(Archive) The Fellowship of the Sword 52 - Promotions at Erebor

Real time is: 18:24:43 MST on Sun Jan 14 2001.

North Port Here is a small stretch of gravelly shingle-beach at the foot of a great stone crag, one of Thror's Twins that guard the gates of the Celduin, which rushes by to join the deeper waters of the lake. A small group of buildings and dockworks are built along the shore, usually quiet. Because the river becomes too shallow to navigate a few miles north, here many goods bound for Dale or Erebor or beyond are offloaded and transferred to caravans--and vice versa, from caravans into sturdy knorrs or rafts going the other way. Although the docks handle trade, they were also built to accommodate the ships of Esgaroth in times of war, when the weak-folk needs be sent to Dale or into the Mountain for safety. Besides the actual wharves and utility outbuildings, there are a few small warehouses, the dock-masters place, and an inn, the Twin's Toe, built up against the crag itself. There is also a raft service here that will taxi those who wish to go across the rivers mouth to the road on the east side.

Contents:
Drenlyn
Morrandir
Ori
Thorondur
Tamran
White Pavillion
Semi-circle of Wains

Night has long since fallen, and the stars shine twice here in Wilderland -- in the skies above, and reflected in the lake below. In the midst of their camp, most of these doughty Men of distant Gondor sit gathered around tw3o blazing campfires. A song has ended, in the last passing moment: the Tale of Tuor.

Its singer, the Lord Thorondur, stands now, tall and slender, clad all in glimmering elven mail and radiant white. "Tuor was a great man indeed, and more than a warrior -- he had a true heart," he tells his squires.

One of the squires watches the Knight intently, his grim face lightened by a smile. Sitting by the fire massaging his left arm, Morrandir gazes at the herald in silent awe for a few moments, before asking, "But what I don't understand is how Ulmo knew! How did he foresee that Tuor would come to claim the arms left for him?"

Nodding as the Herald sings, Drenlyn's eyes seem to shine stars themselves in the night, but shielded by some cloud of thought. Starring at the fire he seems to be in a dream, but as the Herald ends and speaks, he nods, but remains silent. Only when his comrade speaks, does his voice come forth, "I thought that the Valar had foresight, did they not Sir Thorondur? What I wonder, is at how precisely Ulmo predicted what was to come."

"The Valar have deep and mysterious powers. Remember, both of you, that they stood in chorus for the Great Song of Making, the Ainulindale," Thorondur instructs his squires. "There are lessons to be learned from stories -- much as there are lessons to be learned from long travel, and time away from home. Both of you have grown, much as Tuor did, since we left fair Amroth behind."

Lowering his head as Thorondur's words reach him, Drenlyn peers at the ground in front of where he sits. His voice now solemn and soft, as though speaking only to himself, Drenlyn says, "Lessons from stories and long travels....Yes that is the way of the world. Learn from those who came before, and learn new things yourself. I still have a long way to grow though...and much to learn..."

The white squire nods, and looks down at the fire thoughtfully. "They are mysterious, that is for certain." He mutters. He looks down at his left arm for a moment, then slips it out of it's sling. "I don't think I need this anymore." He puts it down next to him and flexes his arm, rolling back the sleeves and inspecting the muscles criss-crossed with ugly scars.

"Drenlyn," says the White Knight, laughing to himself, "I myself have much to learn! But look for a moment at these scars of your brother-in-arms. Morrandir, you have earned a solemn right by those markings. Kneel, lad, and give me your sword."

The deep night is the time for songs, as the High Men from the South know well enough, singing about their fires. Near to them, beyond a ring of sturdy wains, the huge dwarven encampment centers on it's own firepits, one large central with several smaller orbiting it, all sending their sparks to the heavens to rival the stars but briefly before burning out. Men could gain a lesson therein. The rich sounds of dwarf-made instruments, masterful of tone, drift aloft with the sparks here and there. So, too, rich dwarven voices droning through their stately songs ponderous with visions from elder days, lighter, laughing songs riding them. Yes, dwarves can laugh, even here under the alien sky under the cold elvish stars. A melody wends sweetly among the camp noises from Ori's long silver flute.

