Wilderness, Weathertop, & Wild Things RPG
 

Envinyatar’s post - Veryadan

Veryadan lay on the cot in his sparsely furnished room in the Guard’s Quarters. His cape was thrown over the straight-backed chair at his small desk, mocking him with its memories of the times he had hidden beneath its folds to escape the notice of the enemy. He sighed, turning to his side, his head now elevated on his right hand. One of his larger maps was pinned to the wall, and he traced with his gaze the route he had once taken from Calenhad over the Ered Nimrais to Ethring. There had been reports of increasing numbers of Orcs in the mountainous regions, and he had gone to investigate . . . and eliminate, as he could. Now that had been an interesting foray . . .

He caught himself . . . You are starting to sound like some of the old warriors! Drifting off into dreams of the olden, ‘better’, days! He laughed out loud, startling a sparrow who had come to rest on his window ledge, in hopes of a few crumbs.

‘I beg your pardon, Master Sparrow!’ he said grinning and shaking his head at the discomfited bird. The olden days were only a few short years past, he reminded himself, and I have not reached my dotage yet!’ The bird, appeased by the offer of a small wedge of seedcake, resumed his perch on the window ledge with one wary eye on the now up and pacing Man.

He had been chafing under the duties and expectations of life at court. True, Aragorn . . . No! King Elessar, he reminded himself for the thousandth time . . . had requested the presence of the company of Men who had fought with him, but now there were no foes to fight save the few mice he had seen scurrying to hide behind the arras in the great dining hall or the occasional flying bug that found its way through the open window in his room. And no dark plans to disentangle and avert save for those of his two darling sisters, whose sole purpose it seemed of late was to thrust ‘eligible’ females in his path, at every turn. He had been firm with them, saying he enjoyed their company and the company of their children, and indeed he was all a child could ask for as an uncle. But, that was as far as his desires in that area had gone. In time, perhaps, he thought to himself, when I have had my fill of wandering . . .

^*^

Later that day, seated at his desk, at work on the legend for his newest map, that of the lands just west of the Eastern Sea, in particular Dorwinion, he was annoyed at the discrete knock at his door that broke his concentration and thought to send the offender away with a curt dismissal. A few words heard dimly through the thin door and the sound of a familiar laughed stayed him.

With a grin, he threw open door, and thrust out his ink-stained hand to clasp the arm of the man who stood there, craning his neck beyond him for the source of the familiar laughter . . .

Nuranar’s post

Two Elves stood in the narrow corridor. “Why – how – how dare you!” the young female protested to her laughing companion. “Tarondo, you – I never—”

“There you are, Veryadan!” Tarondo interrupted his sister, catching sight of him as the door opened. “We were just discussing the last time we had seen you. Wasn’t it when Luinien fell off her horse into the creek?” the Elf continued, a rascally twinkle in his eye
.
Grinning, Veryadan stepped forward. “Was that how it was? I seem to remember seeing quite a splash…”

“Oh – you two suit each other!” Luinien turned and stormed dramatically down the corridor, her sky-blue gown trailing grandly. At the corner she stopped. “Come along, children,” she teased, a smile breaking through. “We mustn’t keep the King waiting!”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“It pleases me to hear you are settled in Ithilien, at least for a time,” Veryadan said as they strode up the street. “But why does the King want to see us?”

“Because he wants to, that’s why,” answered Tarondo. “As for why—ow!” he broke off, stubbing his toe on an uneven step.

“Serves you right,” Luinien said unsympathetically, then turned to the still-perplexed Ranger. “Surely you have heard stories of the violence up north, along the Great East Road past Bree. Rumors of travelers who are never heard from again, entire flocks and herds vanishing, even several outlying farmsteads destroyed.”

“I have heard,” Veryadan nodded. “The merchants are growing apprehensive about traveling anywhere near there, even as far west as Lake Evendim.”

“I fear that some threat has re-arisen in the absence of the Rangers,” Tarondo resumed, frowning. “It may even threaten the settlement at the Angle. We think the King will send us north to discover what is truly happening.”

“So what do you think we will find?” the Elf-maid questioned pertly, after a short silence. “A dragon or two, perhaps? I think we’re about due for another one to show up.”

Tarondo narrowed his eyes at her flippancy. “Petty bandits, more likely, or some others of the Enemy’s servants, out for themselves. Perhaps even orcs,” he concluded heavily.

“Now that would be fun,” Veryadan said, a new note of interest in his voice. Tarondo looked at him curiously, but no one spoke again until they reached the White Tower.

Envinyatar’s post – The King’s request

Elessar was busy with his Minister of Trade when they arrived at the hall. A serving man ushered them into a small, sparsely appointed waiting room and after a while yet another brought in a tray with a small ewer of chilled wine and three cups. Veryadan poured them each a drink, then paced about the room. ‘It’s been twenty years since the War ended,’ he said, fingering the thin and somewhat frayed about the edge tapestry that hung on one wall – some scene of old, one of the stewards, he thought. ‘Twenty years,’ he continued, ‘and this place still looks like the spare quarters we kept as Rangers.’ He nodded at the plain, uncushioned wood chairs. ‘And look at those! You’d think that . . .’

‘I like to keep my visitors just a little on the uncomfortable side.’

Veryadan and the Elves turned from their perusal of the room to see the familiar figure leaning casually against the door frame, watching them. His grey eyes glinted with amusement that they had been caught critiquing the appointments of the room.

Elessar motioned for them to follow him to his private office on the second floor and bade them enter. The door was shut securely behind them by the guard behind them. And once they were comfortable in their chairs he sat on the edge of his desk looking at each of them. ‘I’ve had an increasing number of unsettling reports come in over the past few months,’ he began, ‘of an escalation of attacks on livestock and travelers in Eriador. At first they seemed random – the last dregs of whatever ruffians escaped our notice. But now they seem to happen with a greater frequency and on a greater scale. And sightings of strange creatures, fell creatures, are being reported. I’m especially concerned because most of out troops of Rangers have been withdrawn from that region since it showed signs of settling in peacefully into the Kingdom. There are few left there to stand between any remnants of shadow that might remain.’ He paused for a moment, considering his next words. ‘I also fear that eventually, with Rivendell’s folk for the most part gone West, whoever is behind this malicious actions may take it into his head to overrun the Rangers’ hidden fastness in the Angle. There are still a number of families there – but not enough men to protect them should a concerted attack come.’

‘What would you have us do?’ asked Veryadan, leaning forward, his brow furrowed at what the King had said.

‘I want you three to travel north to Breeland to find out what is happening around the area of Weathertop. Take what action you can against the ones who are the troublemakers, taking care to keep yourselves and what companions you might bring with you as safe as possible. I’d rather have you back here with a report for me, than for you to go haring off after some wicked foe who will easily overpower you.’ Elessar picked up a rolled vellum writ and handed it to Tarondor. It was a writ directing them to be allowed to search out where they wished for the source of the problem and to enlist those whom they needed to assist them.

‘And when would you wish us to start for Amon Sul?’ asked Luinien.

‘Today . . . if I could make that happen. But since that will not be possible, just see my Minister of the Treasury this afternoon for funds. I’ve already spoken with him, and he should have them ready by midafternoon at the latest. And the quartermaster for the City guards will also await your visit – he’s put together supplies for you at my request. Tomorrow, at dawn, breakfast will await you in the Guards’ quarters, and then you should be on your way.’ The guard at the door rapped lightly and opening it announced that there was someone to see the King on some pressing matter.

Elessar stood and bid the three farewell, dismissing them with his hope that their mission would prove fruitful. They bowed and took their leave of him saying they would see it through as he wished . . .

Nuranar’s post

Traffic along the road from Minas Tirith through Rohan had increased greatly in the twenty years since the king’s return. The three riders, traveling quickly but not with haste, passed numerous people on foot, farmers with wagons, and men driving flocks and herds to market. Periodically they came upon small merchant caravans of heavy wains, and once a patrol of Riders swept around them.

After several days, the travelers stopped in a small village for fresh supplies, thinking to save their waybread and dried meat for the less-settled lands beyond the Gap. Tarondo found himself delegated to procure bread – “As fresh as possible, and make sure it’s wrapped up well!” – while Veryadan and Luinien went to the market for fruits and early vegetables.

He wandered aimlessly about the square for several minutes, oblivious to the stares of villagers not yet accustomed to the sight of an Elf. Finally, by dint of following his nose, he discovered a small bakery in a street just off the square.

“Good day to you, sir!” he greeted the baker, shrouded in a large apron and liberally sprinkled with flour. He had been a large man, though now stooped with age, but out of his wrinkled face gazed clear grey eyes. “May I buy half a dozen loaves? And my sister would like them to be ‘wrapped up well’ – whatever that may mean,” he confessed with a grin.

“Certainly, sir.” The old man moved swiftly, swathing the hot bread in clean cloths and packing them into the saddlebags Tarondo had brought. “Whither are you bound?” he asked, glancing keenly at his customer.

“Oh, for the northlands, far away from here,” Tarondo said carelessly. It was his habit not to give away too much information – just in case. Yet they still needed to find good men to join their mission. “I have come from Mundburg. My companions and I have been sent on an errand by the King Elessar.”

“Then I wish you a safe journey and success on your errand,” the baker said, handing him his bags. “And any friend of the King will always be welcome here!”

Tarondo thanked him warmly and left the shop. He was gazing into the market, searching for his sister and the Ranger, when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Sir, I heard what you said to Aldor. May I speak to you about it?”

Alaksoron's post

"I heard what you said to Aldor. Could I talk to you about it?"

The Elf turned on his heel smoothly. "Certainly" was his cautious reply.

"What manner of errand might you be running for King Elessar?" Tarondo opened his mouth, but the Rohirrim man cut him off. "No, don't bother answering. My name is Osric Falkur, and I was a soldier of Rohan. I am greatly indebted to your King, indeed with my very life, and would be more than happy to assist in your errand for the King, if my services could be of use." He spoke of King Elessar with a touch of reverence.

Nuranar’s post

Tarondo did not answer at once, evaluating what he saw. The man was carrying a bow, and a sword hung at his side. Both weapons showed much use. Osric’s voice was low but clear, and his eyes gazed back steadily at the Elf, with just a hint of challenge. He had made his offer and would not beg.

“The services of the Rohirrim will always be valued by the King,” Tarondo said at length. “Come, I will introduce you to my companions, and you shall tell us about yourself.”

They joined Veryadan and Luinien, who were surprised to see Tarondo with a companion but pleased to learn of his volunteering. After a brief council Osric Falkur’s assistance was accepted. After Osric gathered what he needed, the four rode on together.

All through the long, lonely lands past the Gap of Rohan Osric demonstrated himself to be a brave and skillful soldier. The details of their errand intrigued him, and he spent many hours discussing all the possibilities of what they would find, and how they would need to respond to all of them. Tarondo listened with interest (and maybe a hidden smile) but rarely participated, while Luinien was as eager to theorize as the man himself. She had not entirely given up hope of seeing a dragon.

In due course they crossed the Greyflood at Tharbad, where they intended to stay the night at The Trade Inn. This would be their first good chance of hearing recent news. As they dismounted and walked up the path to the inn, Veryadan was not without hope that some of the Rangers would be waiting for them.

rutslegolas’ post

Aidwain had traveled with his friend from Rivendell for days, after the war he had traveled a lot less so he wished to roam about the land where his forefathers so long lived. At last after wandering in the wilderness for so long they had come to Tharbad.

They stepped in a good inn called the Trade Inn to rest for the day.
“Hey, there you, can me and my friend have drink of cool water?" called Aidwain to the Barman.

“A drink of cool water my lords and lamb stew would go down good I suppose?" called out the Barman.

"Yes very well," said Aidwain. “I haven't had anything proper to eat since that Inn we stooped at, and that was 15 days ago," Aidwain said to his companion.
But she only nodded in apprehension and said," The number of orcs and trolls has certainly gone up since the end of war near the Angle hasn't it, Aidwain?"

The Barman had arrived with their food and drink, so Aidwain could not reply. But he did notice the arrival of a Ranger, two Elves, and a man from the Riddermark just down the dusty path towards the Inn, and he wondered what would such unusual companions would be up to in this land......

Esgallhugwen's post

Silrûth rode along on her silver white mare, content, beside her companion. It was days after they left Imladris on horse and now she could see that they neared their destination.

They came to the Trade Inn at Tharbad for a brief rest, she was sitting down when her male counterpart called to the barman, “Hey, there you, can me and my friend have a drink of cool water?"

"A drink of cool water and lamb stew for the lord and lady would go down good I suppose?" the barman called back, then scurried off to fetch the order. Her companion waved him on and turned to her saying, " I haven't had anything proper to eat since that Inn we stopped at, and that was 15 days ago".

Silrûth only shook her golden head, "The number of Orcs and Trolls has most certainly gone up since the end of the War near the Angle hasn't it Aidwain ?" the mere thought of those foul creatures made her body tense and she sneered in disgust. Aidwain was about to reply when the barman came bustling up with the food and drink, he closed his mouth and sat across from Silrûth.

At that moment he turned his head in curiosity and Silrûth followed his gaze. Out of the window they could both see four companions leading their horses up the path to the Inn, a Ranger, a man of Rohan and two Elves.

She took two spoonfuls of stew and a sip of water, waiting for the four to enter the Inn. She felt they would meet very soon.

Envinyatar’s post

Arrival at the Trade Inn . . .

‘How the old place has changed,’ thought Veryadan as his eyes swept the little Inn which stood on the western bank of the Greyflood. In its prime it had been a welcome gateway for those wishing to travel quickly through the Shire, to pick up the Great East Road in the West Farthing, and from there west to the Emyn Beraid and the River Lune’s Grey Havens. Now the Shire had been closed to all outlanders by edict of the High King these many years, its Bounds fiercely guarded by the Shiriffs and their men. Only the traffic of men and the scarce Elven party bound for the north stopped now to refresh themselves.

