Here There Be Dragons - RPG

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Wyrma sat silently for a moment, her eyes looking past Wasim as she pondered his fate. Then her lips turned upwards in a thin, cruel smile. Yes, she thought, that will serve very well. It is a shame that I will have to look for new tools, but it will not be difficult to find better ones than these were.

Wasim’s head jerked up to look at her as she spoke in her most commanding tone. “You seem to have been more successful as a bird than in human shape. At least you were able to escape from the enemies that way, since you could not deal them a blow. Therefore you shall have opportunity to keep the shape that suits you best. Transform back to it!”

Puzzled by her command, he shivered slightly, then concentrated to obey her. She picked up the trembling little crow in her hands, almost crushing it with the pressure of her controlled anger. A few energetic steps brought her to the corner of the room, where an empty birdcage stood, forlorn and unused since she had banned the annoyingly cheerful singer from her presence. She thrust Wasim into the gilded metal cage and closed the latch before calling out imperiously, “Guards!”

The two burly men burst into the room, weapons lifted to ward off the presumed danger. Their eyes darted back and forth as they came to a standstill before Wyrma, awaiting her command. “Here is your prisoner!” she said, secretly amused at their obvious confusion. “Take him hence and place him in a small iron cage that cannot be opened by anyone.”

My family! Wasim attempted to call out, but all that the Umbarian guards heard was a raucous “Caw!” Wyrma understood him, and answered indirectly, “Ah yes – the cage with the bird will be sent to his family very soon. I am sure they will be happy to have him back alive.”

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

Later that day, she stood before Falasmir, unmoved outwardly, but very uncomfortable inside, a feeling she did not relish. He had taken out his frustration over the state of his ships and port in a tirade on the incompetence of shape-changers to accomplish tasks, and though she had listened with seeming patience, she was seething with the combined wrath over his impertinence and Wasim’s failure. Finally she could contain herself no longer.

“Not my people alone have failed – you forget the destruction of your ships, Falasmir! Gondor has proven harder to wound than you thought in your pride! You should clean the dung out of your own stables before searching for it in mine.”

Falasmir arose from his throne, his face livid with rage. “A fine ally you have proven to be!” he shouted. “You want my help without giving yours in return. You offer counsel and give criticism instead. You have not fulfilled your part of the contract. Leave my city before I have you kicked out of it like a mongrel dog!”

Wyrma’s voice was icy as she answered. “I will gladly forsake you so that you may see to the repair of your harbour and the building of new ships. What does a weak Umbar have to offer my people?” With those words, she turned and swept out of the room, her head held high.

In her room, she directed Elsta to pack her belongings immediately. The maid moved quickly and silently, and before long Wyrma’s clothing and personal things were stowed away in baskets and chests. In the meantime the Maenwaith leader had gathered the papers that her desk held, wrapping them securely and placing them in a leather bag that she carried herself. They were interrupted by a knock on the door.

Wyrma was nearby and opened it slightly to see who craved entrance. When she saw Galandor, she quickly let him in, glancing down the hallway behind him to be sure that no one was watching. “Was I convincing enough?” she asked, her eyebrows raised questioningly.

“Quite!” he answered with a smile. “News of your leaving will spread throughout the city within the hour, I am sure. No one will suspect that you still have contact with anyone here. I wish I could go with you, but I will have opportunity to further our plans here more than ever now.”

“Send me a messenger to let me know how it goes,” she murmured. “Farewell for a time!” As soon as the side door closed behind him, Elsta opened the other. One of their men had brought a cart for the luggage, and they made their way through the corridors rapidly. No guards impeded their progress, but Wyrma breathed a sigh of relief when they had left the city gates behind them. She was on her way home.

[piosenniel]

Chance meeting in Harondor . . . near the mouth of the River Harnen

Time . . . twenty five years ago . . . a fair night, much like tonight . . . a new acquaintance . . .

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‘Name could have been more apt, don’t you think? Flower of the Winds . . . . Hmmph!’