Looking up, Drenlyn smiles as the Knight speaks, and stares towards Morrandir, his smile growing broader. Silent and unmoved as the music of the dwarves rises up into the night sky, as if not heeding the melody, Drenlyn glances at Morrandir's arm, and gives himself a soft laugh of some old memory.

Morrandir slowly raises his eye to meet the Knights. He looks at him quizzically for a moment, then stands and draws forth his blade. It shimmers in the firelight, though the red glow seems to make the notches more prominent. He tucks his hair behind his ears, and kneels before the herald, the hilt of his sword held out in offering.

Solemn now, Thorondur takes the sword from Morrandir's hand into his own white-gloved palm. Looking up, momentarily, he turns his head toward the source of the piping melody in a rich voice, he calls out, "Friend dwarves, come and join us! For tonight we celebrate a man's bravery!"

Now again to Morrandir the gaze of the Knight returns, and he shifts the sword to rest across both his palms. The weapon held thusly before him, Thorondur extends it to its owner, instructing him, "Now place your hands upon the blade, Morrandir of Gondor."

To Drenlyn he then looks briefly, and says, "Squire -- I will need a clean tunic. One that bears your Blue stripes."

The words of the Man are carried into the camp by those nearest, and soon enough the euphonious sound stops abruptly, flute glinting fiery as the shadowed player lays it to his lap to hear the dwarf who relays the words. It disappears as the silhouette rises. It and several other dwarf-sized shadows move between the camps, and a Man points them toward where Thorondur awaits. Coming within the light of the men's fire, Ori bows his head in greeting, murmuring "Lord Girithlin," as his eyes rove over the tableau.

The white-squire turns toward the dwarves for a moment, and smiles at the beautiful piping that wafts into the camp. Fitting music for the occasion. Morrandir looks up at the Knight then down at his sword before him.

Casting Ori a smile of greeting, Thorondur repeats -- a trifle sternly -- "Place your hands upon the blade, Morrandir of Gondor."

Reflecting the light of the stars in his clear grey regard, Amano stands, a ways off upon the fringes of the camp, perhaps until now cloaked in the shadows even as he is cloaked in the sable mantle about his shoulders, a tall silhouette, unmoving but for the wind tugging at his hair and garments. Slowly does he turn his head, as the Knight-Herald's clear tones ring out into the night and with a step measured and almost sedate, he approaches, pale face thoughtful upon the squires and the figure of the Lord Girithlin.

Felt more than seen, is his smile, but he makes no word of greeting to interrupt, watching a short distance away, expectant and silent.

Nodding, Drenlyn smiles, "I have brought one or two extra on this journey, and will be glad to give Morrandir any of my tunics, for I would not begrudge him the proper adornment. Shall I fetch them now?"

"Yes," Thorondur says to Drenlyn, "all save one." And then does he return his attention to the squire who kneels before him, and heavy is his gaze.

"There are Knights who require solemn oaths of their squires," intones the Lord Girithlin, "but I am not among them. I do not need binding words to know the loyalty that binds a man's heart, for true or false. And so I ask you this, Morrandir..."

"Art thou ready?"

Taking a deep breath of the fresh night air, the squire speaks, "I am, Sir Thorondur."

At the side of his kinsman, Doran steps into the small circle of flickering light. Garbed alike in long heavy cloaks of black, the young noblemen of House Isilrim stand on the edges of this close-knit company as solemn statues, guarding these grave yet glad proceedings. Now and again the young knight's grey glance is drawn to the strange, alluring music of the other sprawling encampment. Doran shifts beneath his cloak, gaze drawn now to the knelt squire.

The air gathers and seems tense, about the camp perhaps it is the solemn silence of these Men who watch, for many of them have knelt as Morrandir does, even now. And there is waiting, for all who are here listen closely, and yet no word passes the lips of the Knight...