The Inn had suffered, it seemed, from the shrinking commerce. The wood gone a little greyer; the railed front porch sunk under the weight of the many feet that had crossed into the welcome comfort of the common room; the wooden shingles gone quite mossy and some just gone. The image of an old man nearing his dotage crossed the Ranger’s mind as his horse trod down the ill-kept path. ‘We’ve both put on the years, old friend,’ he remarked to himself, his gloved hand coming up to tuck a bit of stray silver-streaked hair behind his ear. ‘Though of the two of us, I think I’ve fared the best.’

A familiar figure had come out onto the porch and was even now hailing them with a wave of his dish towel. There, hair gone greyer and girth wider, stood Haldon Rushy, mouth drawn up in a great grin, eyes sparkling even at this distance. ‘Tis a grand day, indeed! Four more patrons for the Missus to cook for and four more tongues to share the news of the road!’ He hurried as fast as his stout legs would carry him toward the approaching horses. ‘Here you!’ he called to his sons. ‘See to these good folks’ mounts!’ ‘And you!’ he exclaimed, taking the Ranger’s hand in his own ham-fisted grasp. ‘I’ve a small cask of the nut brown ale just finished off and ready for tapping.’

He peeked around Veryadan and nodded his head at the man and the two Elves who were just dismounting. ‘Now isn’t this a day for the Fair Folk,’ he whispered to the Ranger. ‘There’s two more what’s just come to my little establishment.’ he nodded toward the door with his chin. ‘There, in the common room . . . and isn’t my old gal happy to be feeding them!’ He tapped the side of his nose with his great stub of a finger. They’ve come all the way from Rivendell . . . I’ve yet to find out why, though . . .’

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

The company of six rides north . . .

The late night of talking with the two Elves from Rivendell had paled into the next day’s dawn. Silrûth and Aidwain were bringing news westward from Rivendell. The old fastness of the Rangers in the Angle had brought troublesome news to Imladris – something was stirring up the trolls in that area. Patrols had been increased there, and several of the brutish giants had been driven off by the Rangers, with one Troll killed who had chosen to try his strength against them. The two Elves spoke of traveling southwest down the River Mitheithel, the Hoarwell as it was known to men, arriving finally at the Greyflood’s ford where stood the Inn. What small patrols of Rangers they happened upon, they brought news of the Troll activity, urging them to be on the lookout for similar problems in the areas they patrolled. And from many they picked up news of assaults and ill happenings to the north. They would go north from the inn to speak with others of the Rangers and gather what information the could before returning to Imladris.

Veryadan’s face was grim as he heard the news they brought. ‘Travel with us, if you will,’ he had offered Silrûth and Aidwain. ‘We are also bound north, at the behest of the King. He has had some reports of the disquiet in that area, though I do not think he knows the extent to which this ripple of shadow has spread.’ Tarondo nodded at the invitation as Envinyatar continued. ‘Two extra sets of eyes and blades would be welcome. And you need not fear that we might slow you down. We will head up the Greenway to Bree at first light.’

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

At the sign of The Prancing Pony

And so it was the four companions found themselves now swelled to six with the addition of the party from Rivendell. Four days hard riding with only short, cold camp stops along the way brought them to Andrath, the narrow passageway between the Barrow-downs and the South Downs, through which the Greenway passed, heading north. A day and a half further and the six found themselves passing in through the West Gate, the welcoming archway and windows of the The Prancing Pony now well within their sights . . .

Meneltarmacil’s post

Thoronmir mounted his horse and resumed the journey toward Bree. It had been about a week since he and his companion had left Evendim to meet the emissaries from King Elessar, and he hoped that they would be able to help with the problems he had been experiencing. Things hadn’t been going well at all for the last few months. Reports came in to Annuminas day after day about mysterious disappearances of livestock from farms near the Weather Hills and the surrounding regions, and lately people were reportedly disappearing as well. Thoronmir had sent out a few rangers to scout out the area, but none of them had come back after weeks of waiting. Thoronmir was glad indeed to hear that his message to Gondor had been received and that people were on their way to help. Due to the important nature of the problem and the need for it to be discussed and find a working solution as quickly as possible, Thoronmir felt it necessary that he should go to Bree himself instead of sending an emissary and that he and his companion should make the journey on horseback instead of walking, as time was more important than secrecy here. He had seen enough death at the Pelennor Fields; he did not want any more coming here.

Thoronmir and his companion rode eastward until they had reached the southwestern part of the North Downs. From there they would continue to ride east until they met the Greenway and then turn southward toward Bree. They passed through a gap in the hills, a narrow passage that was wide enough for two, maybe three horses to walk side by side. Thoronmir’s horse stopped suddenly in the middle of the passage, tossed back his head, and snorted.

“What is it?” Thoronmir asked. “Is something wrong?” Suddenly, he too heard the sound. He listened intently. There were footsteps of five, maybe six individuals somewhere up ahead and a little higher up.

“Thoronmir?” his companion asked.

“We’re not alone…” the older ranger said.

Dragon Elf odin Ragnorock's post

After a semi peaceful night Menecar woke up to the sound of birds chirping and a great day for traveling with his companion. It was a peaceful day has begun with the sun shining through the trees. They had a half a days travel by Horse to Bree left to go.

“Do you think that there will be people waiting for us to arrive at the Prancing Pony?” asked Menecar’s companion.

“I think there would be I don’t think that King Elessar would let two Rangers do this alone,” said Menecar.

Suddenly Menecar heard the sound of leaves moving in the woods. He stoped to listen, and to see if he heard the sound again. Sure enough there it was again, but it sounded louder as if the thing or things were getting closer. He looks over at his companion to see if he heared the same sound. But he dose not look like he has. Menecar rode over to him and says:

“Do you not hear the sound of leaves?”

“the sound is drawing closer.” said Menecar

Meneltarmacil's post

"Did you hear the sound of leaves?" asked Menecar.

"Yes, indeed," Thoronmir responded.

"The sound," whispered Menecar, "is drawing closer."

Thoronmir drew his sword as Menecar pulled out his bow. They continued to ride forward through the gap in the hills. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, an orc leaped from the top of a nearby ledge, knocking him off his horse. The orc took a wickedly sharp knife and tried to stab Thoronmir, but fell dead before he could. Looking behind him, Thoronmir saw that Menecar had shot his would-be killer.

"Thank you," Thoronmir said as he got back on his horse.

"You're welcome," replied Menecar.

Several more orcs apppeared both in front of and behind them. Thoronmir rode over the ones in front while Menecar took out their pursuers with his bow. More orcs came, but by then the Rangers were already out of sight.

************************************************

Thoronmir and Menecar arrived at Bree in the late afternoon. They rode up to the Prancing Pony Inn and went inside.

"Good afternoon," said the inkeeper. "Thorgil, isn't it?"

"Thoronmir," said the ranger. He never gets my name right no matter how many times I try to tell him. "And this is Menecar. We'll need a room for the night and stabling for our horses." They paid the necessary amount of money and then walked into the common room to await the arrival of the messangers from Gondor. Thoronmir and Menecar both ordered some ale, then sat down at a nearby table.

"How many orcs do you think there were?" Thoronmir asked.

"I only heard about five or six from a distance," Menecar replied, "but there were about twenty trying to kill us."

"That's what I thought as well. The ones we heard were probably just a scouting party," Thoronmir continued. "I didn't expect to find that many orcs in the area we were in. We'll have to mention this to the messenger when he arrives." He looked over at Menecar, who clearly wasn't listening, but was instead looking at a corner of the room. "Are you alright?" the older ranger asked.

"That man," said Menecar, pointing at a rather mean-looking fellow, "has been watching us ever since he got here."

The pain. It’s long deathly fingers puncture the skin, slithers through the ribcage and seizes your heart. Strong fingers close so tightly that your blood vessels start to burst and your body begins to convulse. A cold chill caresses your spine, numbs your senses and send you into shock. Darkness covers your eyes…

Andas signed aloud to himself as he continues his best to read yesterday’s edition of the village routine orders in the dimly illuminated room; community fees going up next month. The poor weather did little to comfort his mind. Helga’s loud shrill voice continued booming from the back of the kitchen, she was ranting about his spectacular inability to perform the easiest of household chores now,

“And how many times do I have to tell you? Reds don’t go into the wash tub with the whites! Now look what you’ve done! Another braccae spoilt! What’s wrong with you? Can’t you…”

The pain. It picks you up and smothers you in a deadly embrace. It plucks the soul from the very core of your being with cruel fingers, pops it into a black bottomless maw and chews. It bites and sucks the juice that is your personality, your aspirations, your hopes and relishes it. Once done, it spits out what remains of your incorporeal form and rub it into the dirt with a heavy suffocating foot…

Helga was done with nitpicking Andas’ poor housekeeping skills and was now relating to him the events that occurred during the morning’s trip to the market. Andas squirmed uncomfortably in the overstuffed armchair and tried to read, dull brown eyes darting left from right; another sheep missing, Old Grant defaulting on insurance. Still, nothing could dull the formidable voice box of Helga’s,

“Rosy Parker was at the fishmonger’s today and Gregory was with her. Oh, he was such a dear thing! Carrying her heavy baskets and buying those expensive white flowers from that Monty lad to surprise and such…

Now how come you don’t do those things for me?!”

The pain. Helga was pain. Helga was pain personified. And nothing could stop Helga, not even hail nor brimstone could deny the awe-inspiring phenomenon that was Helga ****ed…

It was now or never. Andas knew his moment had come.

“IS THAT YOU PRAND?!” He shouted aloud suddenly to no one in particular,
\
“WHAT’S THAT?! YOU WANT TO TALK TO ME?! YOU WANT ME TO COME OUT?! IT’S IMPORTANT?!”

Every word forcefully enunciated.

The disembodied voice of Helga’s queried,

“Why are you shouting Andas? Did you say Prand is here? Why don’t you invite him in?”

A turning point has been reached and the wheels in Andas’ head turned faster,

“WHAT’S THAT PRAND?! YOU CAN’T COME IN BECAUSE YOUR SHOES ARE ALL MUDDY?!”

Meet Helga the cleanliness freak.

“OK PRAND! OK! I’M COMING OUT NOW! HERE I GO!”

With surprisingly quick reflexes, Andas pulled his body off the armchair, sprinted across the room and grabbed his belt and cope from the coats hanger.

“I’m going out to see what Prand wants, dear! Could take a while! Don’t wait up for me! Love yah, bye bye!”

Before Helga could reply, Andas swung open the front door leapt out and slammed it shut. Liberation never felt better.

It was dusk and ominous dark clouds were already forming overhead in the north. Andas was hungry and from the looks of it, he also needed a roof overhead soon too. And he knew just where to go in situations like this.

Adjusting his belt and getting into his cope, Andas Loudewater stepped onto the gravel skewed dirt path and marched briskly over to The Prancing Pony…

Envinyatar’s post – Fen Sheperdspurse

‘Well, look what just slunk in, would ya.’ Matty Thistleseed nudged his companion at the Pony’s bar, his chin rising just slightly in the direction of the sallow fellow who’d come in through the door. His head ducked quickly back toward his drink and he wrapped his cloak tighter about him as the newcomer’s greasy haired head swiveled toward him.

Fen Sheperdspurse grinned at the man’s discomfort. Or rather his lips twisted into a gruesome imitation of grin – a sort of ghastly rictus caught halfway between a snarl and a sneer. Others of the present inhabitants of the common room looked at him coldly as he passed their tables, on the way to far corner booth. Many of them muttered imprecations at his presence, their hands clutching at their purses in fear they would disappear if Fen’s shadow slid over them in passing. And well they might fear, save for the fact that Fen was feeling flush today, his purse replete with a jumble of silver and copper coins he’d just last night “come into”.

Seated at last in the dim corner booth, Fen thunked his yew would stick twice on the floor to catch a passing server’s attention. One bony finger pushed a silver penny to the edge of the table, his ragged, dirty fingernail tapping insistently on it. The server came close enough to snatch the penny, stepping back quickly to avoid the touch of Fen’s hand. ‘A pint of ale, boy. And one of new baked loaves with a wedge of Archet cheddar.’ He fixed the server with a knowing leer. ‘And none of that with the moldy rind just peeled off. I’m onto your tricks, you hear!’

Fen drew back into the shadows as he waited for his drink and meal. His eyes slid about the room taking in the ‘usuals’ and the more interesting newcomers. A pair of Rangers occupied a table across the room from him. They both sat facing toward the room, their gaze darting here and there as they spoke quietly to each other. Why were they here, he wondered. Seeking someone? Seeking news?

One of the men’s eyes narrowed as he spied the dim figure in the far corner, causing Fen to shift further back into the dark protection of the booth. His hand sought his coin pouch and stuffed it far into the pocket of his breeches. The coins clinked as he did so, and fear sprang up that perhaps the Ranger had heard them. He preferred not to have to explain how they’d come into his possession.

‘Plenty more where those come from,’ his new “acquaintance” had told him.

Fen smirked at the thought of his present employer coming into the Inn for a pint. ‘Serve those goody-goody’s right,’ he snorted.

From out the window, just visible in the gathering dusk, a familiar face intruded upon his thoughts – there was that henpecked Andas Loudewater just coming up the path to the Inn . . . and in the distance behind him was a curious group. He could but barely make them out if he squinted against the lowering sun. Another Ranger, it looked . . . and a man riding near him. And there, much to his disgust, rode four Elves on their fine horses. Fen spit on the ground, his brow beetled, as he calculated just how much he might get for such a horse, should it go ‘missing’ . . .