The comment came in a laughing voice from behind her. A close voice, the footsteps light. Pio half turned to see the approaching stranger, her hand coming to rest lightly on the knife in her belt.

It was a small woman, who now stood stock still as the Elf regarded her. Short in stature; she would barely come to Pio’s shoulder standing tall in her boots. Shoulder length black hair, unevenly cut strayed across her jaw line on the left, where the wind riffled the strands. A shock of pure white hair broke the dark field, startling the Elf into a smile as she followed the line of it. The woman’s hands were on her hips, her gaze on the sign swinging lazily by the one rusted chain left to it.

Half-broken, the sign featured the detailed engraving of a Wind Rose, ‘Flower of the Winds’, an old name for a ship’s compass. The colors of it, seen only in bits and pieces, had once been quite brilliant; the sort of spectrum whereby mariners kept to a true course. But the years had gouged most of them from their grooves leaving only dull hints of former glory and the only course left now ended at a ramshackle building with a mug in one’s hand.

The Inn itself stood a number of paces down a dusty track. Not far from the small harbor, the stench of the mudflats that rose when the tide was low engulfed the battered, grey wood building, making the only patrons brave enough to frequent the place the noisy gulls in search of handouts from the cook and, of course, those familiar with the strong spirits brewed by the Innkeeper and his sons. Dried grapes and figs, a pinch of dried hot peppers, mixed with the clear water from the well, and covered with fine date sugar brewed and simmered in their goatskin bladders until declared ‘Right enough to raze a sailor’s throat!’ as it coursed its fiery way to the brave drinker’s belly. And to be honest, the fumes of the fermenting ‘wine’ competed well against the drying mudflats . . .

‘It is a rather putrid posy, is it not’ answered Pio, grinning as she relaxed her guard. ‘But I was given to understand the nectar makes up for the fetid blossom.’

You’ve heard true, then’ said the woman stepping closer, one hand brushing the stray hairs from her face and tucking them behind her ear. She took a close look at the Elf’s face, furrowing her brow as the half-moon’s light picked out her features. ‘What in blazes is one of you doing here?’

Pio declined to answer the woman’s cheeky question. Her business, Elf or no, was her own that night as always. Instead she took another tack, and nodding toward the ‘Flower’, asked if she might buy her new acquaintance a round or two. ‘My name is Piosenniel. ‘Or Pio,’ she said smiling, ‘once you’ve had a drink or two under your belt and your tongue trips over the longer version.’

‘Bird’s mine,’ the other woman offered in return. ‘Birdland, as my Mother named me. And Birdie to some . . .’ There was a frown, as if some other, more unkind names had come to the fore as she spoke. The woman’s hands fluttered as she talked, and now she seemed to push the bothersome thoughts away, grinning wryly as she did so. With a quick movement she readjusted the strap of her small leather pack, so that it hung comfortably from one shoulder.

‘Bird it is, then!’ Pio declared. And how she does remind me of one . . . her bright black eyes . . . the smallness of her . . . the quick, rhythmic movements of her hands as she speaks – as if they were wings and she about to take flight . . .

Pio waited for the woman to draw alongside her then began walking toward the Inn’s front door. But Bird drew her off the path, motioning her toward one of the side windows. ‘Always best to see who’s tipping a cup in the old Flower, if you know what I mean.’

Unsure, Pio followed along behind Bird, waiting for her to peruse what patrons had found their way to the Inn this night. Whoever they were, Bird found the crowd pleasing. Her dark eyes had a certain anticipatory gleam to them as she turned away from the window, and she rubbed the palms of her hands together, though the night was quite warm. Pio was quiet as she walked beside Bird, wondering what sort of companion she had fallen in with as the woman murmured softly to herself, the words bearing an undercurrent of confident glee.

‘Come to Birdie, my little pigeons . . .’