Until at length, he says, "Then rise, Morrandir, Squire of the Blue.

Feeling the weight of what he sees, Ori avoids dishonoring himself by asking naive questions, but only nods to himself, murmuring "Curiouser and curiouser..." looking from Man to Man, seeing everything with a Dwarf's eyes, judging with a Dwarf's heart. He strokes the long teeth about his neck thoughtfully. "It is a warrior's night, then," he murmurs.

The newly made Blue Squire rises slowly, as though savoring the moment. He stands tall and proud, unsmiling, yet happiness in his eye. He turns toward his comrades, and only then does he smile, a grin which he is powerless to hold back.

Drenlyn sits and smiles, quickly glancing towards the dwarves, and the other shadows about the camp. Happiness on his face once he glances back to Morrandir, Drenlyn's face seems like one who has realized where he truly is and the meaning of all about him.

Then as Morrandir rises, Drenlyn himself stands, and sings out, "Hail Morrandir, Squire of the Blue!"

Drawing aside from the other Men, Thorondur seeks out the old dwarf, Ori, and leans down beside him. "... ... ... a ... ..., ..., ... ... ... thing -- ... ... ..., to my ..., ... ... ... ... Folk ... ... to ... I ... ... ...."

Ori's bushy eyebrows rise unseen in the midnight murk, so many Men between he and the fire, at this aside. He draws himself up upon his dignity, and those with him, in their discipline not needing words, follow his lead.

Swift upon the heels of Drenlyn's words the men of the camp in turn rise to their feet, and a cheer goes up into the starlit night, a sound that echoes even from the grim crags upon the shore, glad and unrestrained. And so is the darkness of night lifted, by the power of those voices, noble Men from the lands of the South.

"Hail, Morrandir, Blue-Squire of Gondor!"

Now departing Ori's side, Thorondur returns the sword to Morrandir's hands, smiling sternly -- yet he does not cheer, or raise his own voice to the glad noise of congratulation. Only does he hover on its borders, waiting perhaps for it to fade. His own congratulation is a somber nod -- meaningful in its own right.

Still grinning, Morrandir looks at the men and dwarves standing about the camp, all sharing this moment with him. He mouths a 'thank-you' to them, then receives his blade. He looks at Thorondur for a moment, and bows before him. "Thank-you Sir."

As the voices of the camp rise up into the night, Drenlyn quickly departs silently into the pavilion, shortly emerging, three tunics in his arms, each with the stripes of a blue squire neatly sown into the fabric. Looking towards the Herald, a hint of nervousness in his gaze, Drenlyn turns to Morrandir, and holds out the tunics and smiles, "Now you shall need the proper attire dear squire. I hope that we are not of too different of a build, for I would be honored if you would wear one of my own fabrics."

Then of a sudden, there is the ring of drawn steel! Like a brand of silver, the White Knight of Dol Amroth has slipped his own sword from its scabbard, and in the starlight of heaven he holds it aloft. All murmur of congratulation fades, and beneath the weighty gaze of the Dunadan lord, the Men fall silent again.

"Now come forth, Drenlyn of Dol Amroth," he says, "and leave with Morrandir your tunics and accoutrements of Blue. For your office will be his."

On a knoll the black-clad Indilzar watches the proceeding silently. Nigh him, grim and fell is the hound Huan. His mood is grim indeed and even though such an hour would lighten the heart, Indilzar's brow or keen eyes of grey show it not.

Morrandir sheaths his sword, and accepts the tunics from his comrade. "Thank-you Drenlyn, I am sure they will fit just fine." He then steps aside to allow Drenlyn to come forth.

Ori looks aside to two of his fellows, dressed in his livery, who unstrap their shields from their backs and settle them upon their arms as the Men continue their ceremony before him, the old dwarf following the proceedings with a keen eye.

