[Elora]

Barrold Ferney

“I’ll have no more trouble from you tonight, Barrold Ferney!”

Barrold waved off Butterbur and his stern warning with an obscene gesture, stumbling for the door before he was tossed out of it. He pushed out into the cooler air of night muttering about stale beer and stupid innkeepers who didn’t know any better than to cross the paths of the likes of him. The streets of Bree were quiet and dark. A group of boys ran by, steering a wide berth around Barrold. They were already late home. No sense incurring more trouble by inadvertently jostling the town miscreant.

Barrold’s conversation with himself shifted to the matter of another who had crossed him. She had kept him dangling in Bree upon the promise of more work for some years now. More to the point, she had promised to return two nights ago. Barrold didn’t wait on noone, didn't take anyone's orders, or so he told himself.

Still, it was only around 10pm and there he was weaving his way home far earlier than his habitual time of vacating the inn, assuming he had not been tossed out prior to 2am or so. If his feet picked up speed as he gauged how late it had gotten, for fear of her arriving and finding him out drinking again, Barrold ignored it.

“Maybe thish time I’ll sell ‘er to 'em Rangersh,” he slurred as he lurched through the dilapidated door of the ruin he had claimed as his very own palace. It was a farm house, the occupants long since dispatched to early graves towards the end of the War of the Ring. Barrold had told the people who asked after the original inhabitants that they had left seeking peace and safety in some distant place. Since that time, he had taken up residence and it was a house of ill-repute. If a horse was stolen, the Shiriffs came looking for it in his ramshackle, lopsided shed. If someone had their house burgled, they searched Barrold’s appropriated house for the missing goods. If someone went missing, they thought about whether Barrold had been observed doing any midnight gardening of late. One glance at the tangled overrun gardens suggested that he was about to be planting geraniums by moonlight.

For all that, Barrold tumbled through his doorway and into the dark grimy kitchen blithely. On account of his latest client, Barrold had not been stealing horses, household goods nor planting things that had had the life snuffed out of them by moonlight for far too long. He’d been good, for Barrold Ferney that is to say. In his own castle, Barrold was king. He had nothing to fear. Noone had been sniffing around him and noone would be waiting for him with tricky questions that required careful dodging and side stepping. He was the master of this domain.

The kitchen was without light. The windows were too dirty for starlight or moonlight to make any purchase against the murk. When he found that his kitchen answered his statement of mostly false bravado, Barrold nearly fell backwards, weaving in the dark with his arms windmilling in a search for balance. He found it with a sudden thump as his rump located the grimy kitchen floor.

“You had best hope the Rangersh,” the kitchen cooly mocked, “Have improved in their craft then. For otherwise, I would return find you Barrold Ferney.” Barrold, who had a curse shaken from him as he took an impromptu seat on the floor, sullenly scowled about at the dark kitchen.

“They’re here, y’know,” he said with a surly voice that was sour with too much ale. “I do know, and so am I. Ware, mortal, so that you remain so also, upon my departure.” Barrold knew the threat in the velvety voice was not idle. He’d seen but a glimpse of what could be unleashed by the owner of the voice. His belligerence remained but he decided to give over on the current argument and switch to something where his ground was firmer, and not quite so perilous.

“You’re late,” he said to Naiore Dannan. Drunk as he was, Barrold was not so far gone as to be incapable of recognising the voice of the Ravennor of Mordor.

Naiore

In thinking that pursuing any argument with Naiore Dannan, Barrold revealed his foolish and reckless nature. The day had been long and tiresome, Vanwe becoming more and more incapable of supporting her weight as the elixir tooks its terrible toll on her strength. For the moment, though, Naiore brushed it aside. Fool that he was, Barrold Ferney had his uses yet and so Naiore indulged the man.

“The Rangers,” she repeated with chagrin, hoisting the unresisting weight Vanwe’s limp form. “They’ve tracked me all through the Wilds.” Barrold chuckled at her displeasure. “I wonder how amusing it will be when they come acalling upon you,” she snapped. Barrold’s laughter dried up. Naiore could make out the outline of the man as he sat on the floor. “I thought I told you to remain out of sight.”