Saurreg's post

Andas Loudewater had just reached the front porch of the most popular drinking hole in the whole of Bree when large raindrops started to fall, creating tiny little craters on the much used dirt road. Dark clouds rumbled precariously overhead, blocking out whatever light the setting sun could offer and enveloped the entire evening sky in black velvet from horizon to horizon and as far as the eye could see. Loudewater frowned to himself and sighed deeply as he pulled the hood of the cope off his head, this night would offer nothing but heavy down pour and his creaky joints would pay the dear price.

Damned rheumatism, damned age. What I wouldn’t give to be twenty years younger again.

The grease caked windows of the establishment were illuminated weakly by lit lamps and a sonorous burble could be felt through vibes that shook the loose floorboards of the porch - it was the sing-a-long, happy hour had begun.

The Breeland farmer took a deep breath and readied himself mentally as would an athlete before the race. After a momentary pause, he swung open the door of the Prancing Pony and confronted destiny head on. Rising to the occasion, destiny sprung forward like an uncoiled spring and smashed into Loudewater’s face. The farmer staggered but recovered himself quickly enough; years of patronizing the Prancing Pony had somewhat dwindled the potency its overwhelmingly pungent whiff on him but for the uninitiated, the whole affair of simply entering the tavern could be an insurmountable ordeal. Butterbur had never believed in the concept of proper workplace hygiene and many a newcomers had paid the price. More than often regulars like Loudewater and even old Butterbur himself had heckled at unfamiliar faces contorting in agony followed by the whizzing (they always whiz) and the occasional nausea.

It was all good “clean” harmless fun really. But incidents do happen, those that make simpletons like the good folks of Bree go “hmmm”

Once, an elven wayfarer (dainty and disturbingly pretty in a girly way) tried to enter the Prancing Pony (don’t ask why) and results were somewhat horrific… (For the faerie that is).

Suffice say, that incident was significant enough for Butterbur to go “hmmm” and the next day after the tragic affair, Loudewater saw for the first and only time Butterbur scrubbing the floorboards and opening up the windows to air the place. It was a momentous event that Loudewater rated up there with the likes of the return of the king.

******

Loudewater stepped through the doorway and entered the main serving hall of the tavern. The hospitable warmth radiating from the fireplace felt most comfortable and he permitted himself a wane smile of self-satisfaction. If there was any place he would want to be when a raging storm came along, it would be here.

The Prancing Pony was already packed to the walls when Loudewater entered. Breelanders of different walks of life and trades have already packed the benches and tables and were all bellowing in drunken unison with lusty voices, throats were well lubricated by free-flowing pints and cheap wine. It was “Roll out the Barrels!” a popular hit penned by the famous Susan Delgado and Loudewater found himself almost subconsciously humming along to the tunes of the ever popular folksong.

No one writes such great works anymore, he reflected sadly.

Loudewater’s head swerved upon his scrawny neck as he scrutinized the crowded room looking for some unoccupied spot for himself and perhaps a friend or two to interact with. Amidst the mass of swaying and rocking heads, and raised arms clenching tankards and goblets of spilling beverage, Loudewater’s dull eyes caught sight of an appendage belonging to a familiar face waving frantically in the air. Loudewater grinned at the familiar face, waved back and made his way through to the bar.

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A little north of the Weather Hills . . .

‘Nay, brother! It’s the little ones what goes on the bottom and then them bigger pieces. And step back a bit. That scraggly old wolf skin of yours is about to catch fire!’

Grimm watched as Broga raised his great ham fist to his temple and knuckled the coarse patch of hair there in a worried manner, trying to recollect the rudiments of making a small cooking fire. Grimm wheezed out a resigned sigh, standing up from the log he’d rolled near for a seat, and went over to help his brother. ‘Here, now. Let me get this going. You ready them rabbits we trapped.’

Broga spitted the stringer of unfortunate hares, skinned and gutted earlier, on two long, thin metal poles. Four to spit, with some fat taters pushed in between them. 'Kay-bobs' they called them, remembering the word one of those Southron fellows had used. Last word, he’d used, in fact, as Broga had bashed him soundly on the skull just after Grimm had inquired what the man called that spitted meat he was holding. Very tasty, they were . . . those first kay-bobs . . .

‘Wish we had sumthin else to eat, brother,’ grumbled Broga, threading the last of the rabbits on the second spit and securing it with a fist sized tater. ‘Rabbits yesterday. Rabbits today. And don’t it just look like rabbits tomorrer.’

Grimm nodded, his beady eyes taking in the wicker cage where their hunting ferret lay curled up on some old rags - a rabbit hindquarter clutched in his paws; his sharp little teeth stripping the meet from the bones; his hind teeth and strong jaws cracking open the bones as he sucked the marrow. ‘Think we might learn him to fetch chickens for us,’ said Broga, breaking in on his brother’s perusal their little companion. The answer to that question was cut short as Grimm’s attention was caught by the slow approach of two other Trolls.

‘Best put on some extra taters,’ he muttered low to his brother. ‘Here comes old Big Nose and his shadow . . .’

He could not say that The Pony had changed much. The paint looked a little fresher on the sign above the entry arch, the faces of the serving girls had changed some, grown older and a little warier, he thought. Butterbur had retired, he learned from the stableboy. His son, just as fat and forgetful, the stableboy confided with a laugh, now followed in his father’s footsteps.

Standing on the wide verandah of the Inn, Veryadan shook the dust from his cloak, watching, in a casual manner, the ebb and flow of patrons. Men, the lot of them. A brief glance in the front window threw the faces of other men into relief from the blazing fire on the hearth and the hanging lamps scattered about the beamed ceiling of the common room. Veryadan looked round at his Elven companions, wondering what stir the entrance of four of the Fair Folk would bring. ‘Won’t know ‘til the deed is done,’ he thought to himself.

With a smile and nod to the ladies he pushed open the door, entering first for a quick survey of the premises. The others of his companions followed closely on his entrance. Heads turned from their pints to see the faces of those whose bright, melodic voices preceded their presence. Conversation lulled for brief moment; chair legs scraped along the wooden floor as those in the back twisted round on them for a look-see. Following its natural short-lived course, interest in the companions waned, mugs returned to eager lips, and the low hum of conversation and laughter picked up again.

Among those, though, whose eyes continued to follow the Elves and the men with them, were two Rangers sitting together at a table across the room from the entrance. And there in the shadows of a dimly lit booth, the rat-faced visage of some man darted quickly in and out of the low burning lamp that hung near him, his glittering eyes taking in the companions with calculating interest before withdrawing into the darkness.

‘Would you just see to getting us a table and rooms?’ Veryadan spoke low to Tarondo. ‘Let me join you in a moment. Make it a table to accommodate two more, if you will.’ He nodded his head toward the two Rangers. ‘I’ll see if they will sup with us. Perhaps they have fresh news they bring with them of happenings in this area.’

A few strides brought him to the Rangers’ table. One of them indicated a chair for his use as he approached. ‘Veryadan,’ he said, nodding to each of the men. ‘My companions and I were hoping you might join us for our meal. It’s been a long road from Minas Tirith to Bree. We would enjoy your company. And any tidings of this area you might have to share with us would be greatly appreciated. What say you? Shall we pull up extra chairs for you at our table?’

Journey to Bree
 

Aidwain and his companion Silruth eat their supper peacefully as ,they caught sight of arrival of a Ranger, two Elves, and a man from the Riddermark into the Inn.Aidwain and Silruth both invited them to have supper as they were alone through most of their journey and now they wished for some company ,here they found out that the company had arrived here due to the orders of the King,so wishing to help them as they could they told them about the increasing number of the orcs and trolls near the Angle -The Old fastness of the Rangers.

Veryadan’s ( the ranger's) face was grim as he heard the news they brought. ‘Travel with us, if you will,’ he had offered Silrûth and Aidwain. ‘We are also bound north, at the behest of the King. He has had some reports of the disquiet in that area, though I do not think he knows the extent to which this ripple of shadow has spread.’ Tarondo one of the elves nodded at the invitation as Envinyatar his sister continued. ‘Two extra sets of eyes and blades would be welcome. And you need not fear that we might slow you down. We will head up the Greenway to Bree at first light.’

And so Aidwain and Silruth now joined the company travelling North .

Four days of hard riding with only short, cold camp stops along the way brought them to Andrath, the narrow passageway between the Barrow-downs and the South Downs, through which the Greenway passed, heading north. A day and a half further and the six found themselves passing in through the West Gate, the welcoming archway and windows of the The Prancing Pony now well within their sights .

Aidwain was very relieved that they had reached the Inn at last, for four days of non-stop riding had made his body sore,and he wished for some supper and a good night's sleep.He did not wish to go into the common room and speak with anybody.But inside they found two more Rangers sitting at a table as if waiting for their arrival.Veryadan went and talked with them while Aidwain and Tarondo arranged for a table and few chairs.

There Aidwain and his companions waited for their supper .....

The smell of roasting coney pulled Arrald and Dim toward the low hill. They went as stealthily as they could, thinking to surprise whomever had set up camp, but their great feet seemed to find every dry branch and loose stone. After each noise broke the silence of the wilderness they would freeze as though by stilling themselves they could silence the air, and make elaborate gestures to one another to be quiet. “Well it’s not me as kicked that ruddy great log into the stream,” Dim protested in a loud whisper. “And it’s not me as thought that going up that great shale bank was a good idea.”

Arrald frowned at his brother so mightily that his beady eyes almost disappeared entirely beneath the sagging folds of his forehead. “I don’t recall your saying nought about the plan at the time,” he rumbled dangerously. “In fact, as I recall it, we both thought it was a good idea to head in a straight line with that smell, so as not to lose it.”

Dim cocked his head to one side and searched the untidy cellar of his memory. “Aye, aye, I do remember that…” he conceded. “But you’re still the one as started the avalance!” he cried out in victory, and his sudden outburst set echoes rattling amongst the hills.

“SSSSHHHHHH!” Arrald practically roared at him, slamming one sausage-finger to his lips while clamping his other hand over Dim’s mouth. Dim’s eyes went wide with shock and mimicked his brother’s action with his own finger in front of his already covered mouth. Arrald slowly removed his hand, and Dim said quietly once more, “Right. Quiet.”

They resumed their trek toward the smell, picking their way through the rough landscape of the hills by the light of a very pallid moon. They were disappointed when they saw Broga and Grimm gathering around the fire, for it meant that they would have to beg a share of the food rather than snatch it for themselves. Arrald sighed – it had been days since his last really decent meal. Fortunately, that might soon change…

Broga and Grimm were none too pleased to see them, if the manner of their reception was anything to go by. Openly trying to hide one long skewer of food behind his back, Grimm burst out, “We ain’t got no food here! Only a bit of rabbit as we’re just finished!” Broga stuffed a half a rabbit and two taters in his mouth at once and made a great show of chewing and swallowing.

Arrald’s eyes narrowed. “Now look here Grimm-me-lad, I’m not stupid nor blind nor have I lost my sense of smell – I know you’re got a stick-full of coney and taters behind your back. You’d best share it round or things are like to get ugly.” Grimm made a great show of defiance at first, to which Arrald and Dim responded with words of their own. Broga swallowed the last of his food and leapt to his brother’s aid. There were a few blows and some terrible curses shattered the night, but soon the trolls were setting about the fire and sharing out the food as equally as they could.

What had finally convinced Broga and Grimm to share had been Arrald’s promise to tell them how they could come by some truly gorgeous fresh meat, without too much trouble. Swallowing the last tater, Arrald leaned in over the fire and explained in a conspiratorial whisper. “You both know as Dim and me have been a-helping some orcs hereabouts in their attacks on the invaders.”

“Of course we know about that, Arrald; we’ve been doing the same and have seen you once or twice in the fights.”

“Have you now?” Arrald said, trying to appear canny. “Be that as it may, and we’ll have to look into that later, the orcs are set to meet with Dim and me later tonight so’s we can plan our next little outing. This one promises to be an absolute feast!” His eyes glittered with a greedy light as he sat up and threw out his chest. “Why those orcs have said that there’s a small farm with dozens of sheep, and we can have half the flock. And all the orcs want in return is the small bag of gold pieces they say the farmer has in his bedroom! Can you believe it?” And his eyes went wide at the idiocy of orcs.

It took Andas Loudewater longer than expected to reach the bar. The serving hall was so crowded that he had little choice but to push and shove his way through the masses of warm reeking bodies, raising surprised yelps and curses, rich with local favors from the recipients. By the time he reached his destination, tiny beats of sweat were trickling profusely down his shiny forehead.

Prand Adams beckoned Loudewater towards him and pointed to at an empty bar stool which Andas promptly introduced his arse to.

“Hey Andy,”

“Hi Prand,”

“Trouble with the missus?”

“What else?”

It wasn’t so much of a question but rather a matter-of-fact statement. Loudewater scratched his backside and shifted his weight on the stool so that he was in a more comfortable position, he then raised his left hand index finger towards the innkeeper to catch his attention. The innkeeper nodded in acknowledgement and rumbled towards the duo.

If there was such a thing as Loudewater’s bosom buddy, Prand was it. The two farmers have known each other since childhood and as far as the former could recall, Prand had always been there for him and he was like the suave and world-wise older brother Andas never had. Prand had always been good to Andas, Prand had always had the hapless (in Mister Adams’ point of view that is) Loudewater’s best interests in mind, which was coincidentally, why he introduced his distant cousin, a certain Miss Helga Ofella to Loudewater in the first place.

Both men had since rued the day that in drunken stupor, Prand offered to play match-maker and the equally intoxicated Loudewater readily agreed.

“Lenny’s here too. He’s at the floor talking to some eastsiders,” Offered Prand nonchalantly.

Loudewater merely grunted in reply. He never liked Lenny the carpenter.

