Elendor
Two Rangers and a Bear
Thulion, Morfinion and Mobeorn gradually come to an understanding of sorts.
Sort Date: no date set
Location: Beorning: Mad Dog Tavern
Game Date: April 16 3045
IC Time: Late afternoon
Description:
Mad Dog Tavern(#2020Rn)
The door in your hand leans crazily as you give it a stout yank, dragging it open from where it had wedged against its frame. Stepping inside, you come into a squat building three long tables sit astride the floor, and a small fireplace in the rear wall. Small grains of busted crockery crunch underfoot as you walk, remnants of one of the many good-natured brawls that erupt here on just a regular basis.
The crowd is smaller in the day time, but there are still a number of people here... High Pass Guides coming back from a long ride through the dark and deadly valley fishermen bringing their catch to roast on the spit over the fire while they take a draught of ale farmer's sons who have come to town for the day, and are sneaking some of their father's money into a mug of mead.
Real time is: Sun Oct 26 17:35:53 2008 - Weather in the Beorning realm is: OVERCAST
Elendor time is: Early Afternoon <14:47:39 > on Sunday of Spring - April 16, 3045
It has now been several days since the fight on the High Pass, and the ragged band of travelers and Beornings have had time to lick their wounds, so to speak, after limping their way into the Beorning village. For one of that group--Mobeorn--the limping was literal, as the man was not able to put weight on his left leg, where the orc's hammer had broken the bone. The healers of Beorning, though, are well skilled, for the shapechanger has been up and about again, albeit with a crutch under his left arm to aid his walking. Still, each day the man seems to be putting more and more weight on the leg, and relying less on the crutch, healing quickly, it might seem.
Today, in fact, Mobeorn has limped his way into the Mad Dog Tavern. There are a handful of Beornings here--farmers' sons and some High Pass guards eager to hear the tale of what happened on the pass and how Mobeorn came to have a newly scarred face. Still, the fine April weather has kept the place emptier than usual, the locals only now starting to trickle in more as the day nears a close.
[Morfinion(#26663)]
Rowdy taverns would, in theory, house fewer people interested in knowing precisely where someone comes from and why they are here. Whether this proves true in practice or not is something that Morfinion has decided to test, having set himself amidst the gloom that gathers in the corners not reached by the light in the fireplace. Not overly secret or withdrawn is he, merely observant and quiet as he nurses a long-needed drink.
[<#28108>] Eager for news as the Beornings may be, not enough so to prod the dark stranger who has settled himself with Morfinion in a dark corner, nursing a tankard of his own. His hood cast back, the one known only as 'Lee' contents himself to watch the comings and goings, unashamedly listening in on whatever bits of gossip float his way. He takes a draught of his own mead, then looks up as the lame Beorning pushes through the door. Raising his mug towards Mobeorn, the Ranger nods once to him by way of greeting, then turns his head aside to speak in a low murmur to his kinsman. "Any ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...?" One brow twitches slightly upward, inquiringly.
There are more than a few shouts from the locals as Mobeorn makes his way into the tavern, so that the shapechanger seems to not here or notice "Lee's" greeting at first--and gets himself well settled at one of the tables, and set up with a mug of mead. Soon he is pressed into telling his tale, the entirety of which could certainly be heard by all in the tavern, as the men question him repeatedly for details.
"Well, yes, there were several of them--short and squat kind of men, not from Dale or hereabouts at all, it would seem. Some foolhardy drive to find gold or some precious metal on the mountain..." Mobeorn snorts, taking a long drink of the mead. "Should've let them all die, but there were orcs to be had, including a large one the likes of which I've never seen around here before. Needed all the help I could get against him, in fact--makes me wonder if he was like that orc that walked in daylight that was so treacherous to us....."
The beijabaar twists around on his bench, scanning the tavern. "There was an elf with us..he might know...."
[Morfinion(#26663)]
"No word has reached me," comes Morfinion's soft-spoken reply, eyes still fixed on the gathering within the tavern, "Though I would wager we alone of our number suffice to journey east over the Mountains. There are other duties to be attended to."
He does indeed listen to Mobeorn's tale from his place by the fire, although he includes no story of his own. He has indeed heard rumors of such strange breeds of orc but this was indeed his first time in laying eyes upon one and until several days ago he was unaware of the truth in the stories of 'orc-men'.
"Has your path brought you this way before?" Morfinion, or 'Thistlewool' as he is known in the wild, asks of 'Lee'.
[<#28108>] "Nay," answers 'Lee' softly, leaning back and returning his attention to the ongoing tale across the tavern. He frowns a little at the mention of the strange, day-walking orc, but the expression is quickly hidden by his raised mug. "... ... been ... ... ... ... west," he says at length again to 'Thistlewool'. "... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... on ... ... passes. ... ... ... found, ...." He breathes a weary sigh, sipping again from his mug.