The Innkeeper nodded at them as they entered, and coming near to Bird, spoke low. Pio stepped away to find a table, but couldn’t help but hear the warning to ‘keep it on the up and up’ from the man. Bird only nodded, smiling, and said, ‘Of course!’ Her eyes slid about the room slyly taking the lot in.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was soon evident what Bird had in mind for the customers in the common room. She sized up those who were ripe for the plucking, and stood them to a glass of spirits. Clearing a spot on the table before her, Bird drew a soft leather pouch from the waistband of her breeches and fished out three walnut shell halves, well polished from all their handling, and a perfectly round, dried pea-bean, bright blue in color. She laid them aside, and with a fumbling hand took off the yellow velvet scarf tied round her slender waist, smoothing it out on the table’s top. And all the time, she kept up a running patter for those whose attention now focused on her, drawing them in with her smiles and assuring words.

‘An easy bet,’ she nodded, putting a small stack of copper coins to one side of the velvet field. ‘Especially for such hawk-eyed men as yourselves,’ she went on, winking as she said it to confirm her high opinion of them. They laughed at her clumsy antics, her fumbling fingers and the snort of disgust she made as she dropped one of the shells on the floor. ‘Easy pickings this one!’ one mumbled to his companion, giving her a knowing leer as she stood back up again. She colored, shrugging her shoulders at his assessment of her. ‘Just give me a small chance, won’t you. A girl’s got to make her money for drinks and eats somehow, now doesn’t she?’

‘And this one’s not the sort can rely on her face to get her by can she mates?’ The leering fellow nudged those near him who in turn laughed at his crude jest.

Pio had drawn her chair a little ways away, and sat watching Bird work the little group. The small woman gave only the appearance of ineptness, or so it seemed to the Elf as she followed her movements. She’d bought another round of drinks for ‘her friends’ by now and had them off their guard with her clumsy movements and apparent newness to the game. Still, Pio noted the men were all armed, stout sticks mostly and the occasional knife in the waistband. She wondered if Bird had taken this into account; smiling as she saw how the woman had positioned herself across the table from the soon to be players. And with a direct path to the door! An admirable tactician, Pio thought, nodding her head, as the woman went up in her estimation. The Elf kept her eyes on the small ensemble, wondering how many times Bird had done this before.

Bird set the three shells in a row on the velvet, open side up to show they were empty and contained nothing tricksy. The blue colored pea sat like a jewel against the yellow background. ‘See! I just put it here under this shell and move the shells about. And all you have to do is pick the shell the pea is under. Right choice – and you’ve won the bet.’



She nodded at a bleary eyed fellow to her left across the table and grinned at him. ‘You’ve an eye for this; I can tell. I see your keen eye following the shell. Show your mates you know which one it is.’ Bird’s movements had been slow and the man picked out the shell easily. Eager to try his hand again, he placed a small wager, one copper, and bade her go again.

He won the next two bets; then another of his companions joined in and won the next. Bird’s little stack of coins slowly dwindled as eager players joined in. Over the next few shufflings of shells, the luck turned a little, bringing the tide of winning back just a bit to Bird’s side of the table.

Luck smiled one way and then the other it seemed over the course of four or five more rounds of drink. Players came and went; some grumbling at their losses, others happy with a copper or two rounding out their ragged purses. Pio sat with the same drink at hand as when she’d first come in. Beyond the bright patter of the game, a certain table had caught her eye. Set in the shadows at one corner of the room, three shifty-eyed men hunched about it, watching the flow of monies changing hands. And Bird by this time was winning, her now unfettered fingers deftly picking up the majority of her winnings and securing them in the small pouch which hung from her belt. The men’s piggish eyes glittered in the darkness at the soft clink of coins piling one atop the other.

Pio’s attention was drawn back to the gaming table by the sound of Bird’s laughter. ‘Let’s call it even, friends,’ she said scooping the shells and pea up with one hand and dropping them into the same pouch as the coins. ‘My poor fingers are nearly worn to a nub moving the shells about.’ She folded the yellow scarf and stuck it in a side pocket of her small pack. ‘The only moving I want to do now is to a comfortable chair with my fingers round a cup of the Flower’s finest.’