Butterbur II was pushing fifty and looking more and more like the old man each day. He was also well on his way in dwarfing his father in girth. The bubbly innkeeper came to a halt behind the bar and faced Loudewater. His robust, protruding belly signaled its own arrival with a fierce attention grabbing “nod” when his master stopped abruptly.

Butterbur Jr. smiled warmly at the west Bree farmer because he was a regular, then frowned when he realized that he couldn’t recall the latter’s name at the moment of time. Absentmindedness was trait in the Butterbur line. That was followed by the shrugging of very stout pudgy shoulders as the innkeeper decided to give his mind a break from the strenuous ordeal of name recollection. He turn reached under the apron (an exerting task for one of such physique) and produced a copper platter of moldy rye bread, obnoxiously foul-smelling cheese and some green stuff that had seen better days. Something very small and brown scrambled across the green stuff hastily. Butterbur Jr. cocked his eyebrows in mild surprise and assisted the refugee on its way with a flick of his pinkie that sent said uninvited one somersaulting through the air. Pleased with his dandy work, the innkeeper set the platter before loudewater with the full aplomb of a master chef unveiling his culinary masterpiece. Butterbur then beamed widely, gave Loudewater an affectionate pat on the head and went off to get the farmer a drink.

Loudewater raised his brows in thought and stroked the day-long stubble over his chin before giving out an very audible “hmmm” Prand had an amused look on his face.

*******
Loudewater surveyed the serving hall as would a raptor gliding high above in the sky, scanning the wide land below for its next meal. The bread was too sour for eating and the cheese was rather dry. But the green stuff was actually pretty good, tasted like chicken.

Loudewater caught sight of Fen Sheperdspurse in a dimly lit booth, narrowed his eyes with disgust and breathed in deeply as would a man trying to control his temper. As much as Loudewater disliked Lenny, it was nothing compared to the distain he had for the greasy headed mongrel. Loudewater remembered many a times how Sheperdspurse tresspassed on his property and stood leering as he toiled and how he had to stop work and wait for the loathed one to leave before feeling at ease again. Sheperdspurse had of course never done anything to Loudewater that warranted such strong detest, but the farmer had always nursed a weighty hunch against him, one that never really went away. Something deep in his mind told him never to let his guard down whenever Sheperdspurse was around.

There was an unusual couple that stood out like sore thumbs amongst the crowd of distinctive Breelanders; two exotic looking men. Both were clad in green traveler’s attire, exceptionally tall and from the looks of their dreadful arms, very dangerous. They were called the rangers and were thought of as dangerous gangsters or sorts until the day one of their kind became the king. Strider they called him, and since then the simple folks of Bree looked upon these strange formidable men with new eyes. It has been a while since Loudewater saw these dark haired men whom were rumored to have come over the sea from some enchanted isle and now there were two of them sitting together at a table. Loudewater could have sworn that he had seen the older man before sometime during the lost years of his childhood. But the man looked of the same age as him and was perhaps a few years younger. It was highly unlikely that he and that familiar face from the woods were one and same.

Unless he was of great longevity and no one lived that long. No one.

The oaken doors of the prancing pony creaked opened and six newcomers ventured in. The buzz of merriment and song died abruptly as all eyes turned upon them. Loudewater saw that Sheperdspure took a quick glance before slinking further into the corner of his dark booth as if attempting to avoid detection by the unfamiliar faces. The five newcomers were led by a man of the same built and features as the two rangers, but he was better groomed and cloaked in grey. There was another man just two steps behind him, slightly shorter, heavier built and crop of rich golden hair. This one Loudewater reckoned to be one of them horse-tamers from beyond the east mountains. His remaining four companions; two women and two men were strangely captivating and charismatic. They had such sharply defined, delicate features and bright piercing eyes that it was almost impossible not to be entranced by them. Just then one of the females, the shorter one pushed back a few strands of stray black hair behind her left ear and Loudewater saw that it was pointed. The four of them all had pointy ears.

Now this is interesting… mused Loudewater to himself as he continued to stare.

Thoronmir studied the man in the corner, wondering what he was up to. He was about to go and question him when the door opened and six figures stepped in. Four elves and two men, one Rohirric-looking, the other Numenorean and about Thoronmir's age. The man clad in gray said something to one of the elves, then walked over to the table where Thoronmir was sitting. Thoronmir indicated a chair for his use as he approached. "Veryadan," the man said, nodding to each of them. "My companions and I were hoping you might join us for our meal. It’s been a long road from Minas Tirith to Bree. We would enjoy your company. And any tidings of this area you might have to share with us would be greatly appreciated. What say you? Shall we pull up extra chairs for you at our table?"

"Certainly," Thoronmir said. "I'm Thoronmir, leader of the Dunedain in this area. This is my second-in-command, Menecar. I believe I've met you before, Veryadan," he said as he headed to Veryadan's table and sat down. "You and I fought together at the Pelennor Fields."

"Yes, I remember seeing you there," Veryadan said. "You almost got trampled by that mumak that I had warned you about five seconds ago."

"Well, I was a little too worried about that giant troll that was trying to smash me with his club to hear you," Thoronmir said. "But more importantly, I must ask you not to speak very loud." Thoronmir's voice had become a whisper. "We spotted a man who's been very interested in us..." He gestured toward a dark corner of the Inn, where Fen Shepherdspurse had concealed himself.

Rivals, Revelry, and Revelations
 

O, toil and work are now all done.
Down, down; there goes that yellow sun.
High-ho, there’s no more race to run
Until the new dawn comes.

The wind blows still, but all is well.
Din-din; so says the farmer’s bell.
And peace is in the field and the dell
Until the next day comes.

The Wargs all sleep, they ate their fill.
The clouds are quiet, the trees are still.
There’s hearth and home on the old bald hill
Until tomorrow comes.

The song was an old favorite, sentimental in some ways. Orcish voices (especially when singing) really didn’t have the same melodic quality as mannish voices, but orc’s didn’t care about that. A good orcish chorus was hard to find, especially in the north. Truthfully, Gundabad orcs sung much better than Mordor worms or the rats from Sharkû’s tower in the south. Bâzzog knew this very well. He’d never been one of the orcs who fell into line with the other marchers, singing those songs, but he’d heard them. In Gundabad, you could hear everything, even if you didn’t want to. It was of those unavoidable, annoying facts that sounded like a proverb or a figure of speech, but really wasn’t. Maybe that was why Bâzzog had left. Honestly, the real reason for his sudden, but supported departure from Mount Gundabad was lost to him. Maybe he didn’t remember it, on account of his lousy memory, or maybe it had been too trivial to waste valuable mental space remembering. He had enough of a hard time remembering names.

Thinking on that subject, Bâzzog looked around, crossing his arms before him, his gaze scanning the camp. A great, smoking fire, black plumes swirling above the crackling tongues of flame, sat in the middle of the darkening camp and orcs sat and stood all about it, eating their fill of leftovers from the company’s last hunt. There were not that many orcs in reality, but enough to make the group look formidable to others. On a number of sharpened sticks plugged into the ground around the camp were, impaled, a number of rabbits, foxes, rats, and other small, furry creatures, which were, one by one, plucked from their roosts to be devoured. The camp was celebrating its victory, though nothing had truly been one. The grand scheme was working and life was good, which was as fine a reason as any to celebrate…for orcs. Bâzzog, the chieftain, did not celebrate, though. He was not a very celebratory individual. He could be jocund when necessary, but he wasn’t in the mood. He usually had to kill something to be in the mood. Right now, he was content to overview his troops and his lieutenants, eyes traveling slowly from right to left.

The first thing he saw, looking to his right, was a monumental orc called Búbkûr. Búbkûr was Bâzzog’s second-in-command (making him third in the line of military succession, a system whose intricacies eluded him) and one of the orc chieftain’s most trusted brethren, though they were not friends…not legitimate friends, at least. He was large, brawny, and swarthy, but still somewhat shorter than Bâzzog himself, which suited the latter just fine, as he did not like orcs who were taller than him. His right arm terminated in a stump where his hand once was. He had lost that appendage in an unfortunate incident involving a late-night gambling session (the other fellow lost more than a hand, as Bâzzog remembered). For the sake of intimidation, Búbkûr had jammed a large, bent hook, twisted incorrectly at several points so that it was really not much of a hook anymore, into the stump on his arm soon after his accident and the residual healing of the wound held the weapon in its place, with the assistance of some ‘appropriated’ nails, bolts, and metal coils. Búbkûr was strong, mightily so, but barely as intelligent as his commander, thankfully. He was, if at all possible, less clever than Bâzzog, and talked more. Some might say he talked too much for his own good, but he defended his own good with really big arms and that hook. To his credit, he was a compulsive gambler and a drunkard.

Rapidly (as Bâzzog did not relish the sight of Búbkûr), the orc chieftain’s gaze turned away to look upon another being. To Bâzzog’s left, sitting upon a mound of solid dirt, was an orc called Gráthgrob, his two hands extended with a mess of sparkling, glittering, coins cradled in them, slipping through the gaps between his skinny fingers. Gráthgrob was, as far as he and his commander were concerned, was Bâzzog’s lieutenant in terms of negotiation and acted as a supply of necessary information. He knew more about the geography and locals of the area than most other orcs, and his input to Bâzzog’s crude stratagems was invaluable at least. He was smaller and less formidable, with a nature and gait that predisposed him to sidling about conspiratorially, like a snake in the grass, but he was not clever, just smart. His features were generic for an uruk, though his arms and legs were more flabby than muscular. No orc cared about his weakness and lack of stamina, since his intelligence garnered him plenty of respect, but not as much as Bâzzog.

At last, after straying over countless nameless orcs, Bâzzog’s eyes fell upon the last orc, Kransha, who stood far off, his shadow and form silhouetted against the night sky’s dark grey-blue as he stood perched atop a cresting hill, looking away into the distance as he often did. It was his job, anyway. Kransha, the eyes and ears on the orc company, was always alert, always wary and circumspect. Even now, in this festive hour, he clutched a hide-bound short bow in his hand with a narrow bolt grasped between his left hand’s index and middle finger. His small head kept spinning on his neck, searching for any sign of life on the plains of Eriador. Kransha didn’t talk much, and some suspected he was a mute orc, a great rarity, but this opinion was dissuaded by the fact that the occupation of scout usually requires the ability to speak. Most orcs had never heard his voice, but they didn’t need to. Though Bâzzog was strong and Gráthgrob was smart, Kransha possessed the greatest battle prowess. He was quick like the wind and could fire his arrows like lightning bolts that could not miss their targets. If Kransha had not been so soft-spoken and meek, he could have taken over the company a long time ago. The fact that he was loyal still to Bâzzog was a testament to Bâzzog’s command abilities, and with the marvel marksman at his side, Bâzzog was unchallengeable. Even the fact that Kransha spoke little added to the aura of eerie splendor…and equally eerie silence, around him.

Unfortunately, that fitful silence was severed immediately.

“Are you done yet?” growled Búbkûr, who sat beside Bâzzog, as he contemplated a large piece of ox meat still fixed stubbornly to a broad bone. As he spoke, he took a grandiose bite out of the victual, allowing a mess of meat chunks, grease, and spittle to fall from his gaping jaws. This action slurred the last two words vilely together, mangling the syllables beyond recognition. Unfortunately, a number of disgruntled, drunken uruks still understood him. With orcs, one often understood what another orc was saying, even if it was inaudible and incomprehensible. One orc, with a dull, witless expression plastered on his drawn face, spun to glower at Búbkûr with a pair of luminous blobs the size of horse hooves, which had taken the place of his eyes, his features twisting grotesquely. “’Ey,” he grunted simply, “shut yer stinkin’ mouth.”

Búbkûr shot a sour glance back, but otherwise, did not look up from his handheld meal. He did, though, develop the verbal ability to reply with witty, elegant, sardonic style. “You shut yer stinkin’ mouth, pushdug!” He snarled, through a second enveloped mouthful, and continued to engorge himself. “Is ‘dat a challenge, bagronk?” snorted the second, anonymous uruk, taking several imposing steps forward. He was obviously a bad logician, or else he would’ve realized that the chances of him being able to deck Búbkûr were slim to none. Luckily for the wretched orc, Bazzog, meandering forward, intervened with a raw scowl. “Maybe both of ya should shut yer stinkin’ mouths, yeah? Now that ye’re all done with yer bloody singin’,” he shot a displeased look at the rowdy revelers, “we can get back to bus’ness.”

“What business?” queried Búbkûr dumbly, his face the very picture of obtuseness. His mouth lolled open, as if he were searching for more to say but could find nothing and had settled for wordless movements of the tongue. Bâzzog fixed him with a damnable expression. “You know roight well what bus’ness.” He spat, slurring half the words together, “The trolls, sha!”

“Ah, the trolls.” Said Bubkur back, feigning understanding.

For good reason, Bâzzog hated it when Búbkûr pretended to be smart. Any one-eared dimwitted, ape knew that Búbkûr had the intelligence of an under-educated rock, so it was senseless and silly for the orc to deny it. Perhaps, if he kept his mouth shut, he’d surely be thought less of an idiot than he’d publicly proclaimed himself to be. Brushing this fact and irritance aside, Bâzzog spoke to the orcs, his voice swelling to one of command and superiority. “Alroight, lads,” he said, “gather ‘round, gather ‘round. Gráthgrob ‘ere ‘as us a plan, that he does. Go on, Grob, show ‘em the map.” On command, the orcs began to congregate in a huddle around Gráthgrob, who knelt on the grassy ground. Most uruks settled into comfortable seats on the earth, looking toward Gráthgrob as he dug around in his multilayered outfit for something. Bâzzog and Búbkûr both took places just behind Gráthgrob, on either side of him, while Kransha, stowing away his bow and arrow, took a seat at the head of the orc audience, bemused and seemingly uninterested. With few exceptions, all eyes were fixed on Gráthgrob.

