most dangerous game. He wondered if the younger brother would run to check on his sibling. He had set out upon their task, wondering what manner of a man Gwestion was. Since it was proving quite futile to barrage the stranger with questions, or even to hurl assumptions in hope of correction, .. it might be worth challenging his dare. What a man does, after all, was worth far more than what he said.

“Men in Umbar converse in a Southern play on Westron, spattered with a heavy emphasis of Adunaic,” he made more clear his intent, and demonstrated a bold example of this latest intention, and practiced accent. It had been more than ten years since he had played this game, but it didn't hurt to at least confuse an enemy, if it earned them even a few essential moments. “They are no doubt expecting the return of their scouts.”

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“Your sword is not your weapon. You are the weapon. You make use of the sword. If you are robbed of a sword does that render you of no use ? It ought not."

These words left Gwestion thoughtful. It reminded him of just the sort of thing his father might have said. He missed his father more than he could have put into words, though he would not speak of it. Quite often, the younger of the two brothers wondered what sort of advice their father would have for his two sons, were he still with them. Gwestion could not speak of this to his brother, of course, but it often frustrated him that Gladhron frequently failed to remember things that he ought to have learned while he traveled with Gwedhion.

In some ways, Gwestion harbored a little bit of jealousy of his brother, not that he would admit to such. The older brother had spent more time under their father's tutelage, learning valuable tricks and experience, yet too often he neglected to commit such valuable lessons to memory. And now that their father was gone, Gladhron claimed his sword for himself, giving Gwestion the sword Gladhron had once used. Admittedly, it was better than the one Gwestion had retired, and it did seem proper for the eldest son to have first claim, but sometimes Gwestion wished he were the elder. Many times, in fact.

Realizing that Gwandhyra was speaking of birds now, Gwestion returned his attention to the man, briefly puzzled. For an instant he cast a glance around, half expecting to see the bird the man had mentioned, for what other reason would he have for bringing that up? But then his meaning became clear, and the young man listened intently to the call. He did a fair job imitating it, Gwestion thought.

Before the young man had a chance to make an attempt at it himself, the sound of fighting drew his attention. Gwestion whirled, his hand finding his sword handle. The sound came from the direction they had just come from, which alarmed him. Rushing back toward the tower, Gwestion was not far behind Gwandhyra, with many thoughts and concerns racing through his mind. The foremost being that his brother may be in danger. Perhaps the tower had been encircled and they knew it not. Their foes may have waited for the two rangers to leave, thinking that the tower would be weaker now.

Upon arriving, he was relieved to catch a glimpse of Gladhron retreating back into the tower. His brother must not have been injured too badly then, though he did look to be limping. Kneeling, Gwestion picked up a leather bracer which had a smear of blood on it, the laces cut open. He knew it to be Gladhron's, and that told him that he had more than one injury. Still, he knew his brother was steadfast and resilient. He would be alright. Gwestion looked down at the two that his brother had left dead. Gwandhyra's remark brought a faint, wry smile to Gwestion's face. "You don't know the half of it." He muttered, somewhat amused. He had little doubt that by the time he returned to the tower, Gladhron would have exaggerated the foes to be triple in number, and quadruple in size. In truth, one of the two pirate scouts were closer to his own build, while the other was similar to Gwandhyra's.

Even as the idea was forming in his mind, Gwandhyra was acting upon the same thought, suggesting the very thing Gwestion had mentioned as a possibility earlier. The cowl was accepted, though Gwestion hesitated a bit at the mention of the accent. He had never before attempted to change his manner of speaking... could he do it? He'd practiced throwing his voice since childhood, but not altering his accent. Still, it was worth an attempt, anyway. "I understand, do you mean like thus?" He made an attempt, thinking he might sound ridiculous but it was better to practice a bit to get it right. "I have never before attempted to speak in a false accent," He admitted quietly, cringing slightly as he attempted to adjust the accent to sound right. If necessary, he could just become mute and let Gwandhyra do the talking, nodding in support of anything he said.

Then there was the issue of faces. The pirates may have dimmed lanterns on board that ship. They might have the scouts come into the cabin to make their report. If the rangers were to disguise themselves, then they ought to do it properly. Thinking on this, Gwestion shed his cloak and began to put on the pirate's gear, enough to cover his own clothes up and make him appear like the other. "You might want to put away those," He spoke to Gwandhyra with a nod to indicate the bracers the other man wore, "if you do not wish for them to spot you as an imposter." He still attempted to practice the Umbarian manner of speech. Then, he paused as he thought of an idea to help conceal their faces a bit better. It was a foggy night, certainly, and one unaccustomed to the shore might easily lose his footing. The man before him was streaked in mud, after all. Had he been thrown overboard? It appeared so, for his clothing was soaked as well, and he looked as if he had crawled through the mud to get out of the water.

Turning toward his companion whilst the two of them donned their foe's clothing, the young man took some mud into his hand and then, with a swift motion, reached unexpectedly to swipe a generous amount of the mud onto Gwandhyra's face. Gwestion kept his own expression neutral, though he struggled a bit not to grin. Amusement and a bit of playfulness twinkled in his blue-gray eyes as he watched to see how the older man would react to this. "We must disguise our faces as well, so not to be recognized." Was all he offered as an explanation for his action.

