Friends Of Nimrodel: Tapestry of Dreams, Part 2 RPG

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Tired. Feverish. Maybe a little bit of both? Lightheaded. Dizzy.

Her eyelids felt heavier with every blink.

Galloping across the plains north and west, Bellyn suddenly wished she had never left home. This moment of doubt was quickly followed by the memory of the dream-woman’s haunting eyes, sorrowful and lonely, empty and dead.

I have to continue, I cannot stop here…

She looked quite the wreck as she brought her horse to a slow walk. Bellyn could see her breath and the breath of her horse billowing in the chill air. Beads of sweat gathered at her forehead and on the nape of her neck, beneath tangled and frizzy black curls.

How will I know where to go?

Bellyn thought it was a valid question – a question she should have pondered before galloping off and away from the safety of home. The Ered Nimrais stretched far and long into the west before drifting south to Andrast. Where could she possibly find the lost woman? The high peaks and dangerous cliffs – would she find the right place?

Doubt once again raced through her mind. This time she ignored it, and pressed on, willing her horse to go faster. They would stop and rest later, but for now, Bellyn wanted to put miles and miles between her and Minas Tirith. The map in her mind drew a line from Minas Tirith towards the Eastfold and deep into the mountains, where in her heart she could imagine a lonely woman wishing for someone, anyone to help.

This image kept Bellyn riding, riding onward.

[mark12_30]

Dawn came, and the sun climbed. Roheryn sniffed the mannish elf-girl, and nuzzled her face. Her hand came up to ward off the scratchy horse-lip; but then she smiled.

"Very well."

She rose. There was no nearby stream in which to wash. She stepped to Roheryn's side, and he waited while she sprang onto his back; then he swung westward, following the roots of the mountains.

Later that morning they crossed a stream, and she dismounted and drank. Roheryn drank, and grazed. The lady ate nothing, for she had brought nothing. At noon she mounted again, and they rode westward again.

[Firefoot]

Rugh’s anxieties were growing. It was not natural for him to feel anxious; he preferred to be at peace with the stars and mountains and trees and animals. And the disruption, Rugh could only guess that it must come from the Stone Men, or the Horse Men, whose hands were like the strange hands he had carved. And if they were coming into his mountains, they must be sent back.

He had descended into the lower slopes of the Mountains, as low as he ever went. He had come with remarkable speed. Now he must listen again: listen, and carve. He settled in under the shade of a tree and selected a short branch. He began to carve slowly, thinking that a bird would settle his mind. But his bird did not look like a bird, nor did the deer he tried next look like a deer. Rugh scowled. Normally a relaxing and meditative art, even his carving seemed out of order with the earth. He tossed both pieces to the side

Then he sat quietly for a while, not busying his hands. In the stillness, it seemed as if he could feel… her… again, though dimly. Rugh scowled, wishing it would leave him alone, whatever it was. He picked up another piece of wood and began furiously to carve.

At some point during this carving Rugh became dimly aware of an animal that slowly approached. When it did not leave, he looked up from his work (it did not look like much; he seemed only to be steadily carving all the wood off of it rather than making it into something), and saw one of the dogs of the Tall Men watching him. Rugh fixed his stare on the dog. He was not pleased; it seemed only another sign of the Tall Men’s invasion of his Mountains. He soon realized that the dog seemed unaccompanied by Men, however, as the dog made no effort to leave and Rugh heard no sound of any of the loud Tall Men.

Despite Rugh’s initial hostility, the dog crept forward, still on his belly and still watching him. Rugh nodded and returned to his carving, deciding, “Dog can stay.”

[littlemanpoet]

The two foot smelled irked. Jorje could tell by the smell of two foots' skin what they felt inside.

Two foot smell was one of the things dogs liked best about two foots, even if they didn't know it. It had lots of salt and that tasted good.

Jorje crawled closer. This stranger did not smell eermy, just irked. Maybe the river daughter knew him. Maybe this was a good two foot for Jorje. Maybe not, but he had to find out. Two foot looked at him again.