With a few swift steps, bearing a glad expression on the fine features of his visage, Doran approaches the newly named squire of blue. Clapping Morrandir on the shoulder, a warm smile upon his face, his keen eyes shift to Drenlyn and the Girithlin, as the glad shouts of the other men fade away, born by a gentle breeze down across the Lake, "Well done, Morrandir. Now stand here with me and we shall see what passes this night."

Handing the tunics to Morrandir, Drenlyn's face becomes grave and solemn as Thorondur calls upon him. Stepping forward, Drenlyn's eyes hold a deep brooding, as if one that he has thought on long. So he stands, the simple fisherman's son from Belfalas, and naught can he do but stand.

Finally he speaks, sad but stern his voice, "Sir Thorondur, if I guess your intentions, then I must object for there is much that I need to do ere I gain any greater standing."

"But now it is time for an Oath," Thorondur says, and with quiet pride in the young man before him, he smiles and lowers his new blade, a glistening weapon of elven make a gift of King Thranduil's.

Now Thorondur says in a clear voice, a voice that rings in the dark of evening, "Earlier, I sang of mighty Tuor. Against all odds he came to Gondolin, and in so doing sealed the deliverance of Elves and Men from darkness. In so doing, he showed the best qualities of Men: strength, and honour, and dedication loyalty, and faith.

"There is nothing you need do to demonstrate these virtues, Drenlyn. Now kneel, as a supplicant, that you may depart this glade a better man."

Morrandir smiles at Doran. "Thank-you." he says, taking his place beside the young Knight. He watches Drenlyn approach the Knight, and an expression of complete bewilderment crosses his face as he hears Drenlyn's words.

Swiftly the hawkish gaze of one among the Isilrim, young Amano, flicker to the White Knight, the elvish blade glittering in his hand, and from thence to Drenlyn. Neither was Morrandir the only one startled by those words for Amano's grey eyes widen slightly at the exchange between knight and squire, and intently does he keep his gaze upon the scene unfolding before him.

Upon Amano's shoulder a hand can be felt clasping it. A black-gloved hand with steely fingers but there is no malice in that grip. It is Indilzar, "How now knight? I see that the Herald has made his choice again."

His face solemn as ever Drenlyn stands motionless in front of his Knight, his gaze unmoving, "Sir Thorondur, though many here will wonder at my words I speak my heart, and all that it may hold. I would kneel here as a supplicant, but no further title do I need to be a better man. You have said that I need do naught to demonstrate the virtues of strength, honour, dedication, loyalty, and faith. I am no judge of those, but my heart tells me that I have much to do to show my courage, compassion, and humility. Naught have I showed for courage except for dedication. My compassion has yet to be tested beyond doubt. My humility I know exists, even now as I stand here."

Pausing briefly, Drenlyn continues, his voice steady and sure as he speaks his heart, "No greater title than squire can I endure until the quest is completed and I may return to the sea. Until that time, you may order me to do anything, and I will obey, though I will follow you and your command to the ends of the earth. But until I look upon fair Dol Amroth, I can not acknowledge any title greater than what I have."

A smile almost feline-like passes over the lips of fell Bragollach...

"And were I foolish enough to doubt your worthiness before, then your very recalcitrance now would prove me right, humble Drenlyn," Thorondur says -- and perhaps, there is a wry turn to his smile here, as if he had expected this. "For it is the best of Knights who thinks himself unworthy of that honour. If you call yourself a Squire, so be it -- but Men will not call you a fool they will call you a Knight."

And he waits, now, for the squire to do as he is ordered -- and kneel.

Morrandir smiles, almost chuckles as he watches Drenlyn. "Humility at it's best." he murmurs to Doran next to him.

Perhaps a little too intent upon the goings-on was Amano, for he starts at the grip of the Lord Bragollach on his shoulder, murmuring, "It seems so, yet I have not seen such before that such an honour was refused, nor heard of another like to this, sire." He glances to Drenlyn, barely stilling the shake of his head.

"So it is," replies Indilzar at length, "Two things there are: either he seeks greater honour unto himself by refusing the title now, or he is truly humbled. In either event the boy is wily."

