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Old 02-25-2004, 04:44 AM   #120
piosenniel
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Rôg

Rôg glanced up at the sun, shading his eyes with his hand. He had forgotten how it could affect the minds of those who were not used to the desert. He kicked himself mentally. ‘I should have known an old man such as Aiwendil would not bear up well under the rising heat! Here he is spouting gibberish . . . and now he is speaking of tasks to be done and bent roads!’ What was he to do? He had urged his friend to come south with him and now Rôg felt responsible for this ‘condition’ that had come over him.

‘Here,’ he said taking his companion’s elbow as he ushered him gently into the shade of a nearby palm. ‘Let me just get us something to drink and we’ll talk about where to go from here.’ ‘Sit, sit,’ he urged Aiwendil, spreading his rumpled cloak he had grabbed from the back of the wagon. Hurrying to the box where the traders kept their cooking and eating supplies, Rôg fetched two mugs and filled them from the travelers’ well where the caravan had stopped.

Aiwendil drank from the mug, his eyes glinting over the rim at his solicitous companion. Rôg, a bit taken aback by the older man’s study of him, cleared his throat nervously and began talking to fill in the pressing silence, his eyes looking everywhere but at the man who sat opposite him. He was feeling as ‘thick-headed’ as Aiwendil had said, and a creeping sense of being exceedingly young and unsure now in the presence of his companion had stolen over him. ‘I have missed something here,’ he thought to himself, unable to stop the flow of words as he babbled on about buying a camel from one of the caravan’s traders . . . and no, he did not think he cared to ride one . . . ship of the desert and all that; too bumpy . . . his stomach lurching dangerously at the thought of it.

‘If you don’t mind,’ he went on, changing the subject from thoughts of the rolling sands of the desert suffered from the back of a swaying, and easily irritated he recalled, camel, ‘I think I’ll just fly along, or sit on your shoulder if I need a rest.’ Birds, he thought should be much like the moth he’d tried on the pitching ship – impervious to queasiness. Aiwendil smiled gently at him, nodding in agreement, as he sipped his water.

Rôg’s palms had grown suddenly sweaty. This wasn’t going the way he had hoped. Once Aiwendil had cooled down and come to his senses, seen the light, so to speak, then Rôg planned that they should once again head toward the city. Get the supplies needed for their trek south to seek out the birds they were studying. From there it would be an easy, unstressed journey into the areas where Rôg had spent a great deal of his young life. Aside from his other plans to seek out his family, Rôg was very much looking forward to showing his companion the birds unique to these southern lands.

And now he found he had somehow committed himself to some harebrained quest prompted by the twitterings of two birds . . . and larks, at that. Little chits!

Taking a deep breath, the younger man regrouped. They would still be going south; that was good. Supplies could be purchased from the merchants in the caravan, along with a camel for the old man. The birds’ fears and their warning of the hideous hooded evil figure would be found less threatening than had been supposed; Aiwendil’s own fears allayed . . . and then they could head south to where they’d first intended. Yes - a good plan, a little different from what he’d first thought they’d do. But still it would achieve their goal . . .

His thoughts attempting to assemble themselves into definite plans, Rôg found himself staring into the water that filled his cup half-way. His hands trembled a little of their own accord, sending the dark reflections of cloudless sky roiling back and forth from side to side. He leaned closer, catching the fleeting image of some darker form that sailed across the surface. The cup dropped from his hands, water spilling into the sand. ‘Get hold of yourself!’ he chided. ‘You’re acting like a google-eyed, one-form youngling seeing his next challenge.’ Rôg shook his head clearing his mind of the image he’d glimpsed. ‘Just your own reflection,’ his more rational self whispered reassuringly. ‘Perhaps . . .’ murmured the niggling doubts that had begun to gather on the edges of his thinking.

Aiwendil had long since finished the water in his cup. He sat bent forward, elbows on knees, chin resting on his steepled fingers, watching the face of his companion. He reached out with one hand and poked the leg of the younger man. Rôg, startled out of his reverie by the touch, stared blankly at the old man. ‘The camel,’ said Aiwendil, his voice scattering the last of the lingering doubts, ‘we’ll need to ask about getting one. And perhaps you can see to getting whatever supplies we might also want.’

‘The camel, yes,’ said Rôg, turning toward the tethered group of surly beasts. They eyed him suspiciously as he stood and walked purposely toward them. For his part, he kept a wary watch on their furiously working jaws as they chewed their cud. One hint that they were annoyed and he was prepared to scramble far out of spit range.

A smiling man in a dark burnoose intercepted his advance, announcing himself the owner of this fine string of camels. A list of the beasts’ good points was ticked off by the merchant, followed by a counter list of faults by Rôg. A price was thrown out, a lesser one offered. Fetching himself another cup of water, Aiwendil returned to his seat on the cooler sands beneath the palm tree’s shade. He settled in to a comfortable position and watched the heated interaction between the two men, words and gestures flying between them.

The haggling had begun; it would be some time before they could be on their way . . .

Last edited by piosenniel; 02-25-2004 at 07:18 PM.
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