They fell about the bodies as a pair of vultures, scavenging for the best means to create a disguise. Gwandhyra was glad to note that Gwestion had not rushed with all heart of concern to check on his brother. He would not have blamed the young man should that have occurred; family was family, after all. But it was the practice of a far more reasoned man to do what must be done, before a reunion with kin. Might be that Gladhron had heard the rumours about Elvish healing, and thought that he might find comfort and marvel from such an act by Celedir. Based on what he’d personally learnt of Elves and expectations, the Southerner held his tongue and swallowed his scoff.


Gwestion was practicing his own tongue, falling from his humour to providing some for his companion. An expression conveyed Gwandhyra’s alarm at the first attempt, still it was hard not to laugh. And when the young man admitted that he ‘had not before attempted to speak in a fake accent’, the older ranger was glad he had not laughed. For it was not commonplace at all to do so and the lad could hardly be expected to have so prepared.


“Like this, do you mean ?” he responded to effort, translating what Gwestion had spoken, placing emphasis where he might not have else. “Curb the want to lilt the words toward a flowing song as you will have heard Elves do. Instead be abrupt and punctuate your vowels. If in doubt, keep your voice a low sputter of punches. Your own accent has a touch of something else already,” he confessed to noting, though Gwandhyra could not recognise quite what it was. He had never been to or spent much time with the Rohirrim, after all.

“Recall my words from the tower. Corsairs are in this age of a much mottled blend. There may well be members of an Umbarian crew come all the way from most distant Harad who comprehend little of his fellow’s speech..”



This brief guidance and, hopefully, reassurance, granted, the men concentrated upon their disguise. It was a poor exchange, their filthy garb for the sodden costumes of the scouts, but at least the fit was not far off. The Gondorian had just fashioned the Corsair’s belt to ensure the hang correct when he considered the sword. His two-handed heirloom was of a fair difference to the curved scimitar of an alien foe. Could he bring himself to forego the one for the other, lest it cost them their dangerous ruse ? Even as he debated internally, Gwestion remarked upon his bracers. The older man ran a finger along each reluctantly, for the youth was not wrong.



One of the Southerner’s bracers was hued in deep bottle green, a symbol though lacking an insignia, for the Forest of distant Ithilien. The other, his right, was of a contrasting shade; darkest navy blue, as a sky bereft of light, though etched with the most delicate of silver borders. At it’s epicentre was a single seven pointed star, woven of both gold and silver strains. This was reminiscent of another alignment still most treasured by the Ranger. He had come so far from where his life had started, that those few small touches of the milestones he’d known since, each had value. Gwandhyra was not a one to carry a great heap of gear, nor more than a spattering of coin. An oiled skin pouch for water, a whetstone and small but worthy knife; to butcher small game, dig out edible roots, and perform at need as a last ditch weapon. These were the few items he was rarely found without. Needle and thread, yes, for mending clothes and broken flesh alike. Hook and line for catching fish, or setting snares. All and each of these had been replaced a hundred times over, with little thought leant to the matter. But his bracers ?

There was a little-known reason why even his second wife had never seen him without a pair of bracers. The scars went so deep into his being they may as well never have closed. Some things did not heal. Some hurts would not be helped. Gwandhyra removed the bracers and forced himself for the briefest of moments to gaze upon that lost memory. He kept his back set against Gwestion until he had donned replacement bracers of a dark crimson hue. His own he stowed stubbornly by the laces through the loop of his belt, at the back. Underneath his cloak they would be hidden, for he could not properly lay them aside. Now though the dilemma of the sword ..



Returning to face toward Gwestion, Gwandhyra was met with a face of wet mud. It sat as a sludge across the older Man’s left cheek, and dripped off the end of his nose. To say that the younger Man had accepted the disguise plan with good grace was still to fall short of the truth. This was above and beyond what Gwandhyra had dared to hope that Gwestion would tolerate ! A moment was permitted to pass where the Gondorian remained as frozen. Gwestion, left in the vacuum before a response, offered up his explanation with small hint of any sure remorse. The older man drew one finger along the mess of his face, seeming in some conflict whether to be furious or fine with the bold outburst. At the same time, he cupped his full other hand with a generous serving of mud, and deposited that with great satisfaction upon the young man’s brow.


“We are only effective if we are properly authentic.” he grinned, and his teeth shone through the shadow heaped about his countenance.


Finally they were both satisfied, or else out of any more resource to dirt up. Gwandhyra secured his heavy sword about his back and fashioned the wet cloak to veil it’s head as far as he was able. “Should we become separated or you need to sound alarm without revealing yourself, ..” the Ranger offered up the same mimicry of the willow wren to conclude his sentence and his meaning. “We get in, we take a look about, and we get out. Understood ?”








There was only one figure to be observed at the side of the ship, until the two Rangers had approached almost upon the gangplank. Then the second of the two on sentry came to support his colleague, and to learn of what, if any, thing the scouts had found upon their first foray abroad.


“What have you to tell ?” the first barked, as though he were Captain. “This strange land has reason for us to fear ? Or a reason to fear us ?”

“Looks as only you have found a bog,” put in the second sentry, sniggering over the shoulder of his friend.

“Wait !” the first sentry held up his hand and lantern both. He peered about the pulled cowls and the muddied faces of the two men on the deck. “I must know. There are stories of such monsters that lurk in this sun-less shore, that the rain makes wet and foul to look upon. The smell alone is enough to overwhelm it’s foes. Did you see … ” he exchanged a much entertained glance with his accomplice, who as good as drummed the first man’s shoulder with his hands, to get to the punchline all knew was coming. “I see now. It is come to eat us !” mocking was the joke, and at the two bedraggled mens’ expense.