"Dog can stay."

Jorje perked up his ears. The voice had been gravelly and growly. It reminded him of ma when she'd had much of puppy play and was irked by it but not so much that she wanted to bite him away. He rose a little on his paws and, bent low; 'grovelling' he'd heard his master say. That sharpedge moved jerky and angry, and Jorje was scared of it, but he inched closer, sniffing all the time.

When he was close enough he stretched out his snout as far as he could and sniffed at the twofoot's knee, ready to bolt if the twofoot struck.

[Imladris]

"Gwyllion has told me to do nothing. She has merely stated a fact, in much distress," Aeron said. "I wish I could pass it off as a dream, yet I cannot. It was real. It felt real. And that is why I cannot understand why you, Raefindan and especially you, Ædegard, are loathe to pursue them."

"We have a charge," Ædegard said.

"A charge." Aeron shook his head, bit his lip. "A charge is not...is not flesh and blood. A charge is nothing but a handful of words. Would you put words above the living? Amroth is dead. But from the West has come no word, And on the Hither Shore
No tidings Elven-folk have heard Of Amroth evermore. This is foolish."

"Will you stay with us, or look for the women?" asked Raefindan.

The women, or safe with the men? Aeron did not know where to look for the women. He was not a tracker. He was a lowly thief, a ragamuffin. "The last time I went off by myself led only to trouble," Aeron whisper. "I fear that if I were to seek for them alone, I would do less than nothing. But hear me," he said, "I do not agree with this, putting one over many. Is it because he is an elf king?" Aeron snorted. "They may be fairer, but their life is not worth more than ours. I now only hope that my dreams of Gwyllion are only dreams, and nothing more."

He touched the lock of hair bound by a piece of twine around his neck.

[Celuien]

The quiet, chill hours crept by over Sæthryd's hut. Silence had returned to the little valley, Sæthryd having ended her song before many minutes had passed. She sat quietly, staring into her fire as if lost to all save the glowing embers. But though she looked as calm as the deep forest around her, Sæthryd's thoughts were far from still.

Something snuffled in the fallen leaves, darting wildly through the undergrowth. The shadows fled before its approach to seek darker corners into which they could melt. There were whispers from the paths. Angry whispers. The shades of the dead were troubled.

Far away, there was the sound of horses galloping over an open plain. Far away, but growing nearer with every hoofbeat.

Sæthryd began to mutter. Syllables without meaning blended together in a wild jumble. Then she jumped out of her seat and ran outdoors to set her guard on the paths. Something approached. As had not happened in many years, for the hill people learned long ago to keep away from her snares. They knew well that the wild woman who had come in place of the vanished shades of the dead was more to be feared than any ghost.

Let them come. I shall be ready.

[Firefoot]

Rugh did not immediately proffer his hand for the same reason that he had not attempted to call the dog to him. He knew that animals would come on their own, if he showed no sign of threat, whether butterflies or birds or deer – or dogs. But a certain trust had to be established: he did not believe in luring in or taming the wild animals as the Tall Men did. No animal could be tamed, not in the sense the Tall Men used the word: there was always some part that remained wild and animal, though buried deeply in some.

Instead, moving so slowly that he almost did not seem to move at all, Rugh ceased his carving, set the piece of wood gently down on the ground, and tucked his flint away in his pouch. By then, the tenseness of the dog had alleviated some; he did not look so much like a bird ready to fly away. Only then did Rugh offer his hand to the dog to sniff, then placed his hand gently on the dog’s head. The dog yielded to this movement willingly, and only then did a slight smile cross Rugh’s face. These were familiar actions, and much more comforting to his mood than his failed carvings had been.

After a time, Rugh gave the dog a last pat and stood. It was time to move on and resume his search. To his surprise, however, the dog seemed inclined to follow him. Normally the quiet spell of connecting with an animal was broken when Rugh prepared to disappear into the trees again. “Dog is special,” Rugh realized. Did the dog perhaps feel the bad rumors of the earth as well? “Can come.”