Gráthgrob, looking very intelligent to the other orcs, produced a grease-slathered scroll of parchment and unrolled it expertly, revealing a large, monochromatic map, simply designed, of a small area. On the top right hand corner, in nearly illegible chicken scratch was scrawled the word ‘Bree-land’ and under that, in a smaller handwriting, the words ‘Whittleworth Farm.’ Gráthgrob, his eyes coldly illuminated and reflecting the vague light of dusk, jabbed his pudgy forefinger at the map, aiming it at a series of overlapping rectangles which represented a building in the map’s center. “This here is the farm of one Rob Whittleworth,” he began most astutely, “a Bree-land farmer with a modest fortune…but not too modest.” There was an immodest snicker from the huddled group, and Gráthgrob smiled in a self-congratulating fashion before he continued. “He’s got a load of gold in his house collected after his last shipment of crops was exported to Combe and Staddle. My sources tell me that he keeps the gold unguarded, since he lives in a remote area, so it should be easy to get it, ‘specially for trolls. The man’s got plenty of cattle and sheep all fenced up in pens on the farmland. The trolls can have their fill of ‘em. They think they’ll get half, but tonight, we seal the deal by tellin’ them they can have the whole flock. They won’t question our motives after that, not that they have yet.”

One anonymous orc interjected, objecting. “’Ey, can’t we have a few o’ the sheep?” Bâzzog silenced the wretched goblin with a fearsome look, one eye opening wider than the other to glare murderously down. With a meager little whimper, the orc shut his mouth tight, but Bâzzog still saw fit to explain his reasoning, thinking himself very wise in his tactics. “No,” he said, gesturing philosophically with his gauntleted hands, “we let the trolls ‘ave the flock.” He pointed coolly at the orc who’d posed the question. “You can get all the bloody food ye want with yer share of the gold.” With this, he turned back to Gráthgrob and hunched over, peering over the other orc’s lumpy shoulder and at the map. “Now then, back to the plan.” Gráthgrob nodded and went on. “Well, Mister Whittleworth don’t have much in the way of material possessions, maybe some personal items, but nothin’ we need. There ain’t any other folk in the area, ‘cept Whittleworth’s li’l wife and daughter.” At this, there was an unsettling surge of chatter and gossiping whispers among the orcs, and a second interrupting goblin raised his hand, like a schoolboy in a classroom, and began to wave the limb about madly as he spoke. “Oh,” he cried in a raspy, eager voice, “tell the trolls ta bring the wife!”

Again, Bâzzog’s sinister mono-ocular gaze fell on the orc who spoken out of turn, his other eye shriveling into a beady dot. The orc’s excited expression shrunk, and his puffed out chest deflated dejectedly. “No!” growled Bâzzog, irritated by the constant surfeit of interruptions. Them trolls’d probly crush the lass before they got ‘er outta the house. Anyways, t’was ‘ard enough to get the trolls ta understand how to get the gold. Tellin’ ‘em ta bring us the farmer’s wife’d just confuse ‘em. An’ we don’t want to get the trolls confused, now does we?” There was another unanimous snicker from Bâzzog’s captive audience. The dullness of the trolls had become a running gag among the orcs. Some had even been using the word olog as a synonym for ‘dimwit’ and the slang caught on fast. Ever since the trolls first accepted the orcs’ one-sided offers, orcish opinion of troll intelligence had plummeted. Whenever the trolls were brought up, laughter was sure to be close behind. Unfortunately, the merry mood was cracked and shattered by a last ill-aimed question.

“So, who’s gonna tell Ugwakh all this?” Búbkûr inquired, moving up beside Bâzzog, stooped over with a hand on Gráthgrob’s back. “Ol’ ash-bûbhosh’ll wanna know the plan.” Bâzzog rolled his eyes (actually, he managed to roll only one eye, while keeping the other affixed on Búbkûr, who still bore a look of unadulterated stupidity), and shot a reply back filled with false, but familiar, orcish pleasantry. “Yer gonna tell ‘em, Búbkûr, that ye are.” He said sweetly, eliciting a chuckle from Gráthgrob, and a distinct gulp from Búbkûr, who knew that when Bâzzog was pleasant it was a sure sign of trouble. “Use yer bloody fancy talk and tell ‘im that he’ll get half the gold.” The orc chieftain concluded, with a wry grin. Búbkûr’s right tuft of eyebrow rose inquisitively.

“We’re gonna give ‘im half?”

“No, glob,” snarled Bazzog in response, “we’re givin’ ‘im a fourth of it. What d’ya think I am, stupid?”

The stare given reduced Búbkûr’s interrogative nature. He shrunk back, much to the satisfaction of his rivals in the horde and nodded obediently. “No, sir.” He murmured, “I’ll tell ‘im he’s gettin’ a fourth.”

A second later, Bâzzog’s armor-covered hand shot out and a fist clenched around Búbkûr’s throat, hauling him to within an inch of the snorting chieftain’s face. Gráthgrob below, eyes wide, threw himself defensively backward, out of the way, as the rest of the surrounding orcs leaned forward curiously. “Don’t TELL ‘im that, ye bloody fool,” Bâzzog roared, hot breath and saliva covering Búbkûr’s large, quivering nose, “tell ‘im he’s getting half, got it?” Búbkûr nodded frantically as Bâzzog pushed him away harshly. “Y-Yes, sir, yes I do, sir.” He stammered miserably, stepping back. Bâzzog approached again, looking enraged. “Than get off yer high horse and TELL ‘IM!” He bellowed; his bass voice rumbling and echoing throughout the camp. In an instant, Búbkûr had spun on his heel and was scurrying away, with a few illicit giggles following him, but no laughter or speech. When Bâzzog put his foot down, what he said was final. No one would speak until he had broken the unsettling silence, on pain of death (or painful dismemberment). Luckily, he did so.

“C’mon, lads.” He said, a smile returning to him as he turned to Kransha and Gráthgrob, “We’ve got a date with the ologs.”

‘Can you believe it!’

Broga shrugged away his fascination with the long stringy morsel of rabbit that hung from Arrald’s lower lip. As the Troll spoke, his lips flapped up and down against each other, sending the dangling bit of dinner dancing against Arrald’s jowl. It was fascinating . . . quite mesmerizing . . . Grimm reached out and gave his brother a light smack on the arm. He could tell his attention had narrowed, as his lower jaw hung slack, a thin line of drool evident at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes looked a bit more vacant than usual.

‘Ow!’ cried the injured sibling, rubbing his arm. With a shake of his head, then, Broga caught the last of Arrald’s little monolog. Moving close to Grimm, he whispered in his brother’s ear. ‘He’s wantin’ a answer, ain’t he? Do we believe it or don’t we?’

‘Leave him to me. Just keep your wits about you, will you.’ Grimm’s eyes had narrowed at the mention of gold. He wanted some of those glittery coins. Rubbing the thumb and forefinger of his right hand together in anticipation of their cold smoothness, he gave Arrald a comradely smile and said what a fine outing it sounded. And would they wanting a little extra help on this venture?

Arrald drew back, his meager brow beetled. Grimm could almost see him counting the mutton in half a flock. ‘One good sized ewe’s good enough for us . . . not big eaters, really,’ he went on in the best assuring tone he could muster. We were thinking we could take care of the farmer and his wife and get . . . bash ‘em good. That’s what we like doing. We’ll bring out the gold to you . . . you can give it to the Orcs if you like. What say?’ He gave Arrald a ghastly wink. ‘Leaves your hands free for grabbing more sheep, it does.’

Nuranar's post

The landlord evidently provided his more distinguished guests with better fare than the local folks rated. Even at this distance the untouched bread and cheese before the thin man at the bar did not look particularly appetizing. Tarondo decided he didn’t blame the man for attending more to them than to his meal. And yet . . .

Naturally the appearance of four Elves in Bree had not gone unnoticed, but this man was the only one who was still staring. Furthermore, it was not the vacant gaze of a slow-thinking rustic, but the observant watch of a very present intelligence. Tarondo could detect no hostility in his eyes, but neither did he have any intention of discussing their mission in front of all those open ears. And especially not before the character in the booth whose endeavors to hide had made him so conspicuous.

Thoronmir, the elder of the two Rangers who had been waiting for them, pushed back his plate with a sigh. “Very good,” he remarked approvingly. “A little slim on the mutton, but that is hardly surprising.” He looked meaningfully at Veryadan, then Tarondo, then back to the Ranger.

Tarondo nodded at him, then turned away slightly and called in a low, clear voice, “Mr. Butterbur.”

The heavy little man trotted hurriedly over from across the room. “Oh, sir, I hope, everything’s –”

“Everything is perfectly satisfactory,” Tarondo said firmly. He had no intention of allowing the flood to get underway. “Is there a room where we may speak in private?”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

A few minutes found the eight of them in a small room with a fire. There were a few chairs, but not enough, so Butterbur brought in a few more stools. “And if there’s anything more you need, just ring the bell on the table there, and I’ll come runnin’. Always a pleasure, anytime . . .”

Menecar shut the door on the burbling landlord and turned around with a grin. “Just like his father,” he said, shaking his head.

“I will close these,” Silrûth said, crossing to the window. Swiftly she swung the shutters to and barred out the night.

Luinien was looking quizzically, almost expectantly at Tarondo. Catching her eye, Tarondo glanced at the door and then back. “Would you be so kind?”

“Of course.” Luinien picked up a stool and set it down by the door. She eased it open, peered swiftly down the hall in both directions, and noiselessly re-closed it. Sitting on the stool, she leaned her head back against the doorjamb and winked at her brother. Her hand rested gently on the hilt of her dirk.

Nearly everyone else had found a seat, but Osric Falkur still stood in the middle of the floor, his brow furrowed. He glanced speculatively at Tarondo, then turned to Thoronmir. “Who is he? The twisted man hiding in the shadows?”

“Fen Shepherdspurse,” the Ranger replied. “One of the brigands who took cover under the Shadow in this area, and nearly the only one to have survived this long. We try to keep aware of him, but he is very sly and has no love for us.” He spoke quietly, a wry smile on his lips.

“And the other?” Aidwain leaned forward, his eyes glinting in the firelight. “The thin one, who watched us the entire evening?”

“That was only Andas Loudewater, a local farmer,” Menecar spoke up. “I expect he was taking refuge from that sharp-tongued termagant he is married to.” He paused, frowning. “Surely he could have nothing to do with any of this,” he said, a note of protest in his voice.

“That is not the issue, Menecar,” Veryadan interposed. “We have no reason to believe either Shepherdspurse or Loudewater of being involved in anything. At the same time, we are not going to assume they are not involved. Especially when both have showed particular interest in us.”

Tarondo nodded. “This is simply part of being aware.” He stood up and paced slowly across the floor. “The problem is, we don’t know what is going on, much less who is behind it. We are here to discover exactly what is happening and who the enemy is. Only then will we take action, if we can. The King gave us strict orders to keep as safe as possible. He would rather have a report on the trouble than our deaths proving that there is trouble.

“Thoronmir and Menecar, what can you tell us? We need specifics on these attacks, and the more recent the better. Right now, that is the place to start.”

Thoronmir nodded. “We have that. Four weeks ago, there was . . .” he paused. “If you have a map I can show you more clearly.”

“Here.” Veryadan rose and extracted his map case from the pile of their gear. He pulled out a roll of parchment and spread it out on the table where the lamp stood.

“This is marvelous!” Thoronmir said.

Veryadan smiled slightly. “It’s by way of being my vocation. Now, tell us when and where everything happened.”

The group gathered around the table as the Rangers recounted the incidents of theft, bloodshed and death that were terrorizing the country.

Loudewater continued to stare at the strangers until the very moment, the door to their private room was shut by the female faerie. For a moment there, Loudewater was surprised at how attractive her face was. He turn backed towards the bar top and returned to his meager fare. Prand was still staring at the closed door. Loudewater thought to himself,

Either ‘em strangers are pretty shy folks or they’ve got some business that they want no stray ears or eyes to share…

Like a hulking war galleon, Butterbur II turned from the said shut door and rolled through the floor towards the general direction of the bar (people moved out of his way instinctively because if they don’t, he’ll just mow over them). The fat innkeeper was rubbing his thick hands together in glee and a sly smile was pasted on his bright red round face; he was obviously pleased that one of his expensive private rooms was rented. Butterbur caught sight of Loudewater and smacked his forehead when he remembered that he had yet to serve the farmer his drink.

“I wonder what them strangers are here for? And in such numbers…” asked Prand, as he turned back towards the bar top to join his companion.

“Who cares? I’m more interested to know when they’ll leave.” replied Loudewater untruthfully.

The world works in mysterious ways and Andas Loudewater was experiencing its wash over effects. Something within the farmer’s bosom suddenly stirred as he recollected the coming of the strangers and felt the sensuous air around them. He felt as if an indescribable feeling had just overwhelmed him and he was suddenly inquisitively interested in the newcomers and their business. Annoyance of their unwelcome presence seemed to have dissipated as swiftly as it came.

Something in him snapped. Something else felt unleashed. Liberated.

“Madness!” He uttered beneath his breath. But it was self-denial, a change had come.

“What?” Asked Prand, as he gave Loudewater a wary side glance. The younger man’s voice sounded harsher than he ever heard before and there was a quivering hush to it.

“No, nothing. I said nothing!” Snapped Loudewater curtly, eyes betraying anger, voice cold and harsh. Prand’s query had caught him off guard and he was both embarrassed by his own state of mind and unreasonably annoyed at Prand’s acute hearing. But as soon as the words left his lips, he immediately regretted his outburst.

Prand did not deserve that. Loudewater hated himself.

Prand was taken aback by the sharp reply, he turned back to his tankard and said no more. He had never seen good natured Andy in such a state before and it stunned him.