“I got thirsty,” Barrold replied. “A man’s gotta drink.” Naiore left it at that outwardly. Not if he is dead, she thought as she adjusted Vanwe’s weight again. Barrold’s eyes had been slowly adjusting to the dark for some time now, and he was able to make out where she stood. With the small comfort of that knowledge, that the Ravennor was not a sorceress who had mastered the art of invisibility, he clambered to his feet.

“Who’s that,” he asked suspiciously, peering at Vanwe now that his sight was improving.

“The Queen of the Reunited Kingdom,” Naiore replied impatiently. “She needs to be kept securely until I leave.” Barrold peered closer still, unsure of whether it really was who Naiore had said it was. He knew enough to know that Naiore nurtured a contempt for all associated with the Heirs of Elendil and that she was capable of the most astounding acts. It was not impossible that Arwen Evenstar was indeed propped by her.

"What's wrong with 'er," he asked. Arwen's head lolled on and angle and it looked as though she was dead. Naiore couldn't possibly pay well enough for him to harbour the murderer of the Queen as well as her lifeless corpse. Alarm flared within him that Naiore found amusing and tiresome as well. The man was a fool, a dangerous fool.

Rather than explain how the exlir robbed strength to give fleeting endurance and compliance to Barrold, Naiore dismissed his question with the barest of answers. "She's tired is all. I think you should be able to manage her like this."

Barrold sidled closer, Naiore sensing easily the spark of prideful anger.

"i'll manage 'er alright," he boasted. "I'll watch 'er for ya." He tucked his thumbs behind his belt and puffed out his chest. Before he could name an additional fee for the service for his close attentions to her daughter, Naiore intervened. She had other ideas for Vanwe just yet before she resorted to that.

“I have other things for you, Ferney. For now, find a room for her and make sure she’ll stay in it.” With that, Naiore passed her daughter to the man and let him make his way up the creaking stairs. “Never met no queen before,” Barrold said with Vanwe’s form draped over his shoulder.

In the kitchen, Naiore suppressed a shudder of revulsion for the filthy state of Barrold’s house. She unslung her pack but not her weapons, dusted off a seat, and folded her weary frame into it to await Barrold’s return. Her head bowed, Naiore’s senses were far from idle. They were trained on Barrold, who was a tinder box mix of dangerous, malleable instincts. Violence, hatred, greed and lust blended together in this man.

When the time came, Naiore would enjoy pulling him apart piece by piece, sundering his illusions of control so that he finally understood how pitifully small he really was in comparison to the true masters of darkness. For now, though, she had to watch him carefully. One false step and he could bring it all unstuck. Barrold was a liability that Naiore would deal with once she had wrung all use from him.

That was why she trained her senses over him as he secured her senseless daughter, another liability that she would see to when the moment came. She needed both Vanwe and Barrold intact for the time being. Satisfied that Barrold would not become innovative with his instructions, Naiore turned her mind to other matters.

She needed to dispose of the gelding, acquire new mounts. Vanwe would need time to recover, and she would use that to further gull the foolish child. She needed supplies in order to push into the Shire and information. Barrold could be used for all that. He knew who to contact for what supplies, horses. foodstuffs and other more exotic things. Also, he made it his business to know who was sniffing about after whom.

Then there was the matter of finalising her strategy for the Shire. Vanwe could make all the difference in penetrating that defensive ring. But once Naiore was in, she needed to be able to act swiftly. Perhaps Barrold could aid her there... he would not be adverse to some bully and terror campaigns. Saruman had found him useful in the past for that. Perhaps Barrold could find her more men too...

She needed Barrold more than she cared to admit. But how to win his loyalty beyond gold. What were his other vices. In that dark kitchen, Naiore smiled, becoming coldly beautiful as only a Noldorin noblewoman could. She would offer him Vanwe. Women were Barrold's weakness, his demon other than greed. Never mind both would be dead before she had to deliver on what she promised either one: Barrold his desires and Vanwe the love of a mother.

That made it all the sweeter. Naiore's hands had wandered to the silken cord she carried with her always, her only companion through the long years aside from her need for that single answer. The garrotte looped and sinuously snaked between her hands as she waited for Barrold to finish his task and return for further instructions.

Again her senses wandered over the man's twisted emotional presence. Yes, Vanwe and more gold would suit Barrold nicely enough indeed.