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Old 09-16-2006, 02:21 PM   #188
piosenniel
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Pio's post -- Rôg

‘May Varda protect us all until we meet again at the grassy knoll or the lands beyond…’ Rôg rolled Lindir’s parting words about in his head as the trio headed away from the slavers’ camp.

. . . "the lands beyond!” It sounded so final. Why must Elves always be so pessimistic? And what possibility was there that I might make it to those “land’s beyond”? he wondered. It sounded like a particularly Elvish sort of thing. Though he thought that perhaps Aiwendil might be the sort to have visited there at one time or another. The old fellow had been many places in his long life it seemed.

He walked on, a little behind Aiwendil and the girl. His side hurt with each step, but it had at least stopped bleeding. It was more as if a line of fire burned now along the shallow gash the arrow had left on his right side. That and the dried blood had glued the inury to his tunic, causing irritation as the material moved back and forth across his skin. He tried to be careful that he did not pull at the material too much and reopen the wound. He flexed his left shoulder just a little. It ached, too, but if he held it close to his body and kept it still, against him, then he found it to be a manageable sort of pain.

His thoughts trailed back to Lindir’s words, back to that one the Elf had named. His thinking fell into rhythm with his slow steps . . . And another thing . . . by the great Winged One, shouldn’t this Varda that the Elves looked up to so much be kind enough to protect them to the end of the task?

He’d heard somewhat about Varda, from other Elves in whose company he’d found himself in his travels with Aiwendil. He’d pieced together what he could about her; listened closely when she was mentioned. He’d asked no questions, not wanting to seem crude and uneducated in the presence of the First Born. At one time he’d heard that she and her spouse lived high on a mountain far, far to the west. And that west, he’d heard had somehow moved beyond the ends of the world.

Rôg smiled and nodded his head. Well there you go, ninny! he thought to himself, as if a spark of light had suddenly flared in a dark cave. That’s the “lands beyond” now, isn’t it?

Thinking about that far away mountain cheered him a bit as he stumped along leaning on the branch Aiwendil had given him to use as a cane. The Old Ones of his tribe lived in the mountains. Though they were not as far removed as those the Elves spoke of. Better that way, or so Rôg thought. That the Elders should be close to those who need their help.

He looked up from the ground as he walked along, noting in the distance that he could see the horses and the familiar figure of Athwen standing near them. Aiwendil and the girl had drawn farther ahead of him. ‘Wait up!’ he called out to them, picking up his pace.

‘Just woolgathering . . . my thoughts it seems travel faster than my feet.’ He caught up to the pair as they drew near to the thicket where Athwen waited.

‘Azhar,’ he said, coming alongside the girl. He’d not spoken to her since she left the underground pit where the slavers had held her and the boy. ‘I’m Rôg,’ he said. ‘I haven’t had a chance to tell you how glad I am we were able to find where you and Kwell were being held and get you out. With any luck and a little patience, we’ll be able to find the others of your folk and get you back to them.’

She looked carefully at him as he spoke, a puzzled look on her face....his voice, for some reason, sounding familiar to her....


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Tevildo's post - Azhar

When Azhar tried to remember where she had heard Rôg's voice, she could only dredge up stray images of flashing lights and roaring animals. Since these made no sense, she tried to push all thoughts aside except the need to place one foot in front of the other and push on as quickly as possible to the chosen meeting point. Struggling for a while to match Rôg's longer stride, she couldn't help but think how out of place the man seemed heading across the plains of Mordor. Rôg's face and demeanor were gentle. He did not wear a sword or long-bladed dagger around his waist. The elder who now led their group at least carried a hefty wooden staff that could double as a weapon. But for some reason that Azhar could only guess, Rôg preferred to do without. No freeman of Mordor, scoundrel or honest man, would set out on a long journey without picking out a sturdy sword and battle knife. Azhar remembered how the freed slaves, almost all the men and many of the women, had fought over the privilege of carrying a sword. Then how could she explain Rôg?

This was not the only question troubling Azhar. Despite the pounding of her head and the hot flush spreading across her cheeks, the girl was struggling to understand the actions of her rescuers. Why had Rôg and his other companions come all this way to risk their lives for the sake of slaves they didn't even know? There was nothing in Azhar's past to help her understand this. Over the years, she had tried her best to manipulate the guards, wrangling or negotiating small treats and special favors. The thought of doing something for someone purely out of a caring heart was foreign to her. Perhaps the closest she had come to it was her sympathy for Kwell in the pit.

The girl glanced over at Rôg, wondering if there would be time to ask her questions. But before Azhar could speak, she glimpsed a grassy knoll just ahead and a woman beckoning them all forward. Reluctantly, Azhar slipped away from Rôg. Her questions would need to wait. It was probably a good thing. The fever was dragging her down both in body and spirit. Unsteadily, she grabbed onto Aiwendil's arm for support, shivering slightly.

Last edited by piosenniel; 09-19-2006 at 01:14 AM.
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