Here There Be Dragons - RPG

[piosenniel]

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!’

[Nerindel]

Sorona

Sorona passed silently over the eagle encampment, clan markings on various tents and aged faces among the gathering crowd stood out in her mind; she could feel the uneasiness of their arrival, like a thick fog it blanketing the camp spreading from tent to tent. Rama had warned them that their arrival would not be wholly welcomed but still Sorona was surprised by their trepidation and grew a little apprehensive about revealing herself. She climbed higher into the sky her sharp eyes following Rama as she left her two companions and walked further into the camp.

For the moment, the presence of the two northern strangers occupied the clan’s attentions and they did not yet seem aware of her presence, her new height preventing her shadow from passing over the already unsettled camp. She saw a marked tension in her young Maenwaith friend as she walked with urgency to the centre of the camp. Below she could just make out charred remains of a fire at the camps heart. What has happened here she wondered as Rama stopped to examine the blackened ashes? Immediately the young Maenwaith spun about and determinedly searched for something, stopping several grey haired clansmen, her lips moved hurriedly and a concerned frown deepening on her honeyed brow. The woman’s shoulders slumped in defeated as the elders only shook their heads sympathetically. Sorona circled again to follow Rama back towards the tent where she had left her two companions, her wings now grew heavy and she knew she would soon have to rest, but the camp held no hiding place for a bird of her size, the minute she landed she would be seen and then the questions would begin.

She tried to pull back the memory of the dark haired young woman, who once walked the sands happy and carefree, hoping that she could take its form and at least join the others inside the tent. But nothing happened she was still an eagle and her wings ached from the exertion of maintaining her height, she had no choice she would have to land. Silently she glided to the ground a short distance from the tent her companions shared, for a revealed moment she believed she had managed to land unnoticed, she looked about trying to gain her bearings from the ground, picking out her companions tent ahead she nodded her feathery head and started forwards. A threatening growl stopped her dead in her tracks and she swallowed hard ,something was behind her; slowly she turned to see the dark outline of a large dog, it’s sharp teeth bared in warning. She froze with fear, believing that if she moved so much as an inch the vicious looking creature would have her.

“Who are you?” the dog growled in the same desert dialect that Rama used, “I do not recognise your markings!” he added taking a step forwards, eyeing her suspiciously. Remembering Rama’s warnings, she struggled in her head to find the words to voice an understandable reply to the Maenwaith’s demand.

“Friend, I am a friend,” she whispered hoarsely, fear entering her voice.

“I travel with Rama and her Northern companions,” she continued shakily.

“Please!” she pleaded,

“Asked her if you do not believe me, my name is Sorona, and I come only to speak with your leader and the elders of your clan.” She remained frozen in place her gold-flecked eyes fearfully holding the contemplative gaze of the dog, waiting for it to decide if she was to be believed or not.

[Mithadan]

Mithadan thanked a young shapechanger who had brought them a skin of water and some cushions so that he and Airefalas could rest from their journey. He smiled, but watched as the young man took his place just outside the flap of the tent where he stood alongside another. Both wore short swords at their sides. Mithadan also took note that they had been placed in a tent located in the center of the encampment, so that, even if he and his first mate could evade the two guards outside the tent, they would be seen and apprehended if they sought to leave the camp.

"Weren't we just in this situation?" Mithadan asked Airefalas with a wry grin.

"A cage is a cage, whatever its name may be," responded Airefalas with a scowl. "At least our rooms at the palace were free of sand and had chairs and beds."

"Nonetheless," continued Mithadan. "I would rather be here than there right now."

"Perhaps," grumbled Airefalas. "But on the whole, I would rather be in Gondor. It is hellishly hot here."

Mithadan nodded, then approached the tent flap. A cord hung from its edge, and a peg hung from the fabric of the tent just to the side of the portal. He swung the flap open and quickly twisted the cord around the peg so that the flap remained open. The guards spun around and frowned, their hands straying to the hilts of their swords. Mithadan held up his hands, palms outwards, then fanned his face. "Hot," he said. The guards nodded, but stayed a bit closer to the tent.

"Lovely," said Airefalas. "Nothing like a hot breeze to cool a tent."

