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Old 05-17-2004, 12:43 AM   #210
piosenniel
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Gondor - 2 days later; the Star is seen at Pelargir

A number of local smiths and farriers had come down to the dock at Pelargir to meet The Scuppered Gull when she put in. Under the hot sun, skin glistened as the thick-hewed muscles of the men and crew strained to off load the pallets of pig iron from the ship’s hold and distribute them among the large flat bed wagons from the various smithies. The giant draft horses stamped their hooves, impatient to be drawing home their loads.

‘That’s the last of the lot, Sir,’ said Haladan as he and the Captain, Faragaer, watched the final pallet placed carefully on one of the traveling farrier’s wagons. One of the smiths, the one who’d brought his two sons and their wagons waved at the ship and held up three fingers. Haladan nodded yes to him, and held up three fingers in return – in three months they would deliver another load. With a last wave, the Captain and his First Mate turned away from the railing and started to give orders to cast off – there were two smaller deliveries they needed to make before they brought the ship about in the Bay and headed back to Harlond.

From the bow of the Gull came a loud cry, drawing their attention.

A ship was approaching with all the speed she could muster against the current. Her sails were a little tattered as if the captain and crew had sailed in great haste, taking no time for repair. Faragaer shaded his eyes with his hand and squinted at the vessel, catching sight of the banner it bore. ‘The Lonely Star!’ he cried, waving at the crewman that stood at her bow keeping watch. Faragaer and Haladan scanned the deck of the Star as she pulled alongside. The smiles on their faces faded at the sight of the grim-visaged crew. They called out, to ask if the ship needed aid.

‘We cannot stop,’ cried Duilin, shouting across the distance at them as the Star continued its slow progress upriver. ‘We must make all haste to Harlond.’

‘Captain Mithadan,’ called out Faragaer. ‘May I speak with him?’ Faragaer’s mind was troubled at the state of the Star’s crew and vessel. A return home from a long trip usually brought light spirits as a ship made its way back to home port.

Duilin glanced up toward Saelon who stood at the helm, then swung his head back toward the Gull . ‘Not here!’ shouted Duilin as the Star began to pull past the Gull. ‘Nor the First Mate!’ he added anticipating Faragaer’s next request. Haladan’s brow was furrowed as he took in what Duilin had said.

The Star’s stern was already pulling away from the Gull when Faragaer called out for his crew to cast off and the helmsman to bring the ship about. ‘The other deliveries will have to wait a few days. Something has gone quite wrong with the King’s mission to Umbar.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Mithadan and Airefalas . . . both!’

‘Come, Haladan! Let the crew know we are bound back for Harlond and why. We will offer our assistance to Mistress Piosenniel, should she require it . . .’

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Rôg

Rôg listened closely as the two men spoke of the missing incense pot.

“ . . . Could someone else have removed it?” Narayad asked. “It sounds strange, I know, but perhaps someone had a reason for taking it away. You were there, did you see anything?”

“What are you saying?” Surinen asked.

“Only that I am wondering if this fire was truly an accident, or perhaps someone is trying to blame Latah for it. I do not know.”

“Who would try to blame her, Narayad? It doesn’t make sense. The whole encampment knows that she would not do anything to harm the Meldakhar.”

“Still, I would like it to be found… for her sake . . .”

So, he thought to himself, they are also thinking that the fire may not have been an accident! For a brief moment, Rôg considered calling out to them, showing them the incense pot, telling them what he and Aiwendil had discovered and discussed. But the one called Narayad had seen him inch closer and with a glare and a motion of his hand sent him scrabbling backward to the rear of the lean-to.

Rôg thought to speak to Aiwendil about what he’d heard. Weariness, though, had overtaken the old man and he sat leaned against his pack, his head lolling to one side. A low snoring sound issued from the old fellow’s lips, as if a small hive of bees had taken residence in his chest. The young man’s long slender fingers crept toward the pocket into which he’d seen Aiwendil thrust the incense pot.

And were quickly withdrawn as the old man muttered some words and turned slightly for comfort . . .

What seemed a long time passed as Rôg watched him settle back into some dream, his eyes darting beneath closed lids, seeking something. Then Rôg’s hand slid near the pocket’s slit again and dipped in gently, withdrawing the incense pot. A moment of apprehension gripped him when he thrust it into the folds of his own cloak, the lid clanking against the bottom section. Rôg’s eyes darted about fearing that either the old man would awaken or the two guards would have heard. But Aiwendil slept on, mumbling a bit to himself, then settling down once again. The two clansmen had walked away from the lean-to a bit, their heads bent close in conversation, their words now inaudible to those in the lean-to.

Rôg leaned back against his own pack and made an effort to quiet his breathing. Now that he had the damnable item in his possession what was he to do with it? His thoughts raced about in his mind seeking a viable option. It was then his gaze lit on the large open pack that stood just to the side of the small fire.

Last edited by piosenniel; 05-23-2004 at 01:55 PM.
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