Lenny Henry pushed his way pass the chairs and tables of the tavern hall, sauntered towards the bar and squeezed himself between Prand and Loudewater uninvited. There wasn’t much space there and a sensible person might have looked for another spot, but good manners and common sense seldom applied to the crass carpenter. Lenny had a smirk on his face this night which probably meant that he had picked up the latest gossip and rumors of town (Prand reckoned that Lenny could give the most nosey and talkative women in town a run for their monies).

“Hey guys, guz what I heard,”

No one rose to the bait. Loudewater continued to dine while Prand sipped on his ale and pretended to read the labels of the wine barrels at the back of the bar. No one liked Lenny much. He had one drink too many already and was reeking of alcohol. Loudewater found himself stuffing more cheese than he would have liked into his mouth just to block out the pungent stench.

Undeterred, the carpenter tried the usual approach. He turned towards Loudewater and eyed him casually from head to feet for a moment, an evil grin forming at the edges of his thin lips,

“Lemme guz, ‘nother tiff with Helga again Low’water? No wait! Yer too spotless to start a fight! She threw yer out of the house? Or did jah run away while yer could, like the good dog you are, with your tail tucked between yer legs?”

Damn you Lenny!

Lenny bursted into a fit of mean sarcastic laughter that made nearby heads turn towards the bar. Picking on Loudewater whenever he could was his usual way of getting attention. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t. But that was ole’ Lenny for you; deriving perverted self satisfaction from other people’s misery. And usually Loudewater would stifle wherever sense of embarrassment and hurt he felt inside and either feign not hearing the jib or laughed along in pretended good-natured ness.

Loudewater’s nostrils flared with irritation, but he said nothing and continued to eat. His teeth clamped hard with each bite and he was clutching the cheap fork harder than he should be. Many a times he wanted to put his foot down and demanded that the insults come to a stop. But his courage had always failed him at that particular moment when it was most needed and Lenny got off unchallenged. That hasn’t changed.

Nothing’s changed.

“Roll down the barrels” ended in applause and whistles of appreciation. A young man spotting a crop of flaming hair yelled for the popular hit “Panic in Gondor” but was deemed out of order. Finally after some hassle back and forth, the good patrons of the Prancing Pony broke into a drunken rendition of “You arn’t nothing but a hound warg”

A humming Butterbur Jr. came back to Loudewater with a greasy tankard of weak ale and cleared his throat loudly so that Lenny would know that he’s being watched. The innkeeper pouted when he noticed the visibly bended folk in Loudewater’s trembling hand but said nothing. Another patron shouted for service and the innkeeper rumbled along towards him.

Disappointed that his provocations had not yielded the desired effects, Lenny shrugged and cleared his voice,

“Whatever… Anyway, as I was saying, big things are happening in the east. ‘Em eastsiders are losing cattle and sheep faster than Butterbur can finish a bowl of cream soup!”

Prand signed and replied patiently, “We know of the missing life stock Lenny. It’s been reported in the weekly town circulars. It’s old news,”

“Yeah, but jah haf no idea the scale of it! We’re talking about entire enclosures, tens of hundreds, of thousands of them! All missing, guard dogs slaughtered in the most gruesome manner, farmers with missing heads. Barns and houses flattened! Makes yer sick in the stomach!”

Lenny. Persistent and prone to exaggeration.

“Then how come it’s not reported in the circulars?” retorted Prand, his interest perked.

“How would I know? Look, you can’t trust those town council and village elder sorts. They’re working in cahoots with that king to swindle us folks. ‘Em bloody bureaucrats!” swore Lenny as he hit the bat top with his clenched fist to emphasis his distain for authorities.

“You’re being unreasonable Lenny. The return of the king was a good thing. Federal taxes are lower than town taxes, I’ve never had so much gold in my purse… Not that there’s a lot to start with anyway. But there’s moderation of the price of corn and crimes have dropped. Life’s good,”

Lenny snorted loudly in a derisive manner, but Prand on a roll was not to be denied,

“This, this missing life stock thing, it’s just a recent development. You saw those rangers? And those newcomers that joined them? I bet Gondor sent them here to deal with it. The king cares. He was after all, one of us.” Prand concluded the last line with a proud smile. He enjoyed reminding people that he met Strider a couple of times during his younger days.

“HA! You Prand, and all yer government trusting sorts. I’m willing to wager that ‘em riders are behind those missing animals and travelers. I dunno, maybe some ploy of Gondor to raise highway taxes or sumthang! Never trust the government!”

Lenny. Paranoid conspiracy theorist.

Loudewater thought that he had heard enough and chuckled slightly to himself at Lenny’s aspersions and foolhardy beliefs. The adversary heard him and spun around for the inevitable confrontation. Loudewater the pacifist jolted a little but pretended not to notice the bigger man, and glued his eyes to the table, preparing for the inevitable.

Nothing’s changed.

“What’s that Low’water? You’ve got something to say? You’ve got a problem with me?” challenged Lenny in his characteristically bullying tone when dealing with the gentle farmer.

“Leave him alone Lenny!” ordered Prand. He was still icy after Loudewater snapped at him. But he wasn’t about to allow the insulting to go on.

Loudewater’s pupils dilated and his face blushed due to the accelerated flow of blood through his arteries and the quickened breathing. Anger was mounting within him and that was not all; the same emotion he felt earlier after he saw the strangers had resurfaced. The same sensation that made him lost his head and snap at Prand.

A change was coming.

For a moment he said nothing and continued to push the food on his plate around with the fork. He reached for his tankard and took a long sip.

“Yeah, that’s it, isn’t it? Laugh behind my back and pretend not to notice me when I’m talking to you… You’re gutless Low’water! You know that? And you know what? I’m willing to bet Helga’s got more guts that you do! I’m willing to bet that whenever you get lit’ troubles like this, you go running home to dah missus for protection!”

A change had come.

Lenny was about to continue but his words died in his mouth and his black eyes bulged in surprise when loudewater turned speedily towards him, dull eyes now wide opened, steely sharp and ablaze with fire, lips quivering uncontrollably and trembling hands clenched into vein-popped fists - the bended fork snapped into two and clattered onto the floorboards. The farmer’s breathing was now heavy and ragged, chest heaving and his shoulders rose up and down. His entire body was shaking like a coiled spring waiting to be released.

Lenny was caught unprepared and staggered backwards into an equally shocked Prand who had never seen Loudewater in such a state before. But just as quickly as it came, the sensation and all anger within Loudewater dissipated. The farmer convulsed and sucked in a long breath, his eyes were still wide but they were dull again. Disbelief and embarrassment of his own audacity now filled his head.

Without a word of courteous leave-taking, Loudewater leapt off his stool and mad his way to the exit, this time elbowing and shoving harder than required. The predictable yelps and torrent of curses filled the tavern air.

Veryadan

Veryadan spread a delicately thin layer of parchment over the map he’d placed on the table, securing it with four small, round, sand-packed leather weights. The dark, thick lines and letters he’d used on the original showed through clearly enough, and he took out his quill and ink, quickly sketching in a rough outline of the areas and a hasty scribble of each place name. Taking his place at the top of the map, he asked the two other Rangers to stand opposite him.

‘Now show us, if you will, where the attacks have been reported – and what sort of attack it was, and when each occurred if you have that information. I’ll mark them in as you go along, and we’ll see if any pattern emerges.

The room was hushed save for the murmurings of the two Rangers as they conferred with one another. A finger would then reach out to tap the parchment lightly. Veryadan marked each with a small ‘X’, then put a few abbreviated notes alongside each . . .

Fen Sheperdspurse

The Elves and those nosey rangers had left the common room, the man from Rohan following behind. Gone down the hall to one of the fancy rooms. Fen watched them as they left, and waited patiently for a few moments to see that none would return. With the ease of one used to oozing quietly from one place to another, he slid up to the bar, landing close to the hallway the companions had gone down. Fen nodded casually to the man standing next to him, offering to stand him a drink. He’d jostled the man as he’d leaned in against the bar, and he wanted no trouble. Fen was waiting for old Butterbur’s son to have his attention occupied, then he intended to sneak down the hallway to hear what he might.

A trio of Bree men near him caught his interest with their loud talk. He sidled a little closer, leaned in on the bar, and cocked his ear toward the group. The din in the room rose and fell, allowing him only snatches of the conversation.

“ ‘Em eastsiders are losing cattle and sheep faster than Butterbur can finish a bowl of cream soup!”

Fen hid a smirk at this declaration, nodding his head slightly at the truth of it..

“We know of the missing life stock Lenny . . .” his companion remarked in an impatient tone.

“Yeah, but jah haf no idea the scale of it! We’re talking about entire enclosures, tens of hundreds, of thousands of them! All missing, guard dogs slaughtered in the most gruesome manner, farmers with missing heads. Barns and houses flattened! Makes yer sick in the stomach!”

‘You’ve no idea how sick it would make you if you knew the whole story,’ thought Fen, relishing the fact that he was lucky enough to be ‘in’ on it.

An argument broke out at a table by the fireplace, causing Fen to miss the next few patches of conversation at the bar. By the time things had quieted, Prand was speaking again.

“This, this missing life stock thing, it’s just a recent development. You saw those rangers? And those newcomers that joined them? I bet Gondor sent them here to deal with it. The king cares. He was after all, one of us.”

Fen spluttered into his mug as he tried to take a drink. He hadn’t made the connection himself . . . and now here was this other fellow making it for him. The Rangers and Elves weren’t just passing through. They were here to nose around in his boss’ business. Well, that wouldn’t do! Fen had plans for retiring to his own comfy little place once he collected enough coin to see himself comfortable. The Boss would need to hear about this development.

The Innkeeper had gone over to see to the argument at the fireplace. Fen slipped away from the bar and down the lamplit hallway. He doused the lights as he went, drawing near to the room where his quarry was gathered. The door was shut, locked in fact – he’d tried the latch ever so slightly and met resistance. Something scraped near the door and he leapt for the darkness of an open, empty room . . .

"Four weeks ago, we started hearing reports of livestock disappearing in the area just east of Bree, which was somewhat disturbing considering the fact that the area had been completely quiet for almost twenty years. At first I put it down to increased numbers of wolves and other predators, but when people started disappearing we knew it had to be more than that. I sent out a scouting party two weeks ago, but there hasn't been any word from them since. It's a good thing you got that message I sent." said Thoronmir.

Veryadan spread a delicately thin layer of parchment over the map he’d placed on the table, securing it with four small, round, sand-packed leather weights. The dark, thick lines and letters he’d used on the original showed through clearly enough, and he took out his quill and ink, quickly sketching in a rough outline of the areas and a hasty scribble of each place name. Taking his place at the top of the map, he asked the two other Rangers to stand opposite him.

‘Now show us, if you will, where the attacks have been reported – and what sort of attack it was, and when each occurred if you have that information. I’ll mark them in as you go along, and we’ll see if any pattern emerges.

The room was hushed save for the murmurings of the two Rangers as they conferred with one another. A finger would then reach out to tap the parchment lightly. Veryadan marked each with a small ‘X’, then put a few abbreviated notes alongside each. The map eventually showed several points on the map, mostly between Bree and the Greyflood.

"I think their most likely base of operations would be at Weathertop." Veryadan pointed to the hill that was almost dead center of the attack sites on the map.

"The attacks appear to be spreading out farther and farther out," Menecar observed.

"If kept unchecked, they could threaten the Angle, Rivendell, Annuminas, and our own base of operations in Evendim." Thoronmir added. "Aidwain and Silrûth, I believe you are both from Rivendell," he said to the elves. "How far into the Trollshaws would you say they have come?"

“I have another question for you elves?” Menecar asked

“ What would that be ranger?” asked Veryadan

“ How long would I take a man by any mode of transportation except by air to get to whethertop?”

“Well a long time maybe 2 to 3 days I don’t really know for sure.” Said Veryadan

“Good because the man in other room was spying on us because he was paying too much attention to what we were doing and looked very interested in our conversation.” said Menecar.

While the others were marking the ambushed sites Menecar Sat down by the door and he noticed that the handle on the door was moving so he walked over to the door and looked to see what was out there. But when he opened the door there was no one out in the hall so he blocked the door.

“Ranger what are you doing?” asked one of the Elves

“Someone was trying to get in here so I blocked the door.” Answered Menecar

“Could you come over here and tell us where some of the attacks happened?” asked Veryadan

“Sure, I would love to.”

At the Prancing Pony.
 

Aidwain and his companions waited patiently as Veradan talked to the two people who looked like Rangers.Aidwain obsevered that one man from the common room was particularly in terested in their company.And he meant to ask one of the rangers whether he was slinkard sort of a person.But then Veryadan arrived with the two rangers and becokoned them to sit with them.They had a very pleasent and fulfilling dinner of meat and mutton and some green stuff that tasted like chicken which Aidwain did'nt like it at all.

Butterbeer had given them a private room so they could talk in private as they certainly wished to do.

A few minutes found the eight of them in a small room with a fire. There were a few chairs, but not enough, so Butterbur brought in a few more stools. “And if there’s anything more you need, just ring the bell on the table there, and I’ll come runnin’. Always a pleasure, anytime . . .”

Menecar shut the door on the burbling landlord and turned around with a grin. “Just like his father,” he said, shaking his head.

“I will close these,” Silrûth said, crossing to the window. Swiftly she swung the shutters to and barred out the night.

Luinien was looking quizzically, almost expectantly at Tarondo. Catching her eye, Tarondo glanced at the door and then back. “Would you be so kind?”

“Of course.” Luinien picked up a stool and set it down by the door. She eased it open, peered swiftly down the hall in both directions, and noiselessly re-closed it. Sitting on the stool, she leaned her head back against the doorjamb and winked at her brother. Her hand rested gently on the hilt of her dirk.

