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Gondor - The Star sails south . . .
She looked as if she had seen better years. The breezes that blew along the coast seemed to strain her much patched sails to the limit. And the gulls that perched on the masthead above the crow’s nest seemed nervous . . . wary that the much spliced and mended-looking masts might snap in a stiff wind. In previous voyages, a sun such as was shining this day would have glinted wildly off the highly polished brass of the railings and other metal fittings. But now the tarnished patina seemed grim and dull, defying any attempts of the light to make it glimmer.
It was an altogether weatherworn ship that made its slow way out of the Great River’s bay and turned south, to hug the coastline like a life line. The waves broke against her motleyed hull, worrying away the edges of the multicolored patches of paint that looked to have been laid down one over another through the years. She flew a ragged banner from her topmast . . . the picture of some indiscriminate bird in faded black and silver, now turned grey with time. And scrawled along her bow on either side in readable, if ragged script, was her name, The Sandpiper.
~*~
The Captain of this decrepit looking barque stood on the helm deck with her First Mate. The Helmsman had set the vessel’s southward course, as Pio and Hamar discussed the load of crated cheap tin ware stacked in the hold. ‘You are certain the first three layers of pallets are the tin, Hamar?’ she asked, watching him nod back in assurance. ‘Yes, Captain, and beneath, in identical crates are the other items you requested.’ A tight smile creased her face barely at his assurance. ‘In four days then, we should make the cove where Faragaer and The Scuppered Gull will await us. And hopefully they will have made contact with traders who might give us some direction to where The Star’s Captain and First Mate are held or holed up.’ It was a slender hope, the both of them knew, but it was hope nonetheless.
The crew of Tavar’s ship, The Windrunner manned the ship with accustomed skill, and here and there among them were sailors from the King’s own fleet at his insistence. As was Hamar, who captained one of Elessar’s military vessels. Not smartly turned out as they might have been on their own ships, they were dressed in clean if somewhat worn clothes; their faces were rugged with several days of unshaven beard. And the Captain herself looked much like them, save for the red bandana that held her short cropped curls safe from tangling in the breezes. The only one of the crew that stood out from the others was Baran; his height and bulk impossible to disguise. In the end it was agreed he would front himself as a navvy from the far northern coastlines, a descendant of the fabled Ice Giants of the Great Ice Bay. Wanting to see the southern lands, such as Gondor and what lay beyond.
From her vantage point, Pio could see the Beorning as he swabbed the decks below with others of the crew. He glanced up at her briefly, his brows raised at her scrutiny. She looked down at him and smiled, the image of the mop handle engulfed in his huge hands bringing a moment of lightness to her day. With a wink she shouted down to him. ‘Excellent job, sailor! As you were, then . . . Carry on!’
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