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Old 10-24-2006, 12:46 PM   #239
Child of the 7th Age
Spirit of the Lonely Star
 
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The detailed discussion on the merits of trenches, torches, and other devices to trick the slavers had been going on for over an hour. Although Aiwendil had fought on both sides of the Sea in a variety of forms and shapes, he was no expert on battle tactics and had little to say. He found his attention wandering and was soon spending more time watching sand rats scurry between two piles of rocks than paying attention to what was being said.

Leaning over to tap Carl on the shoulder, the istar confided that he would be taking a walk to clear the cobwebs from his head and expected to return shortly. Hoping to latch onto a walking companion, Aiwendil had thought of approaching Rôg but then pulled back, once he noticed that his friend was still talking to the young woman who had been held prisoner in the slave camp. The wizard meandered out of camp in a northerly direction, not exactly sure of where he was going. He only knew he needed to get a good whiff of the earth and briefly leave behind all plans and preparations for battle. War and conflict ate away at the edges of his mind.

Aiwendil walked northward for almost half a mile. Glancing out over the horizon, the istar was again struck by the awesome beauty of the land. Close by he could see the sturdy scrub vegetation of the desert grasslands. In the distance, visible only to the eyes of an istar or elf, there were looming mountains ringed about a circle that protectively guarded a flat plain. This was the prize—the broad and hopefully fertile foothills of the Plateau of Gorgoroth--where they would be headed as soon as the slavers were defeated. The weather was unseasonably hot and dry for this time of year, even in Mordor. Despite the early hour, Aiwendil could almost feel the thick plumes of heat rising out of the ground as if throwing out a stiff challenge to him and the rest of their company. By late afternoon, it would be a scorcher.

A telltale “Kek, kek, kek” sounded above the istar’s head. Glancing upward, Aiwendil caught a glimpse of a white throat barred with black and slate grey wing feathers with black stripes. It was a large female falcon swooping down on outstretched wings. Throwing back the hood of his robe, Aiwendil straightened his hunched figure and stared quizzically up at the sky, making the appropriate response to the great bird to invite him to perch on his arm. Whether the two used sounds or thoughts or some other trick that men can only dream of, Aiwendil and the bird quickly exchanged news.

“You are out hunting? Have you had any luck?”

The creature did not seem startled by the presence of an old man who could speak to him. “Not today. No hunting today. Can you not see what is happening?” The falcon turned its neck and pointed a wing towards the northwest. Aiwendil followed the bird’s line of vision and was surprised to notice something he had not seen before: a tiny swirl of golden brown sand, barely noticeable to the naked eye, which was funneling about in circles.

The peregrine hastily explained, “The wind. The wind comes soon. We are hurrying to get ready. Too much heat and too little rain in these parts.”

Aiwendil’s eyes widened in appreciation as he realized what the bird was saying.
Almost immediately another idea took root in the wizard’s mind. Turning to the bird, he explained, “I have a great favor to ask of you and your kin. My friends and I are in sore straits. There are evil men who have no respect for the land or any creature that dwells on it. They come to attack us sometime later today. We have many women and children, elders as well, who can not stand up against such an assault. If we could but delay their coming so they fall prey to the great winds, it would be a wonderful help and would even the fighting odds between the two groups.”

The falcon blinked twice and sat silent for a minute while he considered the istar’s proposal. Finally, he spoke. “My kin know of you and the others who wear long robes. We have also seen the young man who accompanies you on the road, the one who sometimes chooses to fly or run free. On hot nights we tell tales about the battle at the Yule Log and the hot deserts to the south where the master Eagles came. I would like to help but I must warn the other birds of prey about the storm and protect my own family. Plus I dare not ask any of the other beasts to come. It is not my place. ”

“No, I would not expect that of you.” Aiwendil shook his head to acknowlege what the falcon was saying. “But if you could find a safe place for those of your kin who need shelter and support, perhaps you and a handful of the strongest could aid us for a bit. It is not necessary to kill the men, only to confuse and delay them. Our swords and the winds will do the rest.”

The bird nodded in agreement just as the man replied, “Go then, quickly. I and my friend will meet you here by mid-afternoon for we do not know what time the assault will come.”

With that, the great bird soared into the sky, veering northward, and Aiwendil returned south to camp.

Last edited by Child of the 7th Age; 10-27-2006 at 06:36 AM.
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