[maikafanawen]

Dûrvagor rummaged through his things, trying without success to find the clean shirt he had recently bought. Having no success he cursed, and rubbed the back of his neck in frustration.

“I could have sworn I—Oh yeah!” He turned suddenly and swept over to the pile of things by his mat and pulled a crisp white shirt from the middle of the pile. He put it on and laced up the front, leaving it open enough to allow circulation. The ranger then rolled up the sleeves and put on a thin darkish gray jerkin, not bothering to clasp it shut. He emerged from his tent, tying up the back of his longish brown hair, just in time to hear Islist tell them to be ready to leave later tonight and have a drink—well more or less.

Dûrvagor cheered along and raised his own tankard up for the King and young Islist. He had caught the humor in being led by Islist, who was a good half of Dûrvagor’s age, but as his friend Rinoas had pointed out, “Probably three times as mature.” It was true, Dûrvagor thought with a bemused smile. Islist’s father had been a born leader and was whom everyone could turn for consolation and advice. Dûrvagor’s parents on the other hand had been born middle-class but had worked their way up through mere eloquence and honey tongued entertainment. Ah, the ranger admired them for that. He too had inherited the talent, but had also inherited the uncanny ability with a sword that had belonged to his grandfather: a simple yet town-famous fencer of Harlond.

The ranger downed his second tankard and decided that was enough. One of their number had begun to tell a story and soon the ranger’s more favorite of pastimes was in place: telling of past “one-times”—the name Dûrvagor had given their stories.

“We should get to packing,” suggested Sorlas. Most of them agreed and moved back to their tents, gathering the few things they would need and arranging them on their horses.

“So, did he say we were leaving tonight or tomorrow?” asked Rinoas, coming over to Dûrvagor as he struggled to untie an especially tight knot on his saddlebag.

“Sunset tomorrow,” answered Dûrvagor, finally loosening the knot. “I think,” he added, not quite sure if he heard Islist right. The ranger shrugged and bent down to pick up his second bag and tie it to his horse’s saddle.

“Do ye really need all that Dûrvagor?” he asked, a touch of humor in his voice.

“Ah, go back yer own horse!” he answered jovially, shoving Rinoas on his way. Dûrvagor turned back to Pernolë: his sorry excuse for a horse. Pernolë wasn’t a bad horse, just a silly one. Tûrvagor had bought him for his son during their last meeting. Pernolë had previously been called Araroch, or ‘noble horse’—he had also been the prized steed of a ritzy city-boy. But Dûrvagor immediately decided the name didn’t fit its owner and re-named him Pernolë, or ‘half-wit’. While the majority of his friends’ horses were clever and battle-trained, his was foolish and unlearned in the ways of a true ranger’s mount. Dûrvagor promised to teach him though, and had decided that this outing would be good for him, even if Pernolë did seem to step high like a show-horse.

He hadn’t always had Pernolë. Before the white steed was given to him he owned Linteroch: a dark brown mare with white hooves and a black mane and tail. She had been his best horse and seemed to be able to read his mind. He had had her for ten years before he decided to retire her and gave him to his mother for pleasure rides around the countryside. Dûrvagor had pretended not to notice, but it seemed that Linteroch had gotten younger and healthier since he gave her up.

“The life of a ranger’s horse just was not meant for her,” Dorvawen had said, stroking her new horse’s hide lovingly.

Dûrvagor brushed away his thoughts and finished putting his things on Pernolë’s saddle. Then he took them off again and set them inside his tent, loosing Pernolë with a sharp slap to her bottom to go graze with the other horses.

“More ale?” called Sorlas from the ring of rangers long finished with their packing. Dûrvagor pretended to think on it for a while before shrugging it off with a boyish grin.

“Ah, why not!”

[ May 27, 2003: Message edited by: maikafanawen ]