Indilzar smiles and calls out, "Ho! Lord-Herald, if the boy refuses he refuses. Yet if he wishes to learn more humility give him to me. Huan needs to be cleaned up after he relieves himself."

There is scorn on the face of Indilzar at the stripling.

Huan comes down from the knoll and growls for a moment at Indilzar.

Indilzar turns to the hound and takes a step back, "Now Huan, you know me better than that!"

The hound snorts the air and proudly looks on at Drenlyn and perhaps in that canine brain wonders how his new groomer will fair.

Sheer amazement is plain on the countenance of Amano, at that utterance of the Black Knight, though he says as yet naught, having the wisdom to keep his own counsel. And to wipe the expression from his face, as his eyes turn, inevitably, to the Knight-Herald, wondering seemingly at what his response would be.

Nodding, Drenlyn's eyes now dim, as if some inner struggle is lost. Drawing his sword, Drenlyn scans the blade carefully, but sighs, and speaks once more, "As you order I will do Sir Thorondur. But as when you made be a Squire of the Blue, I can not believe that this is your wish, but foolish you are not, and your judgement shall stand. But I say now that I can not fully accept this title until you perform this same office once more in your own Chambers in Dol Amroth."

And so once Drenlyn falls silent, his gaze shoots towards Indilzar, "If that is what needs be done, Sir Indilzar, then even a Knight must tend to such a duty if it must be done."

But now Drenlyn kneels in front of the Herald, proffering the hilt of his blade towards the Knight-Herald.

"Now do as you will Sir Thorondur. Either carry out your decision, or strike me now, for I would not wish you to be dishonored by my heart, or my words. I await your judgement."

Indilzar laughs and says, "My boy! A good show! Yes, you are humble, but this is pointless. Take up the honour thrusted upon you and have done. You are doing nothing but bringing pain and grief to your master."

The outbursts of Indilzar, the Knight-Herald of Imrahil ignores -- for the weight of his heavy gaze, the gaze of the Sea-Kings, is upon the young man Drenlyn. And he listens to the speech the squire makes, yet only does he shake his head, grimly.

"You err, Drenlyn," he says at last.

"There is humility, and there is folly. This demonstration is one of the latter. And yet I shall raise you up unto our brotherhood, tonight beneath the Lonely Mountain of Durin's Folk -- and do not think I shall ever repeat it! For only by living as a knight will you learn to accept yourself, I deem, as the Man you have become."

"Now repeat these words, even as I speak them," Thorondur says, resting the elven blade upon his squire's shoulder.

"Here do I swear fealty and service to Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, and to the Realm of Gondor, of which his fair city is but a radiant part. To be a champion: for the weak and the innocent, the young and the old, for what has gone before and what is yet to come until my Prince release me, or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Drenlyn son of Drenelither, Knight of the Swan."

His gaze level, Drenlyn nods, "Here do I swear fealty and service to Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, and to the Realm of Gondor, of which his fair city is but a radiant part. To be a champion: for the weak and the innocent, the young and the old, for what has gone before and what is yet to come until my Prince release me, or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Drenlyn son of Drenelither, Knight of the Swan. Yet in my heart I will remain your squire until this quest is concluded and the Prince's son is freed."

Then Thorondur slowly, solemnly, shifts the blade from its rest upon Drenlyn's left shoulder to his right, and replies, "And this do I hear, Thorondur son of Echorion, Lord of Lond Duilin and Heir to Dol Girithlin lost and ancient, and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward it that which is given: fealty with love, valour with honour, oath-breaking with vengeance."

With that he shifts the blade again, touching the young squire's brow -- and he is a squire no more. "Arise, Knight of the Swan," cries Thorondur gladly-- "Henceforth art thou named Drenlyn the Recalcitrant, until you earn a better!"

Indilzar smiles faintly and cries, "Hail Knight Drenlyn!"

Then Huan lets loose a great howl in salute:

ARRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Morrandir grins from ear to ear, and takes up the cry, "Hail Knight Drenlyn!"