“It has come to kill you,” Gwandhyra corrected the Corsair, snatching his crude lantern with all the speed of a striking snake. The Sentry, not expecting such a response, stepped back and reached for the sword at his hip. But it took less time for the Ranger to dash the lantern hard into the front of the other Man’s head. Glass embedded the man’s cheek and hot wax made him cry out in surprise. Even before the small flame was introduced by a thrust into the sentry’s cloak. Sword forgotten, he pounded the width of the deck, a shriek like a shooting star taking him that far, and lifted one leg to make for a watery escape. Fear for a second combated with pain, and that was all the chance that the Ranger had required to catch up. He planted his small knife into the back of the Corsair’s throat. He retrieved it calmly as the dying man dove to his death. Small sizzles of the flame extinguished by the cool dark waters amused the Gondorian. As though Lond Daer itself were disposing of the evidence that Umbar had dared trespass. The Corsair's bones would never again see light of day.


“Dispatch with the other,” he encouraged Gwestion, to consider the second sentry. Only to observe that this was already in motion. The first man’s head, having been thrown back into his colleague, had delayed Gwestion’s opponent this long. He wiped a now bloodied nose with the back of one hand, and reached for his scimitar with one hand, a cry ready to erupt from his throat as he launched at the younger Ranger in desguise.

“Be swift,” the Gondorian hissed advice distractedly, as he paused at the neck of a winding down stair case. A sure glance checked for any evidence of folk from below roused by the raucous. But as yet there was none. “We require a clear departure, without complications, for when we are done” he justified the assault, absent of apology. Avoiding the younger man’s expression.

When would he be done ? It seemed the past, the south was not yet done with him. Gwandhyra’s hand was trembling, and not from fear. Yet any explanation that he trialled now, would be the older man’s turn, to show small hint of any sure remorse.

Private with @Ercassie



It was not often that Gwestion did such bold, impertinent things as he had just done. He waited in suspense for what felt like far too long. Glad as he was for Gwandhyra's assistance in correcting his fake accent, he worried now that he had overstepped his bounds by offering 'aid' in their disguise. Not everyone would take mud in the face graciously, after all. Perhaps he had ruined any chance of a friendly alliance, and now the mission would become strained... Before Gwestion had any time to decide on whether to apologize, he was greeted with a handful of mud in return, along with a grin from Gwandhyra. He certainly did not expect that, though he had to admit it was justifiable. The young man grinned in return, more out of relief that his companion wasn't angry than anything. The whole matter was rather amusing, in fact. Were Gladhron watching, he would have been laughing uncontrollably. Best that he wasn't there, lest the pirates overhear him! Struggling not to laugh himself, Gwestion's hand went to the mud on his brow, then smeared it more fully as he ran the hand down his face. "Indeed." He replied with a grin himself. "We must be authentic."

Standing once their disguise was complete, the young man set his mind to adopting the corrections given him by Gwandhyra in his speech. The comment of another accent in his speech was left unanswered. He guessed it to be an attempt at fishing for information which Gwestion cared not to divulge, at least not at this time. He did not know the other man quite well enough, but perhaps in time. Maybe next time they flung mud at each other's faces, he would feel comfortable enough to tell Gwandhyra more about himself, Gwestion thought with amusement. With his attempts at the Umbarian accent now greatly improved, he replied in that accent, "Indeed, understood quite well." He repeated the bird call, showing he also had practice in such things. With those matters settled, the two set out for the ship.


It could not be denied that Gwestion felt quite nervous as they approached and boarded the ship. It seemed large, and he was not familiar with ships in general. He knew not how many corsairs might be aboard, nor what they might do if they caught the two scouts on board. There were so many ways that this might go wrong that Gwestion cared not to count them. He knew of a certainty that were they recognized as being imposters, they would be quite well outnumbered. Pirates, he knew, were notorious for being cruel and ruthless. What if he spoke wrong, or if they were forced to clean up... or what if the two scouts whose clothes they wore had a friend on board who would recognize an imposter? The young man had many things racing through his mind as he followed Gwandhyra across the gangplank. Still, he was not to be swayed from this mission.

Greeted by two sentries, Gwestion froze as the two men shared a joke which, admittedly, went above Gwestion's head. He got the idea that it was intended to tease the two scouts they were impersonating, but he didn't really see the humor in it. Should he laugh? It was decided that he would take his cue from Gwandhyra. And such a cue it was, in fact. The assault surprised Gwestion almost as much as it did the sentries, but he reacted in support of his comrade. After only a moment's delay, Gwestion's dagger emerged, and even before Gwandhyra had spoken to tell him to deal with the man, the younger ranger was working on doing just that. The sentry was about to raise an alarm which Gwestion knew that would prove fatal to their mission. A stab to the ribs, positioned just right to puncture a lung, left the sentry unable to take the breath to make such a cry. It was then both practical and merciful to end his suffering with a final blow to the throat. Standing again with a soft sigh, Gwestion dragged the dead man to the edge of the ship and sent him to join his buddy. He had not intended to have to slay anyone just yet, but that had become necessary.

"Has the alarm been raised?" He inquired quietly as he rejoined Gwandhyra at the top of the staircase. After wiping the blood from his blade, he returned it to the sheath and lightly touched the other man's arm, at the elbow. ""We get in, we take a look about, and we get out"," he quoted Gwandhya's own words, in a soft whisper and a vague smile, "I was under the impression that was the plan... has there been a change to it? Have we come, the two of us, to dispatch them all?" Despite his slightly sarcastic words, he knew it had been necessary to deal so with the two sentries, and added in a more sincere tone, "Do you suppose there are any other sentries on deck?" He spoke softly, glancing around, though it was hard to see much with all the fog.