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was late when the Innkeeper urged the last of the patrons from the Common Room. Pio had spent an enjoyable time talking with her new acquaintance. Unencumbered by any alliances, political or romantic, both had a certain sense of adventure and enjoyed the freedom of traveling where and when and how they wished. Bird was a good story-teller and one with a wicked sense of humor, much to the Pio’s delight. Her understated assessment of certain individuals she had met left the Elf almost senseless with laughter in the telling. She was not one to defend herself by blade or cudgel. And unlike Pio who always had a sharp blade of one sort or another quick at hand, Bird’s best defense was her quick sharp wit and the sly cunning of the put upon . . . or so the Elf had gathered from the stories she told. And best yet, as the night had worn on and the number of cups drunk increased, Bird revealed yet another facet - the large repertoire of song she had acquired in her wanderings. The two had sung a couple of short ones together, the Elf singing harmony to Bird’s well warbled tune. And Bird had surprised her with variations on the verses she had learned in her travels, a wink and a knowing smile leading into the more bawdy of the refrains.

In short, Pio liked her.

And as talk turned to what each would be doing come the following day, Pio found herself asking Bird would she care to accompany her on a trip north. To Edhellond . . . there were some old buildings still standing there from the days when the Sindar had established the haven. There were records Pio wanted to obtain . . .

‘You’re not talking about libraries are you?’ asked Bird, her mouth pursed as if she had just tasted something quite sour and unappealing. ‘I’m not given much to libraries. Too silent and dusty. Makes me sneeze just thinking of them.’ Inns and marketplaces were more to her liking. Pio assured her she only meant to give a quick look to finding the scrolls she intended to borrow. Bird snorted at the Elf’s choice of words. ‘Obtain . . . borrow? You’re going to steal them aren’t you? And what were you planning for me to do – create a small diversion of some sort?’

Pio was quick to defend herself, saying that technically she believed the information she wanted to retrieve was hers by right and need. And as to a diversion, she hadn’t thought that far ahead, but now as she considered Bird’s offer she thought it a good idea. Bird laughed outright at the spurious logic of the Eldar and at the assumption that she had offered her assistance . . . though if truth be told it sounded like a bit of fun and besides she had heard there was a great, sprawling marketplace in the Havens, with many opportunities for a person of her talents to fatten a purse or two.

Arm in arm they wandered down the dark lane toward the harbor, talking of how they might accomplish each of their needs, should they agree to travel together.

‘You hear that?’ Bird whispered, nudging Pio in the ribs. The crunch of heavy footsteps sounded on the graveled path behind them. ‘Of course, I hear them,’ returned the Elf, drawing her arm from Bird’s and stepping away from her. ‘Get behind me!’ she hissed, knowing Bird was half sauced and carried no weapon. Pio turned drawing her sword, and narrowed her eyes at the dark path. Two hulking figures hunched toward the two women, stout sticks raised for an attack.

‘We only wants the money the scrawny wench has in her purse,’ the nearest one called out; his piggish features loomed closer in the pale starlight. It was one of the men from the Inn. He was close enough now she could smell the sour stench of his breath and hear his breathing. Another followed close behind him. But there had been three at the table, she recalled. Where was the other?

Pio leveled her blade at the forward man, telling him to leave them be. He laughed and swung hard at her sword arm with his thick oaken stick. The man behind him lunged forward with his shorter cudgel, and she caught the flash of steel in his left hand. Stepping back, she dropped her arm, letting it slide away from the intended blow, then brought it round in an upward swerving arc to slash the forward man’s face with the tip of her blade. He fell back, his place taken by the second attacker who beat at her with his cudgel, several blows falling sorely on her upper arms before she regained her stance. One lucky blow from him knocked the sword from her hand and he rushed in close to her, thinking to bash her soundly about the head. His plans were brought to a sudden halt as the knife from her belt found its way into her other hand and she slashed his club arm deeply, then drove the blade into his belly.