Rising Drenlyn nods, "So shall I be called. But now only the Prince, the Steward, or the King when he returns may give me another name to bear."

"Now," says Indilzar, "if you shall forgive me for my abruptness, it is time to get onto business. I had heard that the Lord Dain shall grant us an audience. Is that true Lord-Herald?"

His head turning to all who call out his name, Drenlyn's face is somber, and if moved, only by some sudden sadness.

Now even as he returns the elven-blade to its sheath at his side, Thorondur is assailed by his comrade the Bragollach, and he turns to Indilzar with a smile. "The boy will learn," he says. "But as to your question -- yes. By the grace of yon esteemed dwarrow."

And he nods toward where old Ori sits.

Spinning on his heels the Black Knight of Belfalas beholds the elder Dwarf. He bows low to him, crossing his hands over his breast, "Hail!"

The two dwarves a'flank Ori begin to clash their shields together as the great hound Huan winds, the staccato rhythm cutting far through the night air. It is a martial sound, one all warriors can hearken to. Not glad, but stirring all the same. As the shield-drumming comes to an abrupt end, cool silent night air seeming to rush into the space of noise, Ori bows his head to both Morrandir and Drenlyn, his eyes seeming reflecting bemusement in the flickering firelight.

Indilzar rises and looks at wonder at the Dwarves a-girded with steel for war. The flashing craft of the Dwarves he has not yet taken into account and indeed, his own mail seems but hollow in comparison to the chain of the Kingdom of the Lonely Mountain.

Ori turns at Indilzar's salute and beholds him as anew, although he marked all his speech and bows now fully, waving his hood before his knees in dwarf-fashion before rising and intoning, "Ori son of Ghori, at your service. I am the Mouth of Dain." and resettling his hood, he adds, "And you are Indilzar." in what is only half-question.

"Indilzar I am called by name, and am Indilkhor's son," replies the knight gravely. "Far we have ridden and through many perils, following the trail of Numandil of Old upon our quest. Thus, we have come to thee in our need."

Returning his own sword to it's sheath, Drenlyn bows his head in return to Ori, but remains silent. His gaze wanders from the dwarves, and searches the faces of all in the camp, but seeing naught what he looks for, his eyes return to the stout dwarf who speaks with Indilzar.

His own part played well -- if not to perfection, at least -- the Herald of Imrahil stands aside, allowing Indilzar and Ori to speak among themselves.

Ori nods, gravely, and replies to Indilzar, "Aye. His hound sits at your side even now, for he came to Erebor with that same noble loping-warrior, or I am a stripling! This one," the ancient dwarf indicates Thorondur, "Has spoken of your need but not what it was. Dain will receive you tomorrow, but I am his voice in all things, so you may treat with me now if you so will with your worthy fellows, in as close council as you would, and I shall abide you."

"My thanks to you noble Ghori's son," says Indilzar, "And indeed it is true that we come not lightly though what we shall name may not be so great to you as one might think. For our errand is one of haste and at stake is the torment of the young Amrothos caught in the clutches of the unquiet dead."

The dwarves behind Ori exchange glances that question a Man's wisdom in speaking of the Dead within the dark of the world. But Ori has seen that darkness, and it he does not fear, so he replies, "Indeed. Heavy news, by your mien, although I will not insult you by claiming to share your concern, not being one of yours." He scratches his beard, "If, as I deem, you wish to take council now, shall we not repair to the fire and at least sit in comfort, if our words cannot walk so?"

Ori smiles then, at Indilzar's cunning at so graciously laying the decision of which campfire to choose, and thus which message to import, at his feet. Indeed, this pleases him as only a worthy foe can please one who has lived the hard life of a warrior for longer than the Men's grandsires have lived. And his choice is, of course, the harder: he turns and with a flourish, invites the Man and his attendants to accompany him to the dwarf's firepit.

He then turns and follows old Ori.