Mithadan did not answer. He was staring at a man who was passing by. An old man with a long beard and dirty robes. He had seen this man before. Several years had passed and they had only met briefly in the vale of the Anduin not far from Nindalf, the fens below Rauros... Several years and three thousand as well. He struggled to recall a name to match the aged face for a moment, then burst through the opening in the tent, to the surprise of the guards, and cried out: "Radagast!"

[piosenniel]

Rôg

Rôg stepped away from his tent and made for the center of the camp. His escort followed along at a discrete distance occasionally nodding with his head to give direction when Rôg looked back for confirmation. Round one of the middle tents, a number of people were gathered, including two men who stood guard without. ‘Who is in there?’ Rôg asked, motioning his escort to come near. Unlike the men who stood on alert outside the tent, Rôg’s escort bore no weapon.

‘Strangers, like you,’ the man said, standing quite near, his eyes narrowed at the tent. ‘But unlike you,’ he said with a half smile, ‘they may be dangerous.’ Rôg laughed at the man’s assessment of him, and was about to say something in return, when he spied Aiwendil coming toward him. Rôg raised his hand, catching the old man’s attention, and moved forward to meet him. His step faltered for a moment, the greeting dying on his lips, as a man burst from the guarded tent. The guards drew their swords, surprised at the suddenness of the movement. And Rôg heard the man yell out, ‘Radagast!’ as he moved toward the old man.

With a speed that surprised his escort, Rôg ran to stand between Aiwendil and the man, barring the way as he stuck out his arm to fend off the stranger. ‘You know this man, Aiwendil?’ he asked, not taking his eyes off Mithadan.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Surinen

Surinen arrived at his Uncle Fador’s tent bearing freshly made bread the baker had immediately sent in care of his son when he first heard that a Gondorian sea captain and his first mate where in the midst of the eagle encampment, Indeed in the tent of his late wife's cousin. And though the old man had neither seen a ship nor set foot in the surf, he had heard of Gondor and seen how, along with the ascendance of this northern King the Haradrim raids had grown infrequent, the Eagles finding a short respite before their troubles began anew. And so lecturing his son on the importance of hospitality and caution, and the advantages of good first impressions, he had carefully wrapped the food, handing Surinen the stack of hot flat bread to be taken quickly before it grew cold, also giving him a bowl containing a sweet custard of streamed new milk, as a treat for the new comers. Then shooing the wiry outrider off with a wave of his hands, he had settled down beside the remains of his fire to enjoy peace as curiosity kept the women from gossiping around the bakers tent, as was usual this time of day.

But Surinen, his stomach pulling at itself at the tempting smell that emanated from this packet, rushed to the center of the camp, his fingers burning from the hot oil that soaked through the cloth as he made his way through the curious children and elders gathering about Fador’s tent. Having just returned from helping transport much needed water into the camp, he had not yet eaten and just as he had hoped to sit in the shade of his father’s tent and eat his meager portion, Dinsûl had sent him on this awkward errand. But he knew his father to be right in doing this, and despite his protests, Surinen was quietly pleased with Dinsûl’s kind ways, though not so sure about the beneficiaries of his good will. Still he wondered what could possess Ráma to bring such people here, and he hoped that she might guide them away again before the camp was moved. If she only knew of the troubles the last few days had brought upon her people, surely she would never have led the strangers here with the seriousness of her mother’s illness.

More than just hungry as he approached his cousin sitting outside her father’s tent, Surinen was feeling ill tempered and wished to find Narayad. For after the missing incense pot was found to have fallen out of his pack, indeed, it having been tampered with as well, his fellow outrider had been quickly replaced in his duties, and now wandered though camp awaiting the decision of the elders on what was to be done with him. For though he was still treated kindly, Narayad had mentioned he could feel their eyes upon him. And even Latah had been gently informed that now Ayar was no longer in her own tent, she would not be needed to assist the leader until such time when a new tent could be raised for her. These things Narayad, in his frustration had confided to Surinen, brooding in his inactivity. And Surinen turned to pondering how he might be able to help his friend.

As he walked past the guards posted outside the door, Latah smiled at at her cousin warmly from her position outside the tent and opened a beaten brass container for him to place the bread in before setting it on the ground with top ajar, taking the bowl also. “Thank you cousin,” she said, lifting the cloth from over top of the bowl. “What is this? You would honor our guests with first milk?”

“A goat gave birth today, and Dinsûl would have me bring it to them. But where Ráma, that I may welcome her home?” Surinen asked.