The rain fell heavy over the grass covered mounds of Fornost that most now called the Deadman’s Dike. Few came to this northern city anymore bar the Dunedain for fear of the ghosts of the ancient kings. Few places in the bounds of the ancient city were still recognisable as a ruin for most of it was now covered in grass and earth from centuries of neglect. The rangers still new the best places to go to find the history of their people and shelter from the weather. There were dells that were once basements of houses or storerooms where the men of the north still kept refuges. Moss draped over the entrances of many of these hidden spots and protected them from unwanted visitors and gave a little privacy to those who dared journey to this historic place.

It was in one of these hidden storerooms that Termon had been sheltering from the torrential, freezing rain that had been falling for almost three days straight. He could not hold out much longer, he was running out of food and he had tasks that demanded attention back south. People relied on the Dunedain even though they didn’t realise it. Many saw them as troublesome or mischief makers but equally many of them did not know of the existence of their secret protectors. The realms of the Hobbits would have been utterly destroyed on many occasions had it not been for the intervention of the Rangers but they were unaware of many of these occasions.

Time had come for Termon to leave his little sheltered hide and bare the brunt of the hammering rain on the journey south to the Weather Hills where hopefully the weather would turn. It was a long journey from here to the Forsaken Inn where his first task lay. The easiest route was down along the Weather Hills where some secrecy was afforded by the geography itself then down onto the Great East Road via Weathertop. Before he left though Termon quickly ventured out and gathered some fallen lumber to restock the small pile that had been in the dell on his arrival as was the custom of the Rangers.

Finally he closed his small pack and gathered his sword, bow and quiver and attached them all to the respective clasps and rings on his belts. He swung the heavy moss green cloak over all and drew the deep hood up to cover him as much as he could. He drew it tight around him and stepped out properly into the rain for the first time and could already feel the chill upon him.

He walked quickly through the green ruins of the ancient capital of Arthedain towards the southern wall and the remains of the great arched gate. One of the few sections of wall that was still standing was found either side of the gate and the arc was still standing testament to its skilled construction. He passed under the gate and started properly the long journey south.

There was little shelter in the span between Fornost and the Weather Hills and the rain persisted for Termon’s entire journey. Several days passed with not a sight or sound of animals or other people - friend or foe. Several uncomfortable nights without a fire made for an unhappy traveller. Even with all the tricks of the Dunedain available to him fire cannot be started with soaking, slimy sticks. He doubted that even Aragorn could conjure the skill required.

Eventually the Weather Hills loomed large and signs of life began to return to the world it seemed to Termon. The rain had slowed to a constant drizzle and the temperature was now akin to a warm summer day. Shelter was readily available under the overhangs of the Weather Hills and for the first time in a two weeks Termon was able to dry out some of his clothes overnight several days in a row. Even the thick wool cloak had dried through which made Termon much happier.

Finally Termon saw the distinctive silhouette of Weathertop at the furthest south of the Weather Hills range and as if the rain knew that he was nearing the end of this first leg of the journey it slowly came to a stop and granted him a boon of a few rays of sun breaking through the clouds. He found the old Ranger camp at the north side of the peak and settled in for the night. He lit a fire and roasted a fowl he had managed to shoot earlier that day. He settled in for the night and wrapped himself up in his cloak he decided to complete his journey to the Forsaken Inn the next day but for the time being wondered if there were any other Dunedain in the area.

The sun rose early the next day. Dew drops coated the grass of the dell and glistened in the morning light. Somewhere in the forest a fox was hiding away for the day and the birds were beginning to bravely peer out of their nests high in the boughs of the trees. The day was beginning to wake and with it so did Termon being roused by the first first rays of sun passing over his face. He stirred slowly as one who had been deep in a dream and blinked open his eyes. Even his thick cloak was covered in the dew of the morning and as he stood up the rivulets conjoined and rolled down and eventually off the cloak. He had slept more soundly than at any point while he had been in Fornost or on the road back southwards.

Termon packed up the camp quickly and set about again gathering more wood to replenish the stores he had diminished taking the small hatchet off his belt and breaking down a fallen tree trunk. Finally after he had eaten the last morsels of the previous night's fowl he spent a short time carefully constructing the dell so that only another Ranger would recognise he had been there. It had not even passed nine by his reckoning before he lifted his pack up and set off to skirt the peak and rejoin the Great East Road. Few people summited Weathertop now even the Rangers - they knew the histories better than most so knew what fell deeds had led to its ruin.

It did not take long to make it back to the road and he turned west heading towards the Forsaken Inn. He was due to meet another ranger there but he knew the weather had delayed his travel so hoped that he would not have missed his old friend. The inn itself was a days ride East of Bree but Termon did not much like the village as they were quick to distrust outsiders and the road between there and Fornost was often watched over suspiciously by the townspeople for fear of ghosts. It had been an easy choice to avoid there for that very reason, and anyway who would blame a ranger for wanting to journey in peace and in the wilds, dangerous as they are.

