[piosenniel]

Envinyatar’s Characters

1.) NAME: Veryadan

AGE: 70

RACE: Men – Northern Dúnedain

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Long-sword, yew longbow, hunting knife; short iron mail shirt, plain iron helm, plain boiled leather vambraces

APPEARANCE: 6’1”(1.5m); 175 lbs(79kg); well muscled, lean; Black hair with some silvered streaks; grey eyes; tanned. Dresses for working in: dark grey leggings and tunic; brown leather belt with a brass buckle; soft leather, well worn, knee high boots; grey cloak flecked with black and dark green. For more formal occasions: black tunic, breeches, and boots, black cloak with a small, old silver brooch with six-pointed star engraved on it.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: A reserved man with a dry sense of humor. Careful in his consideration of problems, he prefers to assess them from all sides. If need be he can make any necessary quick decisions as needed.

Considered a fair man, who expects others to accept the consequences of their actions. He is a realist, and not a romantic. So said, he does lack a certain sense of compassion for those who rail against what life has dealt them.

Avocation: Cartographer – has been to the library in Rivendell many times to check on old references in the maps there. Always carries, when working, a tubular, leather map-case, containing small maps of the various areas he has surveyed and blank paper, pen and quill for sketching new areas.

HISTORY: Born 2969 TA, he is 38 years younger than his King, Aragorn Elessar. Grew up in the Dunedain’s hidden fastness in the Angle. Has two younger sisters, Almiel and Núneth, who are married, with children. They and their families live in Minas Tirith. He is unmarried.

Descended through his father from Estelmo, the squire to Elendur, Isildur’s oldest son. As far back as his family history is remembered, all the males have served as Rangers under the command of the Chieftains. Veryadan’s father served under Arathorn II and his son, Aragorn II. In like manner, Veryadan has served under the command of Aragorn as Chieftain and now as High King.

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Envinyatar’s post - Verydan – 1ST FOR GAME

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 . . .

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2.) NAME: Fen Shepherdspurse

AGE: 50

RACE: Man (of Breeland)

GENDER: male

WEAPONS: A twisted yew walking stick with a big knot at the upper end. An oak handled knife with a much sharpened five inch blade, worn in a old leather sheath at his belt. A sling with a pouch of sharp stones also hangs on his belt. A set of pick-locks secreted in the top of his boot.

APPEARANCE: Tall, thin, and twisted looking – much like his walking stick. Spends much of his time hunched over, hiding in shadows. Thinning sandy hair, sallow complexion, a jagged, ill-healed scar on his left cheek gotten in a fight with local farmer and his boys. Dirty appearing – from his scuffed, run down at the heels boots to his raggedy brown stained breeches to his tunic to his once white tunic, now bearing the history of many scrapes, scuffles, and nefarious deeds.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Always on the lookout for an easy takings. Would cheat his own dear mother, save for the fact she is more crafty and wicked than he. A cowardly sneakthief and rumor monger. The sort who likes to ally himself with those who can protect him. But if cornered is a nasty, no holds barred fighter.

HISTORY: Born and raised in Breeland on a hardscrabble little farm, just outside The Chetwood Forest, near the Midgewater Marshes. At age 29, took up with other ruffians and brigands seeking to take advantage of the fear and terror spread by the lengthening shadow from the East. Most of his comrades of those times are now dead, and those few that remain, including Fen, are left to the scorn of their fellow countrymen and whatever ‘odd’ jobs they can pick up for a hot meal and a hay-pile to sleep in . . . that, and of course, the occasional bit of nefarious pursuits to line their pockets with what coin they can.

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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, 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’ . . .