“She left in a great hurry,” Latah said. “Even I have not even been able to greet her.”

“And Narayad?”

Latah’s smile faded. “I do not know where he is, and he is growing more troubled each day. Suri, I am afraid it is too much for him to bear, waiting for this judgment upon him. The elders and Ayar have all had too much to occupy their thoughts”, she said nodding over her shoulder at the elders and the tent behind her. "Yet we are to be patient, and trust their wisdom.”

The sorrow in her voice drove home to his heart, so that feeling uncomfortable he wished to change the subject. “Then since your husband is not here, perhaps there is food to spare for a poor relative,” he said hopefully. And seeing that she hesitated, explaining that she had not expected so much company, he continued in a loud whisper, “Surely you are not planning to poison these strangers, cousin!” To which Latah, pulling the cloth from off her shoulder beat him with it before using it to open the lid of her steaming vessel.

“It is not done yet cousin,” she said with the most sinister look she could muster. “But when the poison has reached it’s fullness, be sure I will give you the first bowl!”

Surinen laughed to see her spirit. "And I will finish every drop, dear cousin." Then walking further around the tent he quite comfortably assumed the shape of a dog, more or less ignoring the upheaval about him. There would plenty of people about to keep a look out for mischief.

Digging a cool niche in the ground before he circled down to wait for either his food or his friend to arrive, he rested his chin on the ground watching his kinsmen as they came and went, having half a mind to eavesdrop on the muffled conversation he heard inside the tent. But as he tried to distinguish among the voices, a shadow passed across his muzzle.

Lifting his gaze to the sky, he saw a large eagle circling overhead, as if something in the camp was of interest to it. In panic he thought of young Miri, and when the bird dropped swiftly behind Fador’s tent, Surinen sprung to his feet slipping behind it. Greatly relieved to find that the eagle had not sighted prey, but stood looking briefly disoriented in the maze of tents, the dog noted the intruder’s unfamiliar scent, and wondered if it was truly a bird at all or perhaps Rôg, but there was no sign of his escort. And to Surinen's alarm the bird started moving toward Fador’s tent.

With a deep growl growing in the back of his throat, Surinen’s hackles rose. “Who are you?” he questioned stepping forward slowly with his lips curled tightly back. “I do not recognize your markings.”

The creature froze, and Surinen felt thankful that he might not have to feel the clutch of those cruel talons. “Friend, I am a friend. I travel with Ráma and her Northern companions,” the bird finally spoke with a wavering voice. Spoke in Surinen’s own tongue, declaring her name to be Sorona, and her desire to speak with the leader and the clan’s elders.

What has Ráma done! Surinen thought. And who else will show up on our doorstep!

Suddenly he heard someone exclaim “Radagast” from the other side of the tent followed quickly by the sound of unsheathing swords, and saw out of the corner of his eye Rôg running toward the tent followed closely by his escort. Worried for Latah’s safety and not wishing to lose track of this newest discovery, Surinen began to bark for all he was worth. Is seemed the most natural thing to do at the time, but Sorona jumped back several steps flapping her wings, and in his confusion the sudden urge to catch this creature overpowered Surinen’s good sense. Running at her, the mottled dog gently but firmly grabbed her leg in his mouth and lay down with closed eyes, awaiting the piecing blow from her free leg, but determined to keep her from flying away, muttering from his full mouth, “I'm sorry, but don’t go. Not yet, don’t leave,” as he thought painfully about his father’s lecture on first impressions.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil glanced briefly at the stranger and then over at Rôg with a slight shrug of his shoulders, as if to indicate he had no idea who this fellow was but he seemed perfectly harmless. He was still remembering his recent conversation with Ayar and feeling correspondingly peevish. His first instinct was to pretend he hadn't heard anything from the stranger and continue trudging on. The woman was clearly failing; only her unwavering will had kept her alive this long. Once Ráma returned and Ayar had a chance to speak with her daughter, she would surely depart Arda. And, to be truthful, he would miss her.

Pulling back from these gloomy thoughts, he focused on the problem at hand by looking the stranger up and down, but still could not remember who he was. It had been some time since anyone had addressed him as "Radagast". After the war had ended and Olorin had given him the grim news that he would not be returning on Cirdan's ship, he had determined never to use that name again. Stubbornly clinging to whatever cloudy vestiges of the West he could dredge up from the back of his mind, he had sternly pronounced that his name was, and had always been Aiwendil, and none should call him otherwise.