Seldom was a ranger seen on the roads, they often tried to avoid being seen - protecting without the need for thanks. It was rare however than any of their number would willingly pass through the Midgewater Marshes although there were paths that all of them knew to get through. The flies would sooner devour a traveller than let them pass unharmed and the weeks it took to get the stench of the muds out of clothes or boots meant that it was not worth the shortcut. Termon could already smell the marshes and the road had not even reached the southern edges of them. It was almost as if he could hear the buzzing of the flies in his ears already.

A few hours passed before Termon saw in the distance the battered and ramshackle structure that was The Forsaken Inn. The single story building almost hugged the ground in the way it looked. The main door was in the centre of a wide front fascia and two wings drew back from the road and either end of it. The pitched roofs created eaves to hide under and the thatch was only broken to allow for windows in those places that the roof almost reached the ground. Between the two wings was a courtyard which could only be reached by circling the entire building.

As Termon got closer he could see weak wisps of smoke rising from the chimneys and flickering lights through the soot blackened windows - these were the only signs that there was still any life within the aptly named establishment. Only the desperate would see this and think it a good place to stop - the desperate or those looking not to be found. Many a fugitive criminal had been found at the hearth of The Forsaken Inn thinking they had escaped justice. When he reached the door he saw it was in worse condition than the last time he had been here. Several planks had been replaced but there were gaps between each of the remaining which the elements would surely breach even on the kindest of days. The hinges squealed as Termon opened the door and all of the patrons of the common room it opened into looked towards the newcomer, or they would have done if there had been any patrons at all.

The room was empty apart from the barkeep who was sat in a chair behind the bar that looked as battered as the door Termon had just come through. The barkeep looked up over the worn counter and stood slowly as the ranger walked towards him. "You're too late! Your wanderer friend left last morning" the old man croaked before Termon had even made it all the way over to him. The creases in the man's face showed that he was nearing the end of his life and the stiffness with which he stood suggested of a lameness to his left leg. "He left you this though - said you'd know what to do next!" The wizened hands of the man passed over a letter written on thin cheap parchment which a seal of brown wax and the impression of a Rangers rune. The seal however was loose from the letter and several pieces had been broken off the edge, clearly the barkeep had opened it and read its contents.

"I did not think it customary for those entrusted with sealed letters to open them, or read them for that matter Master Barkeep! Perhaps this is why your establishment is as quiet as it is?" Termon glowered at the old man behind the bar and turned to sit down but the old man spoke up again "Well I have to get my news somehow don't I, anyway its always useful to know where you lot are gonna be - the patrons I do 'ave hate bein' stopped by you lot!" Termon rolled his eyes and sat in a corner as far away from the innkeeper as he could. He opened the letter and read intently.

Termon let out a deep sigh, this news was good and was worth following up on but it was frustrating that his companion could not join him. The journey to Tharbad was a perilous one not to be taken lightly and stealth would now be his best friend. Suddenly Termon was roused from his thoughts as the barkeep shuffled over to the table. "Tharbad eh? Not for the faint of heart that place. Don't worry none of the scoundrels I serve know of your destination and not even I know of your route." The old man's voice and demeanour had entirely changed he seemed even to stand taller than he had. Termon took a closer look and saw a light in the man's eye. "I used to be one of you Rangers you know! Until a Dunlending broke my leg! Last thing he ever did mind you but I wasn't any use in the field, so Arathorn put me hear to act as eyes and ears among the ne'er-do-wells of the Lone Lands. Not many people know I'm still here but those that do know I am a friend to them. You are welcome to stay the night and theres plenty of supplies to take southwards when you need to. I'll fetch you some food and a pitcher of good ale!"

Termon was astonished, he had heard what he thought were tall tales of a secret network of spies in the Lone Lands among farmers and stablehands and a plate scrubber or two but never in his wildest dreams had he dared to imagine that the landlord of The Forsaken Inn was one of them. The old man stumped back over with a plate of good meat, a bowl of stew and the promised pitcher with two mugs. "Don't mind if I join you? It'll be good to hear some news from the outside world and I have some questions about what you are seeking, and for an elf of all people." Termon poured them both some ale and quickly took a deep swig. It was some of the finest ale he had tasted in some time. "I seek an heirloom of his father. A great war hammer forged in Gondolin in ages past stolen by orcs and then passed to Dunlendings of all people, he wishes it back but this seems like the best lead in many years. That is all I can tell for now but I have many more tales from the rest of Eriador!"

It was in this way that Termon and the old innkeeper spent the rest of the day and much of the night and not a single other guest joined them eventually the light outside faded and the embers of the fire died and before either of them realised they were sat in darkness lit only by the last tallows of the candle on the table between them. "Well to bed for both of us I think Master Termon, follow me and I'll take you to the room I keep for those who I trust and trust me!" Said the innkeeper who even still was reluctant to tell Termon his name. They both stood and walked down the corridor of the west wing of the inn to a door that read private and was locked. The old man opened the door and led Termon through "These are my private quarters, and this one here is where you may sleep - there is also a secret entrance and exit and private room that you may use in the future further down the hall. All I ask is that you pull the bell cord when you arrive so I know to expect company. You'll find all the supplies you need in the cupboard of the private room also Aragorn makes sure this place is well stocked so take all you need - there won't be any shortage" The room was well furnished and looked fit for a King of old with a good mattress and thick sheets "Thank you! New friends in the wild are always welcome innkeep. I will likely leave before light in the morning but I will return and use the hidden ways whenever I do come! Hospitality as yours is one not to miss!"