With barely a moment to catch her breath, Pio heard a great commotion behind her. There were various streams of colorful swears intermingled with frantic shouts of ‘Away you hellbird! Leave me be!’ Turning she saw the third man engaged in a frantic dance with a small black bird who darted in and out of his stick’s reach and tore at his face as it could with tiny talons and the beak of her rapidly darting white striped head. Pio picked up her dropped blade and hit the man broadside across the head. He fell with a great exhalation into a crumpled heap in the dirt. She nudged him with her toe, then did the same for the others. All were well out of it, though the one with the blade to his gut appeared to be tending toward a more permanent state in that direction. Now where was Bird?

‘You say the ship’s close you’ve got a berth on?’ Surprised, Pio looked up thinking to find her new friend standing near. Instead she felt the grip of the black bird’s feet hard on her shoulder and noted the ragged breathing from the bedraggled creature. ‘Bird?’ she said, looking about as she sought to brush the jackdaw from her shoulder.

‘Here, you half-brained Elf!’ came the little voice from the bird clinging frantically to the fingers that had sought to unseat her. ‘Best we get away from here and quickly. What passes for the guard here seems to have been roused and there’s a small mob of angry men coming down the path toward us.’

The Elf raced for the harbor, the small bird holding desperately onto her shoulder. ‘Skinchanger, then, is it?’ Pio panted. ‘I don’t suppose you could change into something larger and fly us out of here.’ ‘Not a chance,’ returned Bird. ‘Jackdaw, neeker-breeker, and the occasional dolphin – that’s the extent of my repertoire.’ ‘Ah!’ was all the Elf could manage as she slipped beneath the pier into the shadowy waters below, making as quietly as she could for the ship.

They hid in the hold til the ship set sail, coming up to Pio’s quarters only after the open sea was made. The captain said nothing about the addition of a bunkmate . . . the Elf had paid quite well he reasoned, and he was not about to question her. He had done so once before . . . and she had turned his curiosity aside, saying only that her business was her own . . .

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Time . . . the present . . . nearing the Havens of Umbar . . .

Peering out over the moon-shot waves, Pio rested her chin on her steepled fingers, a smile lingering on her lips at the pleasant memory of her old friend. ‘I wish you were here with me now, Bird,’ she thought. ‘I could use your bird’s eyes in picking out two stray men of Gondor lost in a sea of sand, Southrons, and the Stars know what else.

Her thoughts were cut short as Hamar came up softly beside her and pointed to the glittering lights of the far off shore. ‘I’ve ordered “lights out” as we pass by Umbar,’ he said quietly. The wind willing we should make Faragaer’s position late morning of the coming day.’ He looked at her expectantly. ‘I’ve set the watches for the night, and we’re running far out to sea. There should be no trouble.’ As he knew she would, she declined his suggestion that she get some rest. He shook his head, wondering at her reserve, then made his way to his own bunk for what little rest he could snatch.

Pio remained on deck, watching the city and the night pass by . . . her thoughts fixed on planning how she might proceed once they had landed.

By the One, Bird! she growled at a long tailed cloud scudding across the face of the moon. I need your help. Where are you?

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Surinen

Once inside, Surinen realized with disapproval that Latah was alone in the tent with the two foreigners, and made a mental note to speak sternly to his cousin. She should be more mindful of her safety, for these were not only strangers to them, but also born out of a vastly different tradition. Who knew what customs the people of Gondor might practice, or how they might view their womenfolk. It would not do to find these things out, haphazardly. And Surinen did not feel it should be his cousin who discovered the differences.

In his displeasure Surinen quite forgot the bird that had followed him into his uncle’s tent, and striding briskly away from Sorona, he made straight for the young woman. Dusting off various plates and cups with a cloth as she removed them from a chest, Latah looked up smiling to see him standing before her. And Surinen, seeing Dinsûl’s familiar bowl on the table and looking into his cousin’s upturned face, lost all resolve, tempering his words so that he might not risk frightening her. “Latah, you should be more cautious,” he reminded her. “It is not right that you should be alone among these men.”