"Perhaps you are mistaken, friend, for I have no memory of you, although once I did go by the name of Radagast. But it has been countless years since I journeyed through the vale of Anduin...... More years than you have walked on this earth, I believe."

The old man hobbled over to Rôg, leaning against his comrade's shoulder as the two turned about and began trekking towards the tent. But before Aiwendil had gone more than half a dozen paces, he suddenly halted and stared back at the stranger, " I do remember you. How could I forget? You and the Star....and your wife Piosenniel. In fact, I saw your wife in Minas Tirith just before I left the city. She mentioned that the Star had sailed to Umbar. But I have not seen you in endless years. And to be truthful, seeing you here is not exactly what I would deem a good omen."

The istar turned towards Rôg with only the slightest hint of a smile, "This gentleman and his wife are people of honor, but wherever they go, trouble follows. Once I was called down to the Anduin where they had sailed in with several shiploads of friends, whom I was persuaded into helping. For almost fifty years, I had a running argument with one of these, a particularly clever and persistent woman named Cami who was continually beseeching me for one thing or another in her efforts to provide for her people. Since her kin made their home along the western borders of what was later called Mirkwood, it was difficult to avoid them."

In truth, these early days in Middle-earth and the Hobbits who had lived there were among Aiwendil's best memories. But once Cami had moved on, he had lost all touch with her people, and had not spoken with any of them in the succeeding years, despite the role they had later played in the wars.

"I shall be all right, Rôg," he reassured his friend. "Give me just a moment to catch up on some old news, and I'll be along."

Once Rôg had retreated, he approached the stranger and spoke, "Mithadan? That is your name? How do you come to be in the middle of this desert? Your wife mentioned you had travelled to Umbar to represent Gondor's trading interests. But Umbar is a long way from the Eagle encampment."

"And may I offer a little advice? For the sake of your lovely wife, you may wish to consider returning to the Star and sailing homeward. The head of the Eagle clan lies close to death. There are persistent rumors throughout the camp that her injury was no accident but the result of foul play, a poison somehow injected into her body. As soon as the Elders discover who is to blame, they will demand that someone pay." He sighed and repeated the exact words that Ayar had spoken to him to emphasize how bady Ráma would need his help. "I fear that you and your friend have come upon a boiling cauldron that is about to explode."

[Mithadan]

With an open palm, Mithadan gently moved the sword of his young guard away from his ribs, where it had sliced a neat line across his shirt. With a nod to the other guard who stood poised to put his blade in use, Mithadan took a half step back, even as he digested the words of the Istar. He took note of the weariness that caused Radagast's face to be even more drawn than he remembered it, then responded to the warning.

"I beg your pardon...Aiwendil," he began. "But I fear that as regards my friend and myself the cauldron has already boiled over. As for trouble following me, this time it appears that I have well nigh tripped over it. The Lonely Star is long gone now and, with any luck, though I've had little enough recently, she is now nearing Minas Anor. It seems that we have fallen into a web of intrigue, though we have, for now, avoided the spider."

He quickly told the tale of how he and Airefalas had come to Umbar, the dissemblings of Falasmir, his meetings with Rama and their escape from the burning city. However, he excluded mention of Korpulfr and Tinar, judging that, from Rama's discussion with Sorona, his questions regarding these people should wait for another time. Even as he spoke, several of the Shapeshifters gathered round to see what the trouble was.

"You burned Falasmir's corsairs?" exclaimed one of the guards, with a laugh. Several of the onlookers smiled and clapped at this news. Airefalas, noting that the guards had lowered their weapons, emerged from the tent as well. "Why is it that the news of our little bonfire always seems to cause such happiness?" he asked with a wry grin. Then he gestured to the old man. "Friend of yours, Mithadan?"

"I've not seen him in an age and more," Mithadan answered with a chuckle. "But yes. This is...Aiwendil. You recall Mithrandir, Airefalas? Aiwendil is..."

"Very weary," interjected Radagast loudly. "And perhaps we should speak further later...in private. It seems that you and your friend are not going anywhere in the near future. Perhaps you are meant to be here. I do not know. But I must rest now. We will speak later, over dinner perhaps?" With that, Radagast, or Aiwendil as he was now known, turned and walked quickly away...