The old Ranger smiled as he left the room and Termon settled quickly into the bed. He had a long journey before him in the morning and he had been awake for many hours already. He drifted quickly to sleep but the looming shadow of Tharbad was in his dreams, as were the shadowed faces of all the enemies that would lie between him and his goal.

A lone bird, doubtless some native to these reaches, struggled high above them as it's wings were snagged upon the biting rush of wind. Already the air itself was rimmed with a nameless chill. They had left the sanctuary of the fair valley behind them and, as had become custom, Celedir had found himself revisiting a want to travel Southward, of course. Southerly lay home, or once a place that had gone by that name. He half turned, to replenish the memory of Eregion, and found only the knowing face of his darker-haired associate.

“It might not be so wise to cast your eyes toward that which would grieve your heart,” Halyanis counselled gravely, though her want to protect him was softened by pity, for his heartbreak. She had never come unto the land which folk now named ‘Hollin’, not until the point of it’s evacuation. Not until it had already begun to unravel. That day, come with Tirindo to locate his lost niece there, she had found instead a re-enactment of the crisis last endured the day that niece had fled. Conflict, slaughter, death and fear. The irony of timing was a cruel hand of the fates. They had found their missing relative however, in the refuge of Imladris after. They had found Celedir too, for the first time in that den of despair and desperation.


What the younger Elf now laid his eyes about was a very altered sight to that seen by Halyanis. She could not see past that dread recollection. But the kingdom of Eregion had been home to him before it had devolved unto a ruin. He had been born there, within the cultural metropolis of Elves and Dwarves, during a period of glory and might and power for both kinds. Until they had all of them been betrayed. His father lost, his mother soon thenafter giving in to grief, Halyanis had taken him up, still a small child then, and swaddled him in comfort. Never pity, never sorrow. For she and her husband had lost their son in the War of Jewels, in the first age of the Sun. To her, the now orphaned boychild was a lost piece to fit the puzzle of her heart. She without her son, he without his mother, they had found what each required in each other, and been gladder always for that gift.

Tirindo of course had been less swift to unlock his heart, long drawn cold and bitter. He suffered the presence of Celedir for Halyanis’s sake, or so it seemed to the youth. And so as much as he wanted to make the ancient archer proud, it was a long and hard war of a thing. Far easier and far more joyful was the time he spent alone with Halyanis. As was this day. A time apart. A time to be glad for all they had, not begrudge what they lacked. Yet still he had led her along these paths. Yet still, he had come home as though his memories carried him, rather than his horse.

It no longer looked like home, and it was not. Yet still it was. And for all that she had not denied his want to see them here, now Haly fretted. For the eve was drawing dark and their hearts were hung heavy. The younger Elf bore eyes of iron that were melded to his torment. To all that now stood in Hollin. To all that now did not.


Unsteady terrain played mischief even as they turned back to the safety of the valley, across an expanse littered with the very real danger of perilous footfalls. For soon the land beneath them clambered ruggedly and also tumbled unexpectedly, where perilous cracks and ditches sought to snag unwary feet. The horses slowed without ever having to be told. Time stood, and could not shift the weight of hours to a more pleasing surround. And so they lingered long when they ought not. And so they found themselves in company of darkness, and all that walks in that shadow.

A dread horn bayed against the falling sky and the horses took fright, liquid eyes come wide and animated in their heaving panting terror. When they faltered, when they floundered, the Elves walked them without any word spent toward such a plan. The one simply following the other. And so leading their beasts with gentle snatches of song, the dark haired and the fair haired Elf each dared steps, their own haunting melody raising chills. The good earth fell away in chunks to ever widening meres of water until the marsh surrounded them. Still they both sang and they each found a comfort in the other, and a resolve to keep on.


The invisible tug caught Celedir at both ankles, hauling him off balance to a hard and bracing splash against his back. The water was not more than knee height, but more than enough to keep him under as he was laid horizontal. The last thing he saw was the sharp turn of Haly’s dark head, the abrupt loss of their fragile peace, and the burn of the horse’s reins along his palm as he was snatched away from it in surprise. After that it was a case of gasping for the surface, flailing with both hands, as whatever had snagged him at each ankle was now towing him along through the marsh, carelessly beneath the murky film of scum and mud. Reeds were bent and birds startled by the young Elf’s ongoing abduction, no less startled than he was himself to see men, fierce bearded men and women sprawled with purpose underneath the water, taking air from the surface through reeds. How long he and his second mother had walked in their midst, never knowing, he could not have said. It would do no good now to think on such alarming things, not in the face of ever more presenting peril. The mortals rose to their feet in a queue, with mighty triumphant cries and whoops which failed to smother the scream which told of Haly’s likewise plight. And then along the path came men already stood, waiting and anticipating, as an avenue of trees in the gloom. They dropped their heavy clubs all about the Elf’s unprotected form. Until at length the strong cord which had snagged about each ankle slowed it’s race. The fisher who had heaved in this unlikely catch, held up one arm, and the two Elves found their throat knotted in thick burly arms.

Coughing up water and no small amount of shock, Celedir found the leering face of perhaps the tallest man there. The Elf looked for Haly, looked for their horses, and panicked, finding neither in his sight. He heard her though, close, and not unlike himself in abhorred shock. And their eventful evening had only just begun …






The Elf may not have recognised the mortal turn of phrase, but he was eager to believe the earnest optimism of the Man.