The shapechanger finds no elf in the tavern, but his eyes do fall on the two rangers. Mobeorn's hearing is quite sharp, animal-like, and his eyes narrow slightly as Morfinion speaks of 'our numbers.' Swinging his legs over the bench and onto the floor, Mobeorn grabs his crutch with his left hand, his mead still in his right--and then he hops on over toward the two men, not caring that mead splashes on his wrist and fingers as he does so. "Good afternoon..."
[Morfinion(#26663)]
All manner of human expression, narrowed eyes to partial frowns, never go unchecked by the Men of the Dunedain. Careful of emotion when they see it, the skin-changer's facial expression coupled with his sudden approach give 'Thistlewool' cause to look purposefully more relaxed and take a draught of his beverage in a less restrained fashion.
"Good afternoon to you," he answers in return, a thicker drawl reminiscent of the Breelands creeping into his speech although not too much as to sound unrealistic.
[Thulion(#28108)]
"Greetings," comes Lee's low, but not unfriendly reply, accompanied by another dip of his head. Already reclined back in his seat as he is, little does the younger Ranger have to do to look at his ease. Resting his mug upon the table with a soft clunk, his grey eyes flick up and down the Beorning once. "You are healing well, I trust?" He asks casually, but not overly so, the particular accent to his speech no different than it had been days before: hard to place, but certainly from West of the Misties. "And the young woman, is she recovering?"
Many eyes in the tavern now turn to follow Mobeorn as he limps over, looks of curiousity mixed with suspicion now cross the faces of the men gathered in here. Neither is the shapechanger apparently able to dissemble: Open suspicion rests on his face now, too.
Reaching a hand out for a bench, Mobeorn drags it over and sits, crutch leaned against a table. "I am better, and Cecilia..." he frowns. "I need to check on her again. The girl is poorly off. Would that the elf that was here was skilled in healing....they have been known to help us in the past, and even taught her some of their skills, I believe." He lets that statement linger for a while, drinking his mead and studying the two men. "Now. Let us be frank with each other, yes? You fought with us. You seem to be foes of the enemy. The elf did not know you," he says to Thulion, "and yet noted that you had fought the enemy while traveling with him? Who are you? Where are you from? And what of your 'number' are you expecting here?"
[Morfinion(#26663)]
"I'm Thistlewool," comes Morfinion's answer to the question in that Breeland accent, and a hand gestures sidelong to Thulion, "And this be Lee. We had no intention of raising your ire and we'll be on our way if that is what your folk will. As for who we are and where we come from, well, that is easily answered. We come from west of here over the mountains, though we dwell no place particular. Here and there we roam and indeed our Enemy is a shared one. Our number are those who travel like us although we do not often travel the same roads ... we are most usually alone. Although we do not begrudge the company of our kinsfolk when we can get it."
"He knew us not, that is true, but he knows of our kin and we of his."
[Thulion(#28108)]
"Less often still are our roads brought hither, east of the mountains," Thulion adds to his kinsman's words, looking to Mobeorn with a nod. "We expect no others to join us here, so you need not worry. As for myself, I shall likely be returning westward sooner than not, though I cannot answer for Thistlewool here. We thank you, all the same, for the courtesy you and your Laird have shown us, in allowing us to travel through your lands." Lifting his mug then, he raises it as if in toast to Mobeorn, takes a long sip, then replaces it upon the table.
"I see..." Mobeorn grumbles, looking more closely at each lands. "Fancy words...but you'll find, sirs, that deeds speak louder than words in these lands and that there are eyes to watch. Still...I have no reason to be suspicious of either of you. And men...such as you...have come through here before and proved themselves well. So it is that the Laird of our lands has asked me to tell you that you may stay here, given that you helped us on the Pass." He struggles to his feet again, finding his crutch to support him. "I must tell the rest of what we encountered to our High Pass guides," he says, jerking his head toward the men on the other side of the room. "They wish to hear more about the orc that I killed. You're welcome to join us. Or not--as you wish. Noone will disturb you, though I should warn you--we neither hunt, nor use the skin nor meat of animals in these lands." WIth that he hobbles back across the room again to speak to the growing group of Beornings gathering in the tavern.
[Morfinion(#26663)]
Morfinion watches Mobeorn depart, lifting his mug as well and then glancing sidelong towards Thulion. He lifts his shoulders in a slight shrug, speaking up as though to say, "I am most likely to travel westward as well. Although chances are that I will tarry here a few days before crossing the Pass once more."
[Thulion(#28108)]
Lifting his mead once again, Thulion sips at it thoughtfully, his gaze following Mobeorn back across the tavern. At length, he nods. "Then perhaps our paths shall not be sundered for a little while yet. That may be well, for we may not find the High Pass to have remained clear in our absence." His voice drops low again, though he keeps passive interest upon the tale at hand, his expression little changing. "Ere I departed for the mountains, news came of trouble stirring in the passes. Strider was of a mind to take a closer look. We have not seen the worst of it, I fear, though I intend to bring word to him of that great orc which the bear slew, in particular. Never before had I seen the likes of him."
