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Old 06-20-2006, 10:03 PM   #15
piosenniel
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piosenniel's character


NAME: Rôg

AGE: around 42

RACE: Mannish

GENDER: Male

APPEARANCE: 5’6”; black hair; dark brown eyes; olive toned skin; softly muscled, lean frame; a little stooped when he does not remember to straighten his posture, from long hours spent hunched over scrolls and tomes in libraries, and over his own notebooks; a pleasant, though not memorable face; long, tapering fingers with well kept nails; an ink stain and thick callous on his right middle finger indicating where the quill is grasped. There is a small, flat, ovoid shaped gold stud in his upper left ear, nearly hidden where the top of ear folds over on itself like a sea shell.

Prefers loose clothing in dark, earthen tones, browns and blacks – breeches and tunics worn with boots if necessary in the north and western climes. Otherwise bare-footed. Dark brown hooded cape for protection against the elements. A number of large handkerchiefs are crammed in various pockets of the cape, most of them a yellow color.

Carries an ebony walking stick; small hand ax used for gathering fuel for fire; an over the shoulder leather pouch which, among other items, holds several leather bound notebooks and one small chapbook; a quill case; inkstone and blotter sand; at his belt he wears a small leather sheath with a small, sharp double edged knife – used mainly for sharpening quills or cutting up vegetables.

PERSONALITY: He has a pleasant temperament, and a dry sense of humor. Good listener, feels no desire to talk one’s ear off. A slow, methodical worker; does not like to feel ‘hurried’. He prefers to evaluate all sides of a problem before settling on an answer. In a dangerous situation, he would be more likely to take cover than fight. Though, as yet, nothing has pushed him to the point where his mettle might be tested.

Dependable, intelligent. Used to the wandering life. A whiz with a cooking pot and any edible vegetation and small game. Can start a fire under any conditions. He is a man of many useful talents.

HISTORY: Born in TA 2999. For five years his home was in the wide, broad valley bounded by the lower limb of the Orocarni, the Mountains of the East; the dense forest on their west and east; and the arid steppe that pushed its way south and east, descending to the shores of the seas. His family were members of a small nomadic tribe who wandered this sparsely populated area, trading with other tribes in the vicinity, often venturing as far West as the outskirt cities of Rhûn. His father made the small, serviceable axes of the sort that graced his own belt. His mother wove colorful baskets, useful for many things in the peoples of that region’s daily lives, and useful, too, her larger ones, for burial.

He and his older sister, two years his senior, enjoyed a fairly carefree life during this time. Though sometimes he and she were pressed into service for gathering the fibrous materials for baskets, or pumping the bellows when their father was at work on the ax heads, for the most part, they were free to roam. And best they loved the forests with their scrubby, green needled trees, roots gripped firm on the rocky ground. . . and the wildlife, the abundant and most intriguing wildlife. Encouraged by their parents, they both grew up with a great respect for the creatures that shared their lives . . . and a healthy respect for the creatures’ ability to protect themselves.

Then the Shadow from the west lengthened. At first a hushed story told in whispers around the cooking fires by the elders, then encounters with peoples they had previously traded with who now claimed some sort of allegiance to a great Lord in a far western place called Mordor. The elders and parents seemed secretive to a youngster of five, but his own reassured him and his sister that there was nothing to worry about. Nonetheless, in the following months they began a slow migration southward, hugging the coast of the Eastern Sea and then the Inner Sea. Past the places of half remembered stories from before the time of men.

When he was about ten years old, the elders made the decision that they had come to a place they felt safe enough to settle in. This new area lay in a semi-arid region between the Great Dark Forests of the South and the coast of the Inner Sea. And it was here that he spent the next fifteen years of his life. The letters and numbers he had learned at his mother’s knee now proved useful to his family and tribe – increased contact with other wandering tribes meant increased trade, and he had the talent to keep the tallies.

At twenty-five, he traded for his first scroll, paying the traveling merchant extra for a quick lesson on how to read the peculiar script. It was only a short, illustrated treatise on locating wells and digging them; an unexciting piece of literature, save for the fact it showed him how such a thing was done in some other part of the world. And when he learned, from the same fellow that there were buildings dedicated to the storage of manuscripts and scrolls, which were open for those so inclined to read and study in, he resolved to see them. His wishes came to fruition in the next few years, and with the blessings of his parents and his other tribe members he set off, wandering north and west, seeking to increase his knowledge.

~*~

He had long been interested in the study of small birds – their habitats, social structure, migratory patterns, feeding preferences, capacity to adapt and learn new skills. He felt a certain kinship to them, many of them wanderers like himself.