“You know your brother better than do I,” the Immortal acknowledged with a lingering nod. He did not know any of the Men well enough to judge their chances of success, but he was sure that his own had momentously improved since their arrival. If he had been at all suspicious though, he might have noted though how the remaining stranger positioned himself before their only window. To stand between an Elf now and his watch on what occurred beyond ? Celedir drew close to lines of consternation at his brow then, and pondered several lines in mind with which to question the Man. Until, perhaps unsurprisingly, Gladhron leapt up from his seat after a time and seemed insistent upon going off outside, alone. The Elf felt guilty then, for having possibly laid too intense a stare upon one he’d named as his ally.

Had he made the Man uncomfortable ? Had the Ranger seen something outside ? Had Gladhron been merely but biding time until it seemed less suspicious to sneak off ? The Elf hadn’t noticed any horses, hadn’t heard them when he had ventured outside to quiet down the mortals’ din before. Of course he had been rushing, to get back … so he might have missed them. Unwilling to ignore his instincts, Celedir allowed Gladhron to leave, without complaint. He merely brought his bow to hand, readied the half-full quiver and replaced the man’s stand at the window.

“I can provide cover,” was all that he offered up. There was no response and in the Ranger’s haste, he may not even had heard the proposal. So, abandoned along with the watchtower itself, Celedir strove with fears that Gladhron had run after Gwestion, either as a truer indication of no faith in his brother, or maybe some belated remorse over missing all the ‘excitement’. The worst case scenario of course was that he’d gone to aid his sibling dispatch with the other Man. Then both might come back to finish him off together. Potentially with other scouts of the enemy that they might be in league with …


Grey eyes pierced the mist, grateful that the ship was in view from the window as well. At least by Elvish reckoning. With fingers poised, and arrow set, Celedir scanned the vicinity for Gwestion and Gwandhyra. He traced the progress of Gladhron with a greater ease, for that Man had left the most recently. Then his keen ear caught the sound of a very alien bird in the vicinity. In the opposing direction to where he could track Gladhron and the clear whinny of horses .. The Elf released the breath he had been holding, and lowered his aim. He ought keep watch as he could over both sets of folk, but .. who knew if he would be granted such an opportunity like this again ?


He had volunteered to remain in the tower and keep watch, for there was some thing in the tower he had been already watching over. A considerable time he had spent in the company of the three seeming Rangers, longer than he previously had spent from his secret. And so, taking time to steal up another floor in the tower, he inched open the trapdoor into the attic. Thankfully naught seemed to have gone ill up there during his absence. As he approached the swaddled blanket bundle, an eruption of dark hair spilt from one end, and the young Elf squatted down on risen ankles. He tilted his head, edged closer, and sank down until he lay beside the covered form of his affection.

“No-one’s going to harm you, not while I’m around.”

The first line of a song that she had ever sung him, now he offered up to comfort her in return.

“No-one’s going to harm you, no sir, not while I’m around.
Demons are prowling everywhere nowadays
I’ll send them howling, I don’t care. I’ve got ways.

No-one’s going to hurt you, no-one’s going to dare.
Others can desert you, not to worry, whistle: I’ll be there.
Demons will charm you with a smile for a while, but in time ..
Nothing can harm you, not while I’m around.

Not to worry, not to worry I may not be smart but I ain’t dum.
I can do it, put me to it, show me something I can overcome
Not to worry mum ….” ***



How long he lay there, mulling over the same old lullaby, basking in her company, he could not have measured, save in the slowly growing comfort that it brought to find her yet alive, and in the slowly growing dread that came of the low rasping breath she spewed in choked, intermittent sputters. He was glad at least she had not gotten any worse while he had been exploring the arrival of the three unexpected Rangers. She did not though seem to have gotten any better. And then a clatter, heavy footfalls and a thud. Someone was headed up the stairs of the tower ! Gladhron ? Perhaps ?

With a last pained glance at the vulnerable treasure he would wish to not forsake, Celedir rose on shaking arms and then trembling legs. How he managed to lift the trap door and make it down the ladder without falling was some fortune beyond his comprehension. And so too was what might have happened to the Ranger, for Gladhron it definitely was, and injured.

Trying to act as unconcerned and nonchalant as was entirely implausible, the young silver haired Elf slowly edged closer to the Mortal, as though he were some growling beast that dare alone would pet. He had only narrowly made it back into the room before the Man entered also, and he dared not even check whether he'd remembered to close the door to the secret loft room.

“What happened to you ?” he asked, surveying the Man for the extent of the damage done, and entirely having forgotten in his surprise that Celedir had sworn to keep watch, if not cover the Rangers with bow and arrow, from the tower window ..


*** (lyrics of the song credited to 'Not while I'm around', from the musical 'Sweeney Todd')

"What happened to you?" The elf inquired, acting almost as if he feared to approach.

Gladhron did not notice, as he was more caught up with the dizziness swimming around in his head and the pain throbbing in his arm and leg. "Ran into enemies..." He explained, realizing his appearance upon returning must be rather startling. He attempted to stand, as if to show that he was fine, only to prove to himself that he was, in fact, not fine. Wincing, he instead remained where he had sunk down onto the floor, his injured leg stretched out before him and his back against the door. "I've... dealt with them, however..." He added with a forced smile, in an attempt to appear alright despite being obviously otherwise.

Behind Celedir, a flight of stairs had appeared during his absence, but Gladhron did not notice, as his head was throbbing. The interior of the room, as far as he was concerned, was unchanged. Nothing had been knocked over or broken, no enemies had invaded while he was gone, therefore, all was well. Neither did it occur to him that this elf might harbor some suspicions toward him and his brother, still. "I've hidden the horses safely away, at least." The wounded ranger added, recalling that he had stated his reason for going out was to get the horses, and figured that Celedir would rest easier knowing they were safe, as he would in the elf's place.

