[piosenniel]

Arvedui III's post

The red sun rose gloriously above the fair country that was Bree. Bill's Hill, on the outskirts of town blended perfectly into the scenery, its tall green trees casting long shadows against the dawn. On the sloping top a figure lay, huddled over, sleeping. It was a man, who had either been camping out under the stars, or was there by some dare, for he was a young man. The shadowy figure stirred and rose, and looked at sun as though blinded by it. He sat, simply staring at the sun as though he'd never seen it before. Sure is big he thought. Wonder why it's so big? Then he looked about on, what was to him, an alien landscape.

Where is here? he thought. He wasn't alarmed to be somewhere he didn't know, just merely puzzled at why his was where he was. Sure is big, this place. he thought unconcernedly. He rubbed his head. It ached.

He sat, and looked at his hands. In the light they seemed red. He panicked suddenly, sanding up and turning in circles. Hands aren't supposed to be red. he thought. He was frightened. He rubbed them frantically, trying to get the red off, but to no avail. Why are my hands red? Hands aren't supposed to be red. He struggled to find an answer, but none came.

"Why are they red?!" He was yelling it now, yelling to the land about him, but no answer came. He head really hurt. Then he paused in his pacing, Why am I here? He thought frantically, trying to make sense of what was going on. Where is here? Where am I ?

He cried to the morning. The cry fell on deaf ears.

Then, the most disturbing question of all came to his mind:
"Who am I?"

He didn't know.

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"You all right, boy?" A voice brought the man back to himself. He turned, and an old farmer was looking him over. He was lying in a stream, his lip and palms were bleeding and he had a terrible pain in his head. A dream, this has to be a dream he thought.

"You all right, boy?" the old man persisted. This is no dream, he thought as reality hit him. He really didn't know anything about himself. "Can yeh talk?" The old man asked him. He nodded dumbly, still trying to comprehend. "Well, you get yerself cleaned up boy, yeh hear." The man nodded.

"You a rangar, or something?" "Rangar?" The man's voice was thin and croaky. "I don't know, you just look like one. You got the weapons n' gear n' all." The man examined himself. He was very wet and sticky, but found a sword and bow and arrows on him. "Rangar" he repeated the word the old man had used.

"Yeh, rangar. Don't mean to be nosey or anything, young master. You just look like one. Say, what's your name?" The old man said, giving the figure in front of him a queer look. "Rangar." The man got up. He'd figure this out. Until he did, it was best to have some identity. Even if it was given by an old farmer.
Rangar. He'd figure out what the word meant. Maybe if I do , he thought, I might get an answer . “Rangar.” He liked the name.
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"Hey, Bane!" A drunken man stumbled over to figure in a black cloak. "Shut up." The figure answered. "Haw, come on Ranger," "Rangar" The figure corrected. "For the thousandth time, the man probably mispronounced Ranger. Say it, Raaiinggeer" "Ranger. Happy?" "Why are you so mad?" "Why are you so drunk?" "Why don't you ever touch a beer?" "Why don't you two just shut up?" said a man sitting near them. "No, I wanna know. What have you got against everyone? What? Why don't you ever touch ale, why don't you ever do something for fun? All you do is go wandering about, that's it. Then you come back here, get all depressed, and leave again."

"What would you have me do? Or have you forgotten why I go about like I do?" Rangar said angrily. "At least come listen to old man Haran." the drunken man said in a considerably softer voice. He's had a few, and his son's just back from Gondor. The story should be good this time. It'll cheer even you up"

"The last time Haran told a story, a purple oliphant ran off with Queen Arwen to Dale." said Rangar in a surly tone. "Just come on," the drunken man said. He hasn't had that many, yet."

"Now, I have no reason to lie to you folk, got no reason at all." Haran began tipsily up at the bar. "But word is, and that's all it is, words, that is. Anyway, word is there's summat funny going on in Harad, that's east of Gondor." He said knowingly, trying hard to create an air of mystery. "In Harad, there summat funny. Summat fishy. They say there's a man who can tell the future. An' past, and what happening now, they say."

A murmur went up around Haran. "Yeh, a Seer. They say. Now I got no reason to lie too you folk, no reason at all. They say he lives in an old castle. Ruiny, rundown. Now, he's just sitting there, they say. Just sitting, waiting for someone to find him an' ask him questions. Test him, in a manner of speaking. And that is the king's truth, an' I got no reason to be lying, an' all that."

Rangar had listened to the old man's tale. What if it was true. A Seer. A real Seer. Haran made up childish stories, not rumors. There was a good chance, his mind poured over the possibilities, plus, he had nothing better to do anyway. He stood up. "Man, where are you going? Someone asked at the bar.

"To Harad, anyone coming?"