For his part, the night's work is done -- Thorondur Edrahil does not follow the Black Knight to the dwarven wains. Rather does he move back among his companions, clapping a hand on every shoulder, lending quiet words of encouragement until he retires, at last, to his tent.

Morrandir follows the Herald, and does not wish to take counsel with the dwarves. He looks down at the tunics in his hand and smiles, heading off to his tent presumably to try them on.

Staring on as Indlizar follows the dwarf, Drenlyn shakes his head, and heads towards his own tent, his step now lagging from the exhaustion of some inner battle. So does the new Swan-Knight head towards where the squires abide, following Morrandir, his eyes no longer holding the glimmer of life that one could see there on any other night.

And in likewise fashion does Amano step toward the tents, inclining his head to Morrandir and Drenlyn in passing and giving them a grin of congratulations, before he heads off into his own, vanishing within.

Ori makes his way with the small train into the dwarf camp, a measure of grey, he, rune-cane silent as it spears the hard earth. Reaching the fire, a place is cleared without words, and camp-chairs--folding iron with tough canvas panels--are set out as necessary. "Is it a thing, then?" asks one dwarf, emphasizing the word thing strangely. "No, only a privy," Ori replies, to a general nodding and wagging of beards as the dwarves then disperse. He waits for his guests to sit.

Indilzar takes his seat and says, "I thank you. It is a thing. So it is said that in your possession is a blue-pearl that came from the sword Anaril that Anarion wielded in the War of the Last Alliance."

Ori waits to sit, finds a pot at the fire and with typical dwarven utility, fills a cup for himself and then one for Indilzar, suddenly the picture of the old campaigner sharing the sparse comforts of the trail with a croney. Perhaps this is exactly the image he wishes to portray perhaps he is sincere. A Dwarf is a hard thing to read. Extending Indilzar's cup as that one speaks, and Ori sits, the beardling laughs in his throat, indulgently, "You mistake the term, Bragollach a thing is an open meeting, where all have a voice. I see you do not have such a term in the South! No matter. But," and he settles himself in his chair with a sip of what turns out to be coffee, "you are sparing of words! Almost a Dwarf, you could be! But you have said either too little or too much for my old ears to catch, speaking of this pearl. I feel as if I have stepped into the middle of something! Let us have the whole story, eh?" and he smiles.

Smiling Indilzar says, "How can one speak of the years of old which are now known only in memory? Who can speak of the works of Telchar the Smith and not lament at their departure. Yet, it was a year ago that we quested for the white stag. Yes, I remember it clearly." Indilzar shifts slightly in his seat and says, "We came to the haunted hill, and thither Amrothos was taken captive by some fiend of the ancient world and demanded the sword of Anarion. Thus, we were charged to seek it. Yet our Lord Steward Denethor told us that it had been broken, and its parts scattered. He then sang to us this lay:

Anarion was a kindly king, Come from the sea that sadly sunders. His helm was tall, his glance was cutting, His horn sounded like mountain thunder. More marvelled still was his brilliant blade, Anaril the bright was its right known name Few foes could bear the sword that Telchar made Ages ago wrought by that dwarf of fame.

But long ago Anarion waged war, And fell broken by boulder beneath his bright blade In Mordor where the shadows are. Long laments then the sad harpers made, Of the fair King and his steely sword, To four parts it flew, blackly broken, Aged Anaril now only a word, Of mindful memory mere token.

Four by four were the shards flung afar, One to the Dwarves in stony hard hills, Hilt high to northern kin under the star One to elves where enchantment thrills, The last was laid in monument of stone, By the kings kin, in the hidden hill, Of Aragurth, silent and last alone Where wonders woven in fate fill."

"So we passed through long leagues, seeking the first of these pieces," says Indilzar, "The fabled pearl of Anarion."

