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Old 11-13-2006, 01:49 AM   #258
Child of the 7th Age
Spirit of the Lonely Star
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Lindir waited until husband and wife had finished their private conversation and then went over to speak briefly with Athwen. He bent down to sketch some rough lines in the dirt, pointing out a few scrub bushes not far from camp where the woman could conceal herself until the slavers arrived as well as indicating the direction she might want to take when approaching the camp. He expressed his thanks and then reminded her that the weather and visibility could possibly be quite bad. Dorran remained nearby, carefully committing the map to memory.

Just as the elf was finishing up, a grey pigeon came circling down. landing on the ground in a wobbly manner directly ahead of them. The bird's feathers were ruffled; her wings noticably drooped. Lindir gently took the bird in his hand and removed a small scrap of parchment wrapped about its leg. The message was written in Quenyan in a remarkably delicate and precise script. Lindir stood off to one side while reading the note and then raised his voice to explain so that any others standing nearby could hear the news. "Aiwendil reports the slavers have been sighted. He and Rg have drummed up some mischief to delay them. However, my guess is that this pigeon had tough going in the air, since the winds are beginning to blow. The slavers may be no more than thirty minutes away. It is time for each group to move into position. Go now, each of you, and tell the others. Be prepared for the slavers but do not forget the weather. Keep your heads covered and try to shield off the worst of the sand and dirt. And may Varda smile on our endeavor."

Slowly, the men and women started to disperse. Lindir bent down to retrieve his bow and slung it over his shoulder starting towards the appointed place where the archers were to meet. As he glanced eastward, the elf could see one and possibly two figures in the distance, both striding towards the camp. It was definitely Aiwendil and possibly Rg. At the same time, the winds had picked up. The sand on the plain was swirling about in a number of small funnels and eddies, first blowing one direction and then the other. At this point, the winds and sand were no more than an irritation. But they were likely to get much worse before the night was over. Any work with the bows would have to be done early and from very close in, if there was any hope of their arrows actually hitting the mark. Aiwendil and Rg had been right about the weather, but whether the slavers would get here first or the giant gusts of wind, he could not even guess.
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