“But the whole village waits, listening outside the tent,” she said hurriedly resuming her work. “And there are guards at the door, Suri! What trouble should I find here, that they would not know of immediately? And besides, these men apparently have not caused Ráma concern, or she would have taken pains to lose them in the desert.”

“Even so you should be wary. We know nothing of them or their ways,” Surinen declared looking at the Gondorians with unmasked suspicion.

Latah also stole a glance at them once again, but her eyes betrayed no mistrust, showing rather concern for her father’s guests. “At the moment I would be glad to know simply if they would be opposed to having their food served by my hand. I would guess that they are not, though I am not certain.” Then glancing down to her belt, she showed him the knife that it held. “Look, one of them had Ráma’s dagger. How do you suppose it came to be in his possession?”

“I suppose she might have had cause to throw it at him,” Surinen said muttering under his breath. And then louder, “Which one was it that carried this?”

“The younger of the two.” Surinen regarded him more closely through narrowed eyes. “They say he is the first mate,” his cousin continued. “Let’s hope that the first mates of sailing ships don’t make a practice of stealing women’s knives, or you may never eat mutton again!” she laughed. But seeing that Surinen did not join her in her amusement, she sought to calm his misgivings. “Don’t you worry Suri, I can take care of myself.”

“Can you?” Surinen questioned, intending to point out her vulnerabilities, but at that moment a gasp drew his attention, and he saw Sorona with foot raised, showing it to the men of Gondor. Struck with embarrassment, his face burned as he thought how he had sought to restraint the eagle but a few moments before.

“What is the matter Suri?” Latah asked. “And who is it that talks to our guests?”

“Her name is Sorona, that much I know,” he said feeling self-conscious as he turned back to the young woman. “She alighted in our camp just outside this tent soon after we last spoke. She is maenwaith Latah, and speaks our tongue. I feel she might be one of our clan, but she has known great trouble in her time, and now lives out her days in this form.”

“Does anyone know she is here?”

“I suppose the elders have seen her, though no one of them came forward. In truth I think they didn’t realize she wasn’t one of us.”

“You must find my father and bring him here, Suri.”

“Only if you promise to be more prudent!” the outrider insisted.

“Yes, yes! Just hurry!”

But when Surinen started to leave he saw that the eagle had moved outside also, barely visible through the tent opening. Hurrying, he dashed to follow her thinking she might fly away. In the bright light he squinted, noticing that the ground outside was nearly empty, save for the two guards, one of whom was ready to follow Sorona. Signaling the guard that he would keep her in sight. Surinen called after the bird, “Where are you going?” She stopped allowing him to catch up.

“I must talk to Thorondil or prehaps the elders,” she said. “Would you tell me where they are to be found?”

“I don’t know who this Thorondil is, though I am curious to find out, but I am on my way to find one of the elders now if you wish to come with me.”

“Yes, you also would not know him as Thorondil now, but rather Aiwendil," the eagle sighed. "Then again, it seems he has had many names."

“And many friends other than eagles, but I suppose that is as good a sign as any,” Surinen said. “I will show you the place were he stays, though with no guarantee he will be there. He quite often is to be found with the Meldakher.”

After passing though the maze of tents, they came across an empty and blackened patch at the heart of the encampment, and bearing to the right a small tent with two lean-tos poised beside it. Surinen headed for the larger of these. And coming near it they found the old man and Rôg seated on cushions in its shade, a flagon resting between them. The old man’s bushy eyebrows rose expectantly, as they approached. Bowing slightly to him, Surinen addressed him respectfully. “I have brought to you a friend who has lately arrived in camp and wishes to speak with you, if you will.” Donning an expression that seemed as though he looked both inward and outward at once, Aiwendil shifted his glance from the wiry young man down to the bird that stood beside patiently beside him.