Ori leans back, craggy face wavering in the sharp shadows of firelight, stroking the teeth about his neck habitually as the Man chants the staves that speak of Dwarvish wrighting and the folly of the great. After Indilzar falls silent Ori nods to himself. "Hm, ah, yes, well," he sighs, all mild beardling, but eyes reflecting unknown lore kindled by the Man's words. "A pretty enough lay, what?" he smiles again, inscrutable, "For an not-so-pretty circumstance. What do we do, to deserve the attentions of elder horrors best left sleeping through the ages?..." and here his words seem to fade into self-reflection. But he rouses and adds, "Now then, your quest seems simple enough, as lean of words as you are in describing it. Find this pearl the lay claims is in the care of the dwarves, and the other three. But quests have a way of becoming anything but simple."

"True enough," says Indilzar. "Already we have ridden through much. Wizards, and orcs, and strange forests, and perilous spiders and elves. Yet we have come and we need this thing to banish the curse that has laid its unrighteous grip upon the Prince's boy."

Ori betrays wry amusement at Indilzar's description which could be lifted and resettled into a certain chapter in the book of Ori's own life, and he nods in sincere appreciation of the Man's suffering. But his wry face falls away, replaced by one recognizable in any land, in any age: the appraising look of the merchant bending to haggle. "A man's errand, I deem! Your squires bear the scars to prove it. So!" and he pauses to sip, "Your audience with Dain will be short! You need only know if we have this thing, and if we do, to ask for it. What, I wonder," and he leans casually, but his eyes never leave the Man's face, "I wonder what you have to offer in return, should your hopes be fulfilled?"

Indilzar arches a thin brow and says, "I suppose you would mean what we would offer aside from the friendship of Gondor and our love?" Indilzar laughs, "This is a mission of imprt to me, but I do not have much things of value upon me. Do you know of this thing? Is it indeed here?"

Ori sips his coffee, apparantly unrufflable, and smiles blandly, "Why, Lord Bragollach, we already have Gondor's friendship! As you say--this is a personal mission--you do not represent Stoninglund but only your own liege-lord and your love is something we might question the worth of, so far north. I hope you can appreciate my plain speech you strike me as hardy enough. As for the rest," he steeples his fingers and speaks through them, "That is for Dain to say." Ori, the Mouth of Dain, does not say why.

Indilzar inclines his head and says, "Very well, if you will name the price, then it shall be done, but it might not be immediate unless of course the price is within our immediate means."

Ori perches, feet in the rungs of the camp-chair, fit almost to spring, and his face, turned inward and somewhat predatory, aids this image. The terrible old dwarf leans forward and his voice is quiet, but crackle like the nearby flames, "Be careful, lad," and there is no mention of 'lord' or any other courtesy, "when you speak of price. For if you speak of gold, you will insult me, who could buy your entire House and all the Men in it, and all your land, and the lands of your lord, and still not feel any concern. Do they not say in your country "Gold is the toy of the Dwarves"? For so it is." and here he relents somewhat, but not so much, and his smile curls a bit, "And if it is not gold of which you speak, tread even more carefully! Not even love of this boy may see you through some things it is within Dain's power to ask of you."

Indilzar is stoic - or seems to be - at the words of the Dwarf, "Well, I am sure you can be recompensed. If this is a pearl that you have that we speak, and indeed, I would not know if it is the right one but I imagine there are not too many blue pearls sittling by to deck your halls. Yet I shall speak to Dain, for there are many fair pearls in my home by the sea."

Ori's smile warms at Indilzar's adroit extraction from the shifting sands of negotiation he had tread into, and he laughs suddenly. "I like you, Man of Gondor! Well do we call your home Stonelund, for you have a weight of it, indeed, the shadow of a Dwarf's weight, and that is high praise from this old stone-spirit never doubt it!" he drains his cup and tosses the gritty dregs into the flames with a hiss and flare. "And now make ready, for when next you pursue your errand you will do so with the King Under the Mountain, Durin's Heir, and his is a weight that may crush you!"

Indilzar rises and bows, "Thank you son of Ghori. Your advice shall be well considered. My duty is to my Prince and to save his son."

Ori rises with the Man and returns his bow. "I salute your loyalty. It serves you well here, more than much else. Remember it. And now we part."