Nearly everyone else had found a seat, but Osric Falkur still stood in the middle of the floor, his brow furrowed. He glanced speculatively at Tarondo, then turned to Thoronmir. “Who is he? The twisted man hiding in the shadows?”

“Fen Shepherdspurse,” the Ranger replied. “One of the brigands who took cover under the Shadow in this area, and nearly the only one to have survived this long. We try to keep aware of him, but he is very sly and has no love for us.” He spoke quietly, a wry smile on his lips.

“And the other?” Aidwain leaned forward, his eyes glinting in the firelight. “The thin one, who watched us the entire evening?”

“That was only Andas Loudewater, a local farmer,” Menecar spoke up. “I expect he was taking refuge from that sharp-tongued termagant he is married to.” He paused, frowning. “Surely he could have nothing to do with any of this,” he said, a note of protest in his voice.

“That is not the issue, Menecar,” Veryadan interposed. “We have no reason to believe either Shepherdspurse or Loudewater of being involved in anything. At the same time, we are not going to assume they are not involved. Especially when both have showed particular interest in us.”

Tarondo nodded. “This is simply part of being aware.” He stood up and paced slowly across the floor. “The problem is, we don’t know what is going on, much less who is behind it. We are here to discover exactly what is happening and who the enemy is. Only then will we take action, if we can. The King gave us strict orders to keep as safe as possible. He would rather have a report on the trouble than our deaths proving that there is trouble.

“Thoronmir and Menecar, what can you tell us? We need specifics on these attacks, and the more recent the better. Right now, that is the place to start.”

Thoronmir nodded. “We have that. Four weeks ago, there was . . .” he paused. “If you have a map I can show you more clearly.”

“Here.” Veryadan rose and extracted his map case from the pile of their gear. He pulled out a roll of parchment and spread it out on the table where the lamp stood.

“This is marvelous!” Thoronmir said.

Veryadan smiled slightly. “It’s by way of being my vocation. Now, tell us when and where everything happened.”

Then the two rangers described the places where most of the attacks took place,and Veryadan marked each of them with an "X" .Meanwhile Aidwain had been throughly bored of this dissucsion and he wished only for a good night's sleep,but then he was waked from his stupor by Thoronmir ( one of the rangers) "How far into the Trollshaws would you say they have come?",he asked to Aidwain.

" Well we can certainly say that the base of the attacks is not from the Trollshaws,we elves regularly patrol the Trollshaws but except on some occasions where we had to fight some trolls , we found nothing,but we did sense some evil in trees , what it is we do not know?"

At that time Aidwain noticed that one of the Ranger had opened the door and was peering outside,out of sheer suspicion he asked

“Ranger what are you doing?”

“Someone was trying to get in here so I blocked the door.” Answered Menecar

“Could you come over here and tell us where some of the attacks happened?” asked Veryadan

“Sure, I would love to.”,said the Ranger .

Aidwain settled down on his stool and with some thoughts of sleep still lingering in his mind began to listen to Menecar...

Arrald stalked toward the farm with as much quiet as he could, but as always his lumpen toes found every stone in the fields and kicked them. Each time he made a noise, Broga would “shush” him with growing impatience, but when – finally – Arrald kicked a stone so hard that it hammered off the side of the barn, Broga let out a roar of anger and clubbed Arrald across the face. Arrald reared back with his club and Dim made to punch Grimm, but they were prevented from their battle by the cries of the farm hands. Brought suddenly awake by the angry yells of the trolls, the farmer and his five sons – all of them broad shouldered and thick-limbed – charged out of the large house and made their desperate stand. The farmer was armed with an aged sword, and had hurriedly put on an iron helm that was clearly the remnant of a more glorious past, but his sons were all armed with little more than farm implements.

At first the sight of these men in their nightshirts was a cause for mirth, but when they began yelling insults at Arrald and even throwing rocks at him, he began to get angry. He let out a really good roar and charged the men directly, swinging his club above his head. Dim was right behind him but where those numbskulls Grimm and Broga had got to he did not know. He was almost upon the men when a sting in his head brought him up short. He put his hand to his brow and found an arrow protruding from his skin. Looking up he just had time to catch the next needle-sharp arrow that flew toward him from the bow of the farmer’s wife.

Now truly angry, Arrald rushed forward and swung his club at the farmer and his sons. They all evaded his attack, but the impact of his club in the earth knocked them all from their feet and sent the wife shrieking into the recesses of the house. Whirling about in anger, Arrald noticed for the first time that Broga and Grimm were engaged in battle with another six or seven men who had appeared from the farmhands’ quarters. That’s their problem he decided. Me, I’m going to take care of these farmers then look for the plunder.

He turned back to the farmer and his family and found only empty air. He looked about dully with Dim, but saw nothing. They were just about to give up when a sudden hail of arrows began falling about them. Looking toward the trees that lay near the house they saw the farmer, his five sons, and his wife all armed with bows and all peppering them. Now Arrald was truly angry. Hefting his club he gave the farmer’s house a terrible knock that brought down the front half of the structure. Seizing a large chunk of debris, he hurled it at the meddlesome family where it fell with a satisfying crunch in which at least two of the farmer’s sons disappeared in a twisted maze of wood. He and Dim then gave it their best roars and charged the remaining family members, but they broke and ran.

Their initial impulse was to continue the pursuit, but the orders of the orc chief had been so insistently drilled into them, that they stopped to see if they could remember what they were. “It ‘ad something to do with the sheep,” Dim ventured.

“No no,” Arrald corrected him, feeling sympathy for his brother’s slow wit. “‘E said we could have the sheep for ourselves, but only if we brought back the gold.”

Dim nodded, then a light went on in his eye. It was not a pleasant light. “Gold?” he said, as though hearing of the substance for the first time. “I like gold! All shiny and slippery it feel in my hands. It’s nice to have something twinkly to look at when one’s eating.”

Arrald came up short at that. “Why that’s quite true, Dim. It is.” An idea struck him. “Look here now, Dim, something’s just occurred to me. The orcs, see, they’re not here, right? Well how are they to know how much gold is in that sack?”

“I don’t know,” replied Dim, his head on one side.

“That’s just the thing, see. They won’t know. So what say you and me take a bit of it for ourselves before we ‘and it over?”

Dim’s eyes lit up again with an even less pleasant light. “Oh, I like that, that’s good.” Smiling he started toward the farm house, but he paused and with a very serious look upon his countenance he inquired, “But what about the sheep, Arrald? We won’t give them up will we?”

“Of course not, don’t be daft,” Arrald replied, happy that his brother had reminded him of the sheep, which had all but slipped his mind as he contemplated the brilliance of his plan to deceive the orcs. “C’mon,” he said, “let’s see how them other two ‘ave made out.”

‘Take care of them other wood-ticks, brother! I’m heading for the house.’

Grimm gave a final blow to the three farmhands who’d been foolish enough to face him. Their clubs had bounced off his scaly hide, much to their slack-jawed surprise; his axe, to their further chagrin, had found purchase in two of their soft skulls. The third had provided some brief amusement with a show of bravado – the man had moved in to help his mates, and been brought to his knees by a single blow. Grimm laughed as the man’s bloody stumps hit the dirt.

As he made for the rear of the farm house, he could hear Broga baiting his four distractions . . . followed by the sound of his thick oak club thwacking something in a satisfying way.

The rear door was locked. It offered no resistance to the ham-fisted grip of the Troll, soon parting company with the door frame altogether. A single lamp stood on the kitchen’s table, its light glinting off the polished pots the goodwife had hanging along the wall. Grimm’s eyes lit up with greedy anticipation at the lovely glitter that enticed him. A few moments of rummaging brought the find of an empty cotton flour sack. Its empty interior was soon stuffed with all manner of pots, a smoked ham from the pantry, several loaves of bread, and a number of pots of jam.

From the kitchen, Grimm made his way to the front room. Nothing much of interest there - save for the fire poker with its polished brass knob, which soon found its rattling way to the bottom of the sack. Up the dark stairs he went, then, trying each of the room doors as he came to them. Naught of interest in what appeared to be the children’s rooms, but the last room at the end of the hallway was a treasure trove. Pretty glass bangles hung from the edge of a lamp’s shade. Grimm harvested them, carefully stowing them in his leathern pouch – some lacy doily from a nightstand serving to cushion them from each other. A wooden box on the same nightstand gave in easily to his prying fingers, and the few baubles within (hair combs, a cloak pin, and a necklace with earrings) soon found themselves nestling against the glass bangles from the lamp.

Grimm poked about in the wardrobe of the room; pulled out drawers from the storage cabinet, emptying their contents on the floor; flipped the mattress off the bed, all in hopes of finding the gold. Nothing! In frustration, he kicked the massive wooden chest he’d already gone through, sending it flying against the wall.

Broga, by this time, had finished off his assailants and come in to look for his brother. He found him leaning against a wall in the bedroom, rubbing the toes of one foot. ‘Oh! What’s this?’ his piggish eyes caught the sight of a thick metal ring, set in the floor where the chest had stood. He pulled on it with one hand, the other reaching down into the dark recess beneath it. Not one but three, leather bags were soon brought up. Their ties undone; the glittering treasure within fondled lovingly by the rough hands of the Trolls.

‘Gold!’ came the soft exclamation from Grimm. His eyes narrowed, looking about the room suspiciously as if prying eyes might see their find. With a sweep of his hand he picked up one bag, the largest, and stuffed it into the waist band of his ragged kilt. Broga was about to do the same, but Grimm’s hand stayed him. ‘These two’ll do for those other lugs, brother. Keep the Orcs from wondering who’s been dipping into their gold.’ Broga grumbled at this reasoning and gnashed his teeth in frustration. ‘Just a handful for me own?’ he whined. A wide grin split his face as his brother sighed and nodded ‘yes’. Broga’s massive fist closed about a pile of coins, hiding them in the hollowed leg of one of the wolf skins adorning his body.

Making their way back out to the farmyard, they found Arald and Dim making their way to the house. They’d plundered the smokehouse, and a necklace of sausages hung about Arrald’s neck while Dim’s hands grasped several great hams. ‘Here!’ cried Grimm, waving the two leather bags at the approaching Trolls. ‘We’ve done your work for you!’ He threw the two bags at Dim. ‘Gold . . . for them Orc scum.’ Arrald looked at the lumpy flour sack and snorted. ‘Nowt you need to be seeing in here,’ said Grimm, axe coming quickly into his hand. ‘Some pots and pans we want; and a few little baubles from the bedrooms.’ He narrowed his eyes at the other two Trolls. ‘Take your gold and hams, and sheep, too. We’re heading back. Had enough fun for tonight.’

Broga and Grimm gave the other two a wide berth, heading toward their camp. Their retreat took them past the chicken coop. The poor birds were in a dither from the sounds and the smell of blood on the air. A single swoop of Broga’s fist gathered up a fair number by their scrawny necks. ‘I’m hungry,’ he said, holding up the now limp forms for his brother’s perusal. ‘We can cook ‘em up while we sort through our prizes.’

The two great lumpish forms made their clink-clank way to the edge of the farm proper, disappearing beneath the darkness of the trees that edged it.

A faint reddish hue tinted the night sky, but the clouds were smooth on the underside. There were no rumbling of thunder or bouts of lightning flashes within the wispy cotton nimbuses. There would be no storm tonight, not even a heavy downpour. The evening was turning out to be an anti-climax despite the cloud built-up during dusk.

Loudewater bursted through the door of the Prancing Pony and barely came to a stop at the middle of the dirt road. He was breathless with amazement and had to bend down with his arms propped against his kneecaps to catch his breath and allow the blood to flow to his head. Nausea came but he did not feel the urge to heave. As the farmer continued to breathe heavily and stare at the ground, he espied his old dagger dangling by the left side of his leather belt and froze in terror.

It would have been so easy for him to simply reach down, unsheathe the blade and slash Lenny across the neck, had he felt the dagger during his moment of temporal insanity at the bar…

Morbid realization sent shivers down the farmer’s frame and he suddenly felt the urge to make water. The lavatory of the Prancing Pony was behind the establishment, whereas he was standing in front of it. Loudewater felt immensely irritated by his inconvenient location and he was reluctant to walk around the huge complex or worse, reenter the serving hall where he had just committed his self exodus.

Nature’s call persisted and Loudewater’s temper augmented. He was irritated both by the discomfort of his bladder and the shameful state he was in. Face distorting hideously, he emitted a harsh low growl and kicked at the dirt, fashioning a small cloud of dirt and sand in the night air.

The imp of perversion and his sidekick, the pixie of irrationality paid a visit again. Loudewater’s eyes flashed with mad mischief and he bellowed,

“I AM ANDAS LOUDEWATER! A REAL MAN! RULES OF PATHETIC TOWN FROGS DON’T APPLY TO ME! I’LL MAKE WATER WHEN EVER I WANT! WHERE EVER I WANT! ARRRAAGH!”

The farmer then proceeded to untie the drawstrings of his trousers right where he stood, but his fingers were clumsy with adrenaline and complicated the knot even further. The more he struggled, the tighter the knot went. Loudewater was in such a desperate state of exasperation that he found himself clenching his teeth and literally hopping around like a great ape in heat.

The world worked in mysterious ways. Sometimes it drove normal men to the brink of unexplainable insanity and sometimes it was compassionately kind to said men. In this case, it decided to spare Loudewater the blushes and embarrassment of potential memories. An icy night wind blew and its cold touch washed over the maniacal farmer, who immediately became still. He tilted his head thoughtfully, cursed a little under his breath and then toddled into a dark dingy alley (well sheltered from the elements) between the inn and another mason building to relief himself.