It was at the Library in Rivendell where he first met Aiwendil (Radagast), and fell to comparing notes with him concerning the sighting of a certain species of hummingbird seen recently in the last few years in the area of Rhudaur near the Hithaeglir, and then again between the eastern side of the mountains and Rhosgobel.

Hearing that Aiwendil was bound for the southern lands, Rôg offered to accompany him. He had been down there, he told the old fellow, for a space of time in his younger years. It would be a profitable journey for the both of them – Aiwendil would have the services of someone familiar with the country, and Rôg would have the benefit of Aiwendil’s vast knowledge of birds and his keen eye for observation. That and Rôg would have the opportunity to make contact with his tribe after such a long time away.

During their stay in Harad, Aiwendil and he had assisted some of the native peoples who wished to throw off the last vestiges of Sauron’s influence, and helped them secure their freedom from an oppressive tribal chieftain.


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piosenniel's post - Rôg


The young man, Gaerion, knocked firmly on the smooth wood door, then stepped back a pace, hearing the footsteps from within draw nearer. He looked about the little courtyard in which he stood. It was lush with flowers; many of them he knew were of the sort which attracted little birds. He smiled, knowing the one who lived here would be pleased that he had managed to recall this bit of information. Gaerion had delivered many messages here and never gotten away yet without some small lesson on this or that.

Rôg peeked through the small, barred peephole in the door, wondering who had come for a visit so early in the morning. Gaerion! Fresh faced, his black livery spotless, boots gleaming from the polishing he must have given them just this morning. His grey eyes were clear, and shone, it seemed to Rôg, with a spirit of hope and the expectation of a life open to possibility. It was a welcome sight to Rôg’s eyes. There had been too many years, he thought, when hope lay under shadow and possibility was thwarted by despair.

‘Come in, come in!’ He opened the door wide and ushered Gaerion in, pointing towards the small table near the window where he’d just sat down to eat his morning meal. ‘There’s plenty,’ Rôg said, motioning to an empty chair as he sat back down in his own. ‘Fruit, cheese….and here, let me pour you a cup of wine. It’s from the south. Very light, very refreshing.’

‘What’s this?’ He took the slender roll of parchment from Gaerion, exchanging it for the basket of thick sliced bread he’d passed the young man. Rôg untied the thin ribbon and unrolled the parchment. His eyes scanned the writing; he smiled as he read the signature written boldly at the bottom. ‘From the King,’ Rôg said.

Gaerion nodded as he stuffed a fig into his mouth. He bit back a grin at the obviousness of this conclusion. A swig of wine followed, a delighted smile affirming the young man’s pleased approval. ‘Delivered one to the old fellow too.’ He looked chagrined as Rôg raised a brow at him. ‘Aiwendil, then,’ he said, making an apology of sorts. ‘The Elf fellow was there, too.’ Gaerion took another sip of wine. He supposed he should be discreet; the King’s man had not made mention of what the messages said, only that the King wanted them delivered as quickly as possible. But, he was young and curious, and so he asked Rôg outright what the King had written.

‘It’s about the land across the river. Mordor. The King has received a request for aid from some of those who live there. He’s sending a group of us to look into it and give them assistance.’ Rôg took a small cluster of fat red grapes and plucked one off. ‘Though I wonder what he thinks I can do.’ He popped the grape into his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. ‘Most likely he wants me to keep the old fellow out of trouble.’ Rôg grinned at Gaerion who’d raised his brows in mock remonstrance of calling Aiwendil ‘the old fellow’.

Breakfast done, the farewells made, and Rôg returned to his chair to peruse the King’s letter again. In a hastily scrawled note at the bottom of the page, Elessar had mentioned men of the East, slaves at one time in the Dark Land, were among those who had asked for assistance. And would Rôg, in addition to using his knowledge of wells, and irrigation systems, be sure to look to any special needs that those of his homeland might have. He frowned; the thought of any of his clan or kind, under the will and whips of the Dark Lord, and after him his as-cruel minions made him shudder despite the increasing warmth of the day.

It took very little time for him to pack. Other than a change of clothes and his pens and notebooks, Rôg had few essentials he couldn’t live without. He thrust his hand axe through his belt, to which he’d also secured his knife. Last of all was his walking stick; once in his hand he strode out the door of his little apartment and closed it securely. Gaerion had agreed to look after the little place while he was gone.

In a few moments he was at Aiwendil’s rooms, entering the door without a knock. The old fellow was bent over a book of maps his finger tracing the way for the Elf who stood at his side.

‘Well, I’m ready!’ he looked from one to the other of them as he banged his stick on the stone floor. His gaze settled on Aiwendil. ‘Just promise me this trip will involve no travel by water….that’s all I ask.’

Last edited by piosenniel; 06-25-2006 at 12:07 AM.
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