"Enemies assailed me along the way back here... corsairs, I presume. I couldn't understand them, and they seemed quite intent on slaying me, so I returned the favor. Must've been half a dozen of them..." He mumbled the last part as his head leaned back against the wall, carefully. Gladhron wished the throbbing would stop. "Are there any bandages? Gwestion will insist on them." He had no idea how to go about putting bandages on his own wounds, in the locations they were in, nor did he know whether this elf would know anything of bandaging, but his brother would, certainly. How long until he returned, though? How long had Gwestion been gone, for that matter?

@Ercassie

"Arden," said Rune, voice soft, "please get inside the wagon and lie down."

The old man looked between Rune and the half-dozen outlaws surrounding them. He began to speak, "I don't know-"

"Another mark? Good sir, we are not highwaymen!" said one of the outlaws, a length of straw clenched between his teeth. He was holding a savage looking sword, which Rune thought rather fit his unfriendly smile. "We are good people of the land, doing our best to provide for ourselves and our families in these trying times. We saw that you encountered a . . . bump in the road," some of the others laughed, "and thought it best to lend our services in aid, for a small fee, of course."

Rune inclined his head, "Of course." He loose and tightened his grip on his sword, which remained unsheathed and pointed to his side. "That's quite charitable of you all," he said, watching a wave of self-satisfaction run through the group, "though it doesn't quite explain the weapons."

The unarmed man - who Rune still believed to be the groups leader - spoke then for the first time, his voice rough like dry wood, "Not all who travel these roads do so with good intentions. For all we know you could have been orcs, goblins, raiders, or some other kind of monster." He spat to the ground. "Now that we know you ain't, well, we can help you along your way."

"For a fee," Rune was sure to add.

"Aye, a fee."

"And if we decide we don't want or need your assistance with our roadblock?"

The unarmed man shrugged. "We'll wave you on your merry way though, this road has proven to be quite dangerous as of late. Should we happen upon you at a later point and find that you've suffered the most unfortunate of accidents, we'll be sure to send our condolences."

Rune resisted the urge to chuckle. It was a lie and both of them knew so, but Rune appreciated the effort of it. Anyone could hold a sword to a man's throat and demand their coin, but it took a special kind to make one believe they were being helped instead of robbed. Not this dirty man was successful at that - Rune was no fool but, again, he appreciated the effort. He had begun to think that the only outlaws in Middle-Earth with a touch of wit were in the South.

"I'm afraid that we'll have to decline both your assistance with this roadblock," Rune pointed toward the fallen tree blocking their way, "and your robbery. Now, I'll say this once more and no other: Find another mark and let us through, lest there be blood."

Now, the man with the straw between his teeth stalked up to him, wicked blade pointed at Rune's chest. "You's not in a position to be making demands!"

Whichever divine being was watching over him, Rune professed his gratitude for the mans approach. It made what was to come significantly easier, for Rune at least.

In a burst of motion, Rune slapped the straw-chewing man's sword down with his own. Almost immediately afterwards, Rune stepped forward whilst stabbing his own blade into the ground. The sword sunk into the earth as he reached out and hooked his arms around the outlaw in an almost serpentine-like manner, pulling him into a crushing headlock while pulling the wicked blade back behind his back.

"Arden! The wagon, now!" said Rune, voice harsh.

Then the road erupted into chaos.

The thwip of a bowstring pulling itself taut reached his ears and Rune pivoted so that the outlaw in his grip took the arrow directly to the chest. The man grunted before Rune kicked his legs out from him, slamming him to the ground. He then reached out and pulled his sword back from the earth, rolling right to avoid an axe strike from a malnourished bear of a man. Back on his feet, Rune turned to parry another attack - this time by a scrawny lad - before moving again to avoid another swing from the large bear-like man.

As if in sync to music only they could hear, the three of them exchanged a series of blows in quick succession. Rune's mind was awhirl, his concentration focused to a needles point on attack and defense. While the outlaws weren't particularly skilled, they outnumbered him 2-1. The moment he faulted, they jump on him like a pack of hounds. He had no intention of providing them the opportunity.

At that moment, the scrawny lad - who couldn't have been older than twenty winters - overextended in a thrust meant to skewer Rune through the chest. Having sidestepped to avoid the blow, Rune took the boys hand with a downward stroke of his sword. The limb fell right as his ears registered another thwip. Rune was pushed a step, searing heat blossoming on his back left shoulder as the outlaws arrow found its mark. His attention disrupted, Rune felt his world spin as the bear-like man socked him across the cheek with a massive fist.

Black sails that hurt, thought Rune. Taking quick stock of his surroundings, he could see two others approaching him from the direction of their unarmed leader, and the straw-chewing man was finally raising himself up to his feet. The length of straw between his teeth had been snapped in two and his face was smeared red. It looked like Rune broke his nose. Fixed it, more like, he thought with a wolfish grin. The scrawny lad had fallen to his knees, staring blankly at the stump where his left hand had been. Rune's eyes then met the dark brown of the outlaw leader, who sneered down at him.

"What are you useless louts waiting for?!" said the outlaw leader. "There's only one of him, remember? Hurry up and kill him so we can fill our purse for the day."

The bear-like and straw-chewing men rushed Rune at once. With both hands on his blade, Rune met them.