After he was done, the farmer found himself unable or rather, unwilling to leave the dark recesses of the deserted pathway. Loudewater’s legs gave way and he fell heavily onto his own filth. He drew his knees together, rolled his shoulders so that he was in a fetal position and wept silently to himself…

After Silrûth had closed the shutters she sat back down on the stool, moving it closer to the table. All of them had huddled closer together, watching as "X's" were inked onto a thin parchment paper, the places of stolen livestock and other violent happenings.

The fair golden haired Elf could not help but be bothered by the beady stare of a haggard old man that preceded their meeting, she was often distracted by the noises outside but kept a close ear to what the Ranger's were discussing.

"If kept unchecked, they could threaten the Angle, Rivendell, Annuminas, and our own base of operations in Evendim." Thoronmir added. "Aidwain and Silrûth, I believe you are both from Rivendell," he said to the elves. "How far into the Trollshaws would you say they have come?"

Silrûth looked at him, "too far for my liking", she gazed coldly at the markings on the map showing a widening range of attacks and thefts. She added to her partner by saying, "though the attacks are not based out of the Trollshaws, it is quite obvious on my scouting missions that the Trolls are indeed migrating from that region, something is giving them the confidence to move out from their refuge, while something else is moving in, orcs and such no doubt, the trees have ways of telling me".

She could not hide the hatred in her deep grey eyes, but she remained calm and smiled warmly at the Ranger's, one of whom was peering over the group about to reveal further locations, Silrûth believed his name to be Menecar.

“Could you come over here and tell us where some of the attacks happened?” asked Veryadan

“Sure, I would love to.”

But before he could continue Silrûth interrupted as politely as she could, "pardon my asking, but do any of you have any speculations as to what may be causing these disturbances, some sole force must be behind all of this, Orcs are not very independent and Trolls are far too feebleminded for well thought out attacks".

Fen Sheperdspurse

His heart thumped so loudly in his chest he thought for certain the Elves would hear him. Fen stood in the darkness of the room across the way from the secret meeting. He’d flattened his back against the wall just inside the door, closed his eyes, and stopped his ragged breathing as best he could. ‘1,2,3,4, . . .’ he said slowly. Fen counted slowly to twenty, then opened one eye at a time and took a deep breath. No one had come looking for the source of the shaken door handle.

He snaked his head around the doorframe – the door to the room across the hall was still shut; no one he could see was lingering in the hall. Pulling his raggedy cloak about him, Fen made himself as small as possible and slunk quickly down the hall. He kept to the shadows as he made his way through the Common Room and hurried out the door.

Someone, at the end of the lane, had tied his horse to a convenient tree, avoiding the few pennies it would cost to stable the steed at the Inn. Fen reached out his grubby hand and rubbed the horse’s nose, speaking quietly to the beast. ‘Come now, my friend. I have use of you for the night. I’ll have you back before your cheapskate owner ahs downed his last mug.’

Untying the horse quickly, he mounted, and gave him a few sharp kicks in the flanks, urging him away from the Inn. He was bound for his usual meeting place with the boss’ representative, or so he called himself . . . now what was that throat-clearing name again . . . ah yes, Gráthgrob . . .

Tarondo
 

"Pardon my asking, but do any of you have any speculations as to what may be causing these disturbances? Some sole force must be behind all of this, Orcs are not very independent and Trolls are far too feebleminded for well thought out attacks."

Tarondo was studying the map over Veryadan's shoulder when Silrûth spoke. He spoke answered without looking up. "That is precisely what we are here to discover. The King ordered us to find out the source of the trouble and take what action we can." The Elf straighted up and smiled at the others. "We can sit up all comparing the intelligence and abilities of Men, Orcs, Trolls, and Elves," he said, "but I am weary, if no one else is. We need to learn exactly what happened during these attacks before there is value in speculation."

"I will tell Butterbur that we want to hear the stories," Thoronmir volunteered.

"He will have plenty to tell himself," laughed Luinien. "Beware!"

"He will tell others also," said Veryadan. "More will come forward; everyone loves to spread news of disaster. And we can find survivors, too. Their accounts will be most useful."

"If there are any," Alaksoron said gloomily.

Tarondo shot him a glance, then nodded and went on. "Very well, I think that is sufficient for tonight. And" - he halted them for a moment - "do not reveal that we are sent by the King, unless it is unavoidable. I do not see any good that would come of that information spreading throughout the countryside." After the companions agreed, they dispersed to rest for the remainder of the night.

Osric didn't feel particularly tired so he decided to visit his horse before bed. Shadow was a fine animal, strong if not terribly fast. Falkur gave him a pat and fed him an apple and stroked his nose a bit, made sure Shadow went to sleep. Then he went for a smoke.

He didn't go back inside the inn, rather just leaned on the side of the porch. It was too loud inside for him. Right now he needed quiet. He needed to think. He mused over what the others had spoke of. Osric himself had taken little part in the conversation, merely looking at the map and offering what he knew.

A sudden wind made Osric shiver. Pulling his cloak closer against the evening chill, he thought bed might not be such a bad idea. His eyes dropped like lead weights. He was very nearly asleep where he stood when his keen ears picked up the distant sound of weeping.

Kransha's post

A dull, pointless tune, whistled badly by orcish lips, rent the calm air. Búbkûr was not a good whistler, not at any rate, and his butchery of the same old uruk folk tune he’d heard circulating around the campfire was appalling. He didn’t even like the melody, as he’d made clear earlier, but the silence of the area disconcerted him greatly, filling him with the urge to be at least half as noisy as he usually was. He didn’t like all the nature, which was a given in a forested, hilly land. He especially didn’t like the trees. He’d lived his whole life in a place without trees, or bushes, or leaves, or roots, or any filth that accompanied trees. Any tree was like a thorn in his side. But, he especially hated those leafless, crooked ones. Those were the worst trees, and since Búbkûr didn’t like trees, he especially didn’t like the least likable trees, as they were not likable (which made perfect sense to him, somewhat). There were a lot of those in Bree-land, mostly in the dense, derelict forests. Thankfully, there were not that many of those trees in the area where Búbkûr was at the moment.

Where he was was at a familiar locale, between Bâzzog’s section of camp and that of Ugwakh, his second. He had come from Ugwakh’s section, having acted as an annoyed messenger who brought word of plans and schemes that he did not fully understand. He felt left out of the loop, regardless of who he spoke to, and it made him mad. Ugwakh’s dull, gruff attitude hadn’t helped. The parley broke into quick and steady argument, common for hostile orc-kind. Búbkûr was content to have left the wretched glob of an orc to his own wretched devices. His course back to Bâzzog was abandoned as he sought unheard of tranquility to ponder his situation. He felt better, not in the company of Bâzzog, Ugwakh, or the smart-mouth Gráthgrob. But, his feeling was overthrown when clip-clopping noise broke his ‘concentration’ and a trio of those crooked, horrid trees appeared just as he crested a small lump of a dirt mound. To the most crooked, most hateful tree was tied a horse, with its rider walking beside it. It took an irritatingly long time for Búbkûr to recognize the fellow and realize that he had wandered to an appointed place of meeting with said man.

“Yer Fen Sheperdsnurse, roight?” He said, enthusiastically, as he approached the man. He remembered that the 'negotiator' between the orcs an the Breelanders was actually old Grathgrob, and that's probably who this creature was expecting. It didn't matter, since, as they said in Bree sometimes, "Beggars can't be choosers." When it comes to orcs, everyone's a beggar, and nobody bothers risking their lives making choices. Choices are a bad thing, in uruk company. Finishing his exclamation, Búbkûr looked over the man, who looked dissapointed about the recipient of his soon-to-be-delivered message. He also looked like several other things, but Búbkûr was never any good at conjuring appropriate adjectives.

Fen coughed pointedly. “That’s Sheperdspurse, orc.” He corrected, his raspy voice grating on Búbkûr’s easily stricken nerves. Waving his clawed hand dismissively, the uruk nodded. “Yeah, sure it is. Whaddaya want?” He was obviously impatient, and in a sour mood. Even though he never considered challenging Bâzzog, he was often tempted when the superior orc treated him so dishonorably. Growling in his bracken-clotted throat, the orc’s hook hand scratched idly at the small of his back, drawing blood inadvertently. Though Fen’s eyes were drawn to the strange activity, the man of Bree managed to remain focused and continue speaking. Búbkûr’s gaze, though, unavoidably continued to sway, looking at that crooked tree behind the man; that tree he so disliked. Disliking the tree made him feel more confident, and he almost blocked out the sound of Fen Sheperdspurse.

“I come bringing ill news, orc,” Fen drawled on, “and you’d do best to pass it on to your captain.” Búbkûr looked up; one brow rising so that one of his two beady eyes became swollen and bulbous, which was probably the best look of inquiry the foul creature could muster. The orc whipped his hook hand back out and brandished it in a menacing fashion at the Breelander. “Yer bringin’ illness?” he said, skeptical and confused, “I don’t wanna get sick, ya know!” His two eyes were now bulging from their sockets, to Fen’s dismay. The Breelander probably would’ve been irritated by the orc’s stupidity if that same orc hadn’t been waving a rusty metal hook several inches in front of his nose. Hurriedly, Fen attempted to calm Búbkûr promptly, gesturing with his arms to settle the bewildered fiend.

“Bad news,” he stated swiftly, “I bring bad news.”

Astutely, Búbkûr settled down, speaking dimly as if nothing had happened. He needed no second measure of reassurance. His hook returned to its fleshy scratching post. “Oh…yeah, fine.” He muttered, looking away without a care or aim. “What is it?...The bad news, I mean.” Fen nodded, as if in understanding and, wrapping his narrow fingers around his staff again. Like a foul orator preparing for rhetoric, he contemplated. With a reserved gesture that plainly meant “Get to the point,” from Búbkûr, Fen began again, saying “There’s been some sort of clandestine meeting in the Prancing Pony” and pausing afterward to see the orc’s reaction (or lack thereof). After Búbkûr bobbed his head dimly, Fen went on. “Four northern Rangers and four Elves and a fifth ranger, all whispering like they’re talking about some dark secret. I thought Bâzzog would want to know.”

“Sure he would.” Búbkûr snapped, frustrated, not fully comprehending the situation, “Ya say four tarks meetin’ with four Elves?” Rolling his eyes as the orc looked away, Fen replied: “Yes, and another Ranger with the Elves.” Búbkûr’s lower, bulbous lip wound up over his upper jaw, enveloping it, and he scratched his hairy chin. “I’ve got it.” He said at last, a spark in his bugging eyes, “After we spend all the gold from last noight, we’ll get right on doin’ somethin’ about them tarks.” Fen’s own eyes illuminated evilly all of a sudden at the last statement. Stuttering in anticipation, the man ventured a query.

“Last night, you say?”

“Yeah.” Búbkûr tried to look intelligent as he nodded, still unaware of the wound he was tearing in his back, “Them stupid trolls got a grand haul from the Whittleworth Farm just outside o’ Staddle. Thems trolls get stupider by the day, I reckon.” He laughed, good-naturedly, but the laugh he elicited from Fen was forced (though Búbkûr was too busy developing the cognitions of a proper guffaw to notice). “Indeed.” Fen murmured, as soon as his ‘surfeit of raucous laughter’ had concluded, “So, what of the Rangers and Elves?” Búbkûr noticed Fen’s uneasiness, but ignored it in true orc fashion, considering. His feeble strivings toward philosophy were miserable, especially when he tried to look philosophical. “Pump ‘em fer information, ya know?” He growled sinisterly, “Ya can tell ‘em about the farm, that’s old news. Just so long as ya get some good news next time ya come.” He brandished his hook hand with ominous intent again, his eyes narrowing. “I won’t be quite so pleasant if’n ya bring ill news again.”

It didn’t take long for Fen Sheperdspurse to turn on his heels, leap onto the malnourished horse he had bound to that nearby, crooked and hunched over tree, and gallop off briskly into the distance, towards Bree. Chuckling merrily to himself, and thinking himself quite intelligent, Búbkûr galumphed back towards Bâzzog’s camp, slicing through half the trunk of that crooked tree, shaking it to its very roots. He really hated that tree.

Veryadan

One of the serving girls showed the Rangers, men, and Elves to the rooms they had prepared for them. The bed looked inviting to Veryadan; it had been a long day and a longer journey – the fatigue of their rapid pace had finally caught up with him, he conceded sitting down on the mattress. His saddle packs, he noted, had been placed on a small chest at the end of the cot. A small ewer of water had been left on the table next to the bed, along with a clean glass.

‘Now there’s a candle by the bed, sir,’ the girl said. She held it to the flame of the lamp she’d brought with her and secured it snugly in the candleholder. ‘I’ll bring round the hot water early in the morning for your wash basin. The towels and soap are there near it.’ She looked about in a satisfied way at the room. ‘Is there aught else you’ll be needing, sir?’

Veryadan shook his head at her question. ‘Just sleep, I think,’ he said seeing her to the door. He pressed a copper coin into her hand, asking that she get him up just after dawn, if she would. He’d something he wanted to see to. The girl smiled prettily and dropped a small curtsy, saying she would be sure to do so.

---

Dawn came earlier than he would have liked. The bed was indeed comfortable and he was loath to drag his warm limbs from it. The girl had brought hot water with her when she woke him and he took a few minutes to wash the sleep from his face. A short time later saw him in the common room seeking something to break his fast. Butterbur’s son was not yet in evidence, perhaps he was in the kitchen or more likely still abed.

Veryadan had just gotten his plate of eggs and toast when he saw Osric, and the Ranger, Thoronmir, come into the common room. He nodded to them as they drew near. ‘Come, have your morning’s meal with me.’ The three passed a short while in idle conversation, drinking the hot tea that had been left for them. Veryadan at last put down his mug and looked from one to the other. ‘Remind me,’ he said. ‘Which one of you was going to speak with the Innkeeper?’ He took another swallow of the sweet liquid as one of them claimed the task. ‘Have you been able to do that yet?’ he went on . . .