[Morfinion(#26663)]
"I have not seen their likes before," Morfinion says with a shake of his head, glancing towards a group of murmuring Beornings, "But I have heard stories. Orc-men that do not suffer from sunlight and walk without a stoop. Although those may be mere stories I do believe this creature slain by the Bear may be of the same breed. His bones may have been picked clean by the goblins in the mountains - perhaps the shape of his skull will tell to Strider the tale of what he was."
[Thulion(#28108)]
"Perhaps. It would be good to know, also, whether he indeed came out of the moutains, and most importantly... if there are more." With these foreboding words, Thulion breathes a soft sigh, his gaze still focused upon the Beorning man as he recounts his tale to the Pass Guides. "Though from what shall likely remain of him when we return, there may be very little to tell. That man," he nods slightly towards Mobeorn. "Have you seen him before? For I did not mark him the night of the fight, and yet there he was, injured as though in a great battle."
[Morfinion(#26663)]
"I believe I do," Morfinion answers, looking towards Mobeorn, "For I have been this way once before although it was long ago and only tales found me. He is of the skin-changers from the mountains who now dwell in the Vale - the great bear you saw fighting the orc-man was he."
The elder Ranger nods his head decisively and goes back to looking about the Tavern, "And unless these orc-men possess bones made of iron, then their heads will come free of their necks just as easy as those of the goblins. If there are more of them, that is."
Perhaps talk about him makes Mobeorn's ears pick up somehow, for as his conversation seems to be waning with the High Pass Guides, he swivels his head back to the two rangers, brown eyes peering at them over the top of his mug. Then yet again he stands up and limps back to the two men with the aid of his crutch. "There, I have told the Captain of our High Pass guides about the orc I slew. At least this one I was -able- to kill," he frowns. His eyes fix on the men. "You'll forgive me, but the protection of this valley is my first and only loyalty. I heard you mention the name of a man that I know and that is well known and trusted by the Laird...and others who name themselves enemies of the Enemy. What do you know of him? How is it that you mention his name?"
[Morfinion(#26663)]
"Strider is well-trusted amongst us. Our leader," confirms Morfinion with a nod of his head as Mobeorn approaches once again, careful as always to use no proper names or titles, "It does not surprise me that you know his name well ... "
[Thulion(#28108)]
If the elder Ranger's words of the shapechanger surprise Thulion, it is shown only in a faint, yet audible, intake of breath. "Rumours I have heard of them, too," he murmurs, drawing his mug before him. "Yet so many rumours one hears from folk with varying degrees of wit, that I have learned to reserve judgement..."
His words trail off as Mobeorn's attention comes their way, a brow raising curiously at the shapechanger's question. "Is it so unusual that common enemies of the Enemy would know of one another?" He pauses, then nods towards Thistledown at his words. "It is indeed Strider whom we follow."
"You folk are strange and secretive," Mobeorn frowns, studying the two men again, but now it is with more curiosity than suspicion, at least. "Yet I understand the need for that in these dark times." He frowns, pulling over the bench again and having a seat. "Strider it was, with another--Grey--that first warned our folk of this orc that can walk in sunlight. Those two, myself, and a few of my folk went to the valley across the mountains to seek aid in fighting this beast, and the Hir there," he says, using the Sindarin word, "sent such help as he could. Yet even still, this foul beast wounded our numbers sorely--elves and men. And we were forced to retreat through the wilds, in the worst of winter. And now I find this thing that I fought on the pass...is it the same type of orc? What foul beasts has the enemy now sent our way?"
[Morfinion(#26663)]
"A beast not so foul that you cannot defend your lands from it," Morfinion points out to Mobeorn, "And though it wounded you, I saw that you crushed the life out of it and are now wiser still in your methods of how to defeat it should something of that ilk be abroad in the Vale again."
He finishes off what is in his mug and puts it down, "As for secrecy, you speak the truth but I am afraid it is needed and we keep to ourselves out of no ill will for you or your people."
[Thulion(#28108)]
"Questions we, too, seek the answers to," replies Thulion gravely. "If we learn indeed that more of such beasts are about in the lands, warning shall be sent, and what help we can spare be offered." Sighing, he glances down into his mug - some left, but not much at all. He drains it and sets it aside, then looks back to Mobeorn, dropping his voice low. "As you have said and know well, there are men black of heart, and others to be guarded against in the wild. It is as Thistledown says: need drives us to such secrecy, but we shall not keep from you aught which you should know to protect your lands and people."
"It took all my strength and guile to defeat that one," Mobeorn replies, eyes narrowed as he recalls the fight. "More and more, these creatures seem more man-like. Cunning and fell, full of the tricks of the enemy. And yet, I -could- defeat it. But not so with the orc that walked in the sunlight. That one was brazen enough to taunt us--to stand in front of elves and men, bears and dwarves and taunt us and yet still live. Are you..." he frowns again, "are you tracking this thing once more? Last we saw it was away to the south, near what I am told is a stronghold of the enemy. It was from there that we fled, along with the elves and a few men that were fighting with us. We could not stand against this thing, but I will lead you there if you wish. Likely it would be to your deaths--I will warn you of that."
With a long sigh of frustration, Mobeorn pauses to drain the rest of his mead. "Secrecy is, I believe, a tool of the enemy. Yet my kind and I are naturally suspicious." He grins toothily at Thulion. "We are not all that we may seem to the eye."
[Morfinion(#26663)]
Morfinion cannot help but chuckle at the latter statement, nodding his head, "Indeed you are not ... but though your skin changes, your heart stays the same and all foes of the Enemy are our friends. Secrecy is a weapon forged by the Enemy, true, but one that we must use against him all the same lest our movements become known and all hope lost."
The elder Ranger shakes his head at the mention of the orc who walks in the sunlight, "I have heard no such tale of this orc who walks in the sun and we do not often venture so far eastward as we have. Although perhaps, having encountered this beast on the Pass, it would warrant some investigation. We will take word of it and, hopefully, return with news."
[Thulion(#28108)]
The younger Ranger, too, flashes a brief grin at Mobeorn's last words. "So I have learned," he replies, then shifts in his seat to lean one elbow upon the table, and with a sigh, his expression levels out once more. "We did not come eastward with the purpose of tracking the fell orc, but those who know better of the movements of such beasts shall learn of what has passed. I have not before heard of this orc which walks by sunlight, though it would seem there are those among us who have. It is their wisdom which shall guide us in this."
"I do not believe the two are the same--the orc that I slew and the orc that walks in the sun. That one...well, it boasted of its abilities. And it is well known to the man Strider, who first warned us of it, as well as to the elves, who helped us all track it. But this new breed, seemingly, that was on the mountain in this past battle...well...that is news, it would seem. If it was, indeed, a new evil sent our way." Mobeorn stares across the room at the gathering crowd here. "No matter what we throw against this enemy, it seems to come back at us ever more fiercely. The men that have allied themselves with the Laird are fierce and good at heart. But what good is that when even one of my blood can't stand against this new enemy?"
[Morfinion(#26663)]
"But you stood against it," Morfinion answers with a slight inclination of his head, "And if it is indeed the same beast that walks in the sun, then you have defeated it."
He is repeating old words, for certain, but they are nevertheless true, "But Strider will hear tell of what happened ... have you any token of the beast that we might bring to him? That he may recognize?"
[Thulion(#28108)]
Shaking his head a little, Thulion casts a sidelong glance to his kinsman. "It does not seem as though they are one and the same. If the one which walked in daylight stood against elf and bear and our folk, then it was either weakened, or not the same as the one defeated by Mobeorn." The Ranger's expression is grave indeed as he looks back to the shape changer, his lips drawn taught. "And if there are more than one, then there could be others still. I thank you for sharing this with us."
"Not the same foul beast, no. Three times have I stood against the sun-loving orc. Once I thought I slew it, but it returned months later, in fighting form. And three times, the cost to myself or our allies for fighting this creature was near death. This," he taps his wounded knee, "is nothing. No, I would recognize the creature. Though the two orcs may be of the same kind. But I think not. I think, in fact, that your leader needs to know of such things. As for a token..." Mobeorn shakes his head. "It is not our custom to retrieve the heads of our enemies. But if such is what you want, then a patrol of our guides can retrieve it for you. Let me know--I'll speak to their captain directly." Stretching for his crutch, Mobeorn leans forward and then stands up. "If you need me, I can generally be found near the fishing hole in our village or else by the river itself. Good day to you both."
[Morfinion(#26663)]
Morfinion watches Mobeorn go, although the look on his face is a curious one. He then speaks to Thulion, although perhaps loud enough to be heard by animalistic ears, "I think it was the Beornings who recovered the orc-man's weapon. If I were to see it closer, I may be able to learn of its making."
[Thulion(#28108)]
Thulion nods in agreement as he watches the Beorning depart, listening to his kinsman. "Perhaps we might venture to ask where it is being kept. I should not want to go sneaking about among these folk they are suspicious enough as it is. Still, Mobeorn might allow us to look at it, as the knowledge shall aid his people as well. Now truly do I wish to return quickly to the high pass, before all evidence of this strange beast has been carried off or swept away." So saying, he falls silent, gaze resuming is casual scan of the tavern.
[Morfinion(#26663)]
"We shall ask to see it anon," Morfinion says with a nod, "And once I have looked at it I will send word to take back with you to Strider. For I wish to search the lands about the Vale for a few days ... and I will hopefully be able to see if this orc who walks in the sunlight has left a sign."
[Thulion(#28108)]
"That will be best, I think. If Strider thinks there is cause to worry, then like as not we shall see each other soon again," Thulion offers a grim smile to the elder Ranger, then sighing, leans forward in his seat. "Which, I admit," he adds in a quiet voice, "Would make me glad indeed, to travel with the Silvertounged." His gaze flickers, momentarily bright, to his companion. "But now I shall have a look about, I think. We shall find each other soon, to ask of the creature's weapon. Until then, fare well." Rising after a pause, he slips through the growing crowd of the tavern towards the door.
Mad Dog Tavern(#2020Rn)
The door in your hand leans crazily as you give it a stout yank, dragging it open from where it had wedged against its frame. Stepping inside, you come into a squat building three long tables sit astride the floor, and a small fireplace in the rear wall. Small grains of busted crockery crunch underfoot as you walk, remnants of one of the many good-natured brawls that erupt here on just a regular basis.
The crowd is smaller in the day time, but there are still a number of people here... High Pass Guides coming back from a long ride through the dark and deadly valley fishermen bringing their catch to roast on the spit over the fire while they take a draught of ale farmer's sons who have come to town for the day, and are sneaking some of their father's money into a mug of mead.
Real time is: Sun Oct 26 17:35:53 2008 - Weather in the Beorning realm is: OVERCAST
Elendor time is: Early Afternoon <14:47:39 > on Sunday of Spring - April 16, 3045
It has now been several days since the fight on the High Pass, and the ragged band of travelers and Beornings have had time to lick their wounds, so to speak, after limping their way into the Beorning village. For one of that group--Mobeorn--the limping was literal, as the man was not able to put weight on his left leg, where the orc's hammer had broken the bone. The healers of Beorning, though, are well skilled, for the shapechanger has been up and about again, albeit with a crutch under his left arm to aid his walking. Still, each day the man seems to be putting more and more weight on the leg, and relying less on the crutch, healing quickly, it might seem.
Today, in fact, Mobeorn has limped his way into the Mad Dog Tavern. There are a handful of Beornings here--farmers' sons and some High Pass guards eager to hear the tale of what happened on the pass and how Mobeorn came to have a newly scarred face. Still, the fine April weather has kept the place emptier than usual, the locals only now starting to trickle in more as the day nears a close.
[Morfinion(#26663)]
Rowdy taverns would, in theory, house fewer people interested in knowing precisely where someone comes from and why they are here. Whether this proves true in practice or not is something that Morfinion has decided to test, having set himself amidst the gloom that gathers in the corners not reached by the light in the fireplace. Not overly secret or withdrawn is he, merely observant and quiet as he nurses a long-needed drink.
[<#28108>] Eager for news as the Beornings may be, not enough so to prod the dark stranger who has settled himself with Morfinion in a dark corner, nursing a tankard of his own. His hood cast back, the one known only as 'Lee' contents himself to watch the comings and goings, unashamedly listening in on whatever bits of gossip float his way. He takes a draught of his own mead, then looks up as the lame Beorning pushes through the door. Raising his mug towards Mobeorn, the Ranger nods once to him by way of greeting, then turns his head aside to speak in a low murmur to his kinsman. "Any ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...?" One brow twitches slightly upward, inquiringly.
There are more than a few shouts from the locals as Mobeorn makes his way into the tavern, so that the shapechanger seems to not here or notice "Lee's" greeting at first--and gets himself well settled at one of the tables, and set up with a mug of mead. Soon he is pressed into telling his tale, the entirety of which could certainly be heard by all in the tavern, as the men question him repeatedly for details.
"Well, yes, there were several of them--short and squat kind of men, not from Dale or hereabouts at all, it would seem. Some foolhardy drive to find gold or some precious metal on the mountain..." Mobeorn snorts, taking a long drink of the mead. "Should've let them all die, but there were orcs to be had, including a large one the likes of which I've never seen around here before. Needed all the help I could get against him, in fact--makes me wonder if he was like that orc that walked in daylight that was so treacherous to us....."
The beijabaar twists around on his bench, scanning the tavern. "There was an elf with us..he might know...."
[Morfinion(#26663)]
"No word has reached me," comes Morfinion's soft-spoken reply, eyes still fixed on the gathering within the tavern, "Though I would wager we alone of our number suffice to journey east over the Mountains. There are other duties to be attended to."
He does indeed listen to Mobeorn's tale from his place by the fire, although he includes no story of his own. He has indeed heard rumors of such strange breeds of orc but this was indeed his first time in laying eyes upon one and until several days ago he was unaware of the truth in the stories of 'orc-men'.
"Has your path brought you this way before?" Morfinion, or 'Thistlewool' as he is known in the wild, asks of 'Lee'.
[<#28108>] "Nay," answers 'Lee' softly, leaning back and returning his attention to the ongoing tale across the tavern. He frowns a little at the mention of the strange, day-walking orc, but the expression is quickly hidden by his raised mug. "... ... been ... ... ... ... west," he says at length again to 'Thistlewool'. "... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... on ... ... passes. ... ... ... found, ...." He breathes a weary sigh, sipping again from his mug.
The shapechanger finds no elf in the tavern, but his eyes do fall on the two rangers. Mobeorn's hearing is quite sharp, animal-like, and his eyes narrow slightly as Morfinion speaks of 'our numbers.' Swinging his legs over the bench and onto the floor, Mobeorn grabs his crutch with his left hand, his mead still in his right--and then he hops on over toward the two men, not caring that mead splashes on his wrist and fingers as he does so. "Good afternoon..."
[Morfinion(#26663)]
All manner of human expression, narrowed eyes to partial frowns, never go unchecked by the Men of the Dunedain. Careful of emotion when they see it, the skin-changer's facial expression coupled with his sudden approach give 'Thistlewool' cause to look purposefully more relaxed and take a draught of his beverage in a less restrained fashion.
"Good afternoon to you," he answers in return, a thicker drawl reminiscent of the Breelands creeping into his speech although not too much as to sound unrealistic.
[Thulion(#28108)]
"Greetings," comes Lee's low, but not unfriendly reply, accompanied by another dip of his head. Already reclined back in his seat as he is, little does the younger Ranger have to do to look at his ease. Resting his mug upon the table with a soft clunk, his grey eyes flick up and down the Beorning once. "You are healing well, I trust?" He asks casually, but not overly so, the particular accent to his speech no different than it had been days before: hard to place, but certainly from West of the Misties. "And the young woman, is she recovering?"
Many eyes in the tavern now turn to follow Mobeorn as he limps over, looks of curiousity mixed with suspicion now cross the faces of the men gathered in here. Neither is the shapechanger apparently able to dissemble: Open suspicion rests on his face now, too.
Reaching a hand out for a bench, Mobeorn drags it over and sits, crutch leaned against a table. "I am better, and Cecilia..." he frowns. "I need to check on her again. The girl is poorly off. Would that the elf that was here was skilled in healing....they have been known to help us in the past, and even taught her some of their skills, I believe." He lets that statement linger for a while, drinking his mead and studying the two men. "Now. Let us be frank with each other, yes? You fought with us. You seem to be foes of the enemy. The elf did not know you," he says to Thulion, "and yet noted that you had fought the enemy while traveling with him? Who are you? Where are you from? And what of your 'number' are you expecting here?"
[Morfinion(#26663)]
"I'm Thistlewool," comes Morfinion's answer to the question in that Breeland accent, and a hand gestures sidelong to Thulion, "And this be Lee. We had no intention of raising your ire and we'll be on our way if that is what your folk will. As for who we are and where we come from, well, that is easily answered. We come from west of here over the mountains, though we dwell no place particular. Here and there we roam and indeed our Enemy is a shared one. Our number are those who travel like us although we do not often travel the same roads ... we are most usually alone. Although we do not begrudge the company of our kinsfolk when we can get it."
"He knew us not, that is true, but he knows of our kin and we of his."
[Thulion(#28108)]
"Less often still are our roads brought hither, east of the mountains," Thulion adds to his kinsman's words, looking to Mobeorn with a nod. "We expect no others to join us here, so you need not worry. As for myself, I shall likely be returning westward sooner than not, though I cannot answer for Thistlewool here. We thank you, all the same, for the courtesy you and your Laird have shown us, in allowing us to travel through your lands." Lifting his mug then, he raises it as if in toast to Mobeorn, takes a long sip, then replaces it upon the table.
"I see..." Mobeorn grumbles, looking more closely at each lands. "Fancy words...but you'll find, sirs, that deeds speak louder than words in these lands and that there are eyes to watch. Still...I have no reason to be suspicious of either of you. And men...such as you...have come through here before and proved themselves well. So it is that the Laird of our lands has asked me to tell you that you may stay here, given that you helped us on the Pass." He struggles to his feet again, finding his crutch to support him. "I must tell the rest of what we encountered to our High Pass guides," he says, jerking his head toward the men on the other side of the room. "They wish to hear more about the orc that I killed. You're welcome to join us. Or not--as you wish. Noone will disturb you, though I should warn you--we neither hunt, nor use the skin nor meat of animals in these lands." WIth that he hobbles back across the room again to speak to the growing group of Beornings gathering in the tavern.
[Morfinion(#26663)]
Morfinion watches Mobeorn depart, lifting his mug as well and then glancing sidelong towards Thulion. He lifts his shoulders in a slight shrug, speaking up as though to say, "I am most likely to travel westward as well. Although chances are that I will tarry here a few days before crossing the Pass once more."
[Thulion(#28108)]
Lifting his mead once again, Thulion sips at it thoughtfully, his gaze following Mobeorn back across the tavern. At length, he nods. "Then perhaps our paths shall not be sundered for a little while yet. That may be well, for we may not find the High Pass to have remained clear in our absence." His voice drops low again, though he keeps passive interest upon the tale at hand, his expression little changing. "Ere I departed for the mountains, news came of trouble stirring in the passes. Strider was of a mind to take a closer look. We have not seen the worst of it, I fear, though I intend to bring word to him of that great orc which the bear slew, in particular. Never before had I seen the likes of him."
[Morfinion(#26663)]
"I have not seen their likes before," Morfinion says with a shake of his head, glancing towards a group of murmuring Beornings, "But I have heard stories. Orc-men that do not suffer from sunlight and walk without a stoop. Although those may be mere stories I do believe this creature slain by the Bear may be of the same breed. His bones may have been picked clean by the goblins in the mountains - perhaps the shape of his skull will tell to Strider the tale of what he was."
[Thulion(#28108)]
"Perhaps. It would be good to know, also, whether he indeed came out of the moutains, and most importantly... if there are more." With these foreboding words, Thulion breathes a soft sigh, his gaze still focused upon the Beorning man as he recounts his tale to the Pass Guides. "Though from what shall likely remain of him when we return, there may be very little to tell. That man," he nods slightly towards Mobeorn. "Have you seen him before? For I did not mark him the night of the fight, and yet there he was, injured as though in a great battle."
[Morfinion(#26663)]
"I believe I do," Morfinion answers, looking towards Mobeorn, "For I have been this way once before although it was long ago and only tales found me. He is of the skin-changers from the mountains who now dwell in the Vale - the great bear you saw fighting the orc-man was he."
The elder Ranger nods his head decisively and goes back to looking about the Tavern, "And unless these orc-men possess bones made of iron, then their heads will come free of their necks just as easy as those of the goblins. If there are more of them, that is."
Perhaps talk about him makes Mobeorn's ears pick up somehow, for as his conversation seems to be waning with the High Pass Guides, he swivels his head back to the two rangers, brown eyes peering at them over the top of his mug. Then yet again he stands up and limps back to the two men with the aid of his crutch. "There, I have told the Captain of our High Pass guides about the orc I slew. At least this one I was -able- to kill," he frowns. His eyes fix on the men. "You'll forgive me, but the protection of this valley is my first and only loyalty. I heard you mention the name of a man that I know and that is well known and trusted by the Laird...and others who name themselves enemies of the Enemy. What do you know of him? How is it that you mention his name?"
[Morfinion(#26663)]
"Strider is well-trusted amongst us. Our leader," confirms Morfinion with a nod of his head as Mobeorn approaches once again, careful as always to use no proper names or titles, "It does not surprise me that you know his name well ... "
[Thulion(#28108)]
If the elder Ranger's words of the shapechanger surprise Thulion, it is shown only in a faint, yet audible, intake of breath. "Rumours I have heard of them, too," he murmurs, drawing his mug before him. "Yet so many rumours one hears from folk with varying degrees of wit, that I have learned to reserve judgement..."
His words trail off as Mobeorn's attention comes their way, a brow raising curiously at the shapechanger's question. "Is it so unusual that common enemies of the Enemy would know of one another?" He pauses, then nods towards Thistledown at his words. "It is indeed Strider whom we follow."
"You folk are strange and secretive," Mobeorn frowns, studying the two men again, but now it is with more curiosity than suspicion, at least. "Yet I understand the need for that in these dark times." He frowns, pulling over the bench again and having a seat. "Strider it was, with another--Grey--that first warned our folk of this orc that can walk in sunlight. Those two, myself, and a few of my folk went to the valley across the mountains to seek aid in fighting this beast, and the Hir there," he says, using the Sindarin word, "sent such help as he could. Yet even still, this foul beast wounded our numbers sorely--elves and men. And we were forced to retreat through the wilds, in the worst of winter. And now I find this thing that I fought on the pass...is it the same type of orc? What foul beasts has the enemy now sent our way?"
[Morfinion(#26663)]
"A beast not so foul that you cannot defend your lands from it," Morfinion points out to Mobeorn, "And though it wounded you, I saw that you crushed the life out of it and are now wiser still in your methods of how to defeat it should something of that ilk be abroad in the Vale again."
He finishes off what is in his mug and puts it down, "As for secrecy, you speak the truth but I am afraid it is needed and we keep to ourselves out of no ill will for you or your people."
[Thulion(#28108)]
"Questions we, too, seek the answers to," replies Thulion gravely. "If we learn indeed that more of such beasts are about in the lands, warning shall be sent, and what help we can spare be offered." Sighing, he glances down into his mug - some left, but not much at all. He drains it and sets it aside, then looks back to Mobeorn, dropping his voice low. "As you have said and know well, there are men black of heart, and others to be guarded against in the wild. It is as Thistledown says: need drives us to such secrecy, but we shall not keep from you aught which you should know to protect your lands and people."
"It took all my strength and guile to defeat that one," Mobeorn replies, eyes narrowed as he recalls the fight. "More and more, these creatures seem more man-like. Cunning and fell, full of the tricks of the enemy. And yet, I -could- defeat it. But not so with the orc that walked in the sunlight. That one was brazen enough to taunt us--to stand in front of elves and men, bears and dwarves and taunt us and yet still live. Are you..." he frowns again, "are you tracking this thing once more? Last we saw it was away to the south, near what I am told is a stronghold of the enemy. It was from there that we fled, along with the elves and a few men that were fighting with us. We could not stand against this thing, but I will lead you there if you wish. Likely it would be to your deaths--I will warn you of that."
With a long sigh of frustration, Mobeorn pauses to drain the rest of his mead. "Secrecy is, I believe, a tool of the enemy. Yet my kind and I are naturally suspicious." He grins toothily at Thulion. "We are not all that we may seem to the eye."
[Morfinion(#26663)]
Morfinion cannot help but chuckle at the latter statement, nodding his head, "Indeed you are not ... but though your skin changes, your heart stays the same and all foes of the Enemy are our friends. Secrecy is a weapon forged by the Enemy, true, but one that we must use against him all the same lest our movements become known and all hope lost."
The elder Ranger shakes his head at the mention of the orc who walks in the sunlight, "I have heard no such tale of this orc who walks in the sun and we do not often venture so far eastward as we have. Although perhaps, having encountered this beast on the Pass, it would warrant some investigation. We will take word of it and, hopefully, return with news."
[Thulion(#28108)]
The younger Ranger, too, flashes a brief grin at Mobeorn's last words. "So I have learned," he replies, then shifts in his seat to lean one elbow upon the table, and with a sigh, his expression levels out once more. "We did not come eastward with the purpose of tracking the fell orc, but those who know better of the movements of such beasts shall learn of what has passed. I have not before heard of this orc which walks by sunlight, though it would seem there are those among us who have. It is their wisdom which shall guide us in this."
"I do not believe the two are the same--the orc that I slew and the orc that walks in the sun. That one...well, it boasted of its abilities. And it is well known to the man Strider, who first warned us of it, as well as to the elves, who helped us all track it. But this new breed, seemingly, that was on the mountain in this past battle...well...that is news, it would seem. If it was, indeed, a new evil sent our way." Mobeorn stares across the room at the gathering crowd here. "No matter what we throw against this enemy, it seems to come back at us ever more fiercely. The men that have allied themselves with the Laird are fierce and good at heart. But what good is that when even one of my blood can't stand against this new enemy?"
[Morfinion(#26663)]
"But you stood against it," Morfinion answers with a slight inclination of his head, "And if it is indeed the same beast that walks in the sun, then you have defeated it."
He is repeating old words, for certain, but they are nevertheless true, "But Strider will hear tell of what happened ... have you any token of the beast that we might bring to him? That he may recognize?"
[Thulion(#28108)]
Shaking his head a little, Thulion casts a sidelong glance to his kinsman. "It does not seem as though they are one and the same. If the one which walked in daylight stood against elf and bear and our folk, then it was either weakened, or not the same as the one defeated by Mobeorn." The Ranger's expression is grave indeed as he looks back to the shape changer, his lips drawn taught. "And if there are more than one, then there could be others still. I thank you for sharing this with us."
"Not the same foul beast, no. Three times have I stood against the sun-loving orc. Once I thought I slew it, but it returned months later, in fighting form. And three times, the cost to myself or our allies for fighting this creature was near death. This," he taps his wounded knee, "is nothing. No, I would recognize the creature. Though the two orcs may be of the same kind. But I think not. I think, in fact, that your leader needs to know of such things. As for a token..." Mobeorn shakes his head. "It is not our custom to retrieve the heads of our enemies. But if such is what you want, then a patrol of our guides can retrieve it for you. Let me know--I'll speak to their captain directly." Stretching for his crutch, Mobeorn leans forward and then stands up. "If you need me, I can generally be found near the fishing hole in our village or else by the river itself. Good day to you both."
[Morfinion(#26663)]
Morfinion watches Mobeorn go, although the look on his face is a curious one. He then speaks to Thulion, although perhaps loud enough to be heard by animalistic ears, "I think it was the Beornings who recovered the orc-man's weapon. If I were to see it closer, I may be able to learn of its making."
[Thulion(#28108)]
Thulion nods in agreement as he watches the Beorning depart, listening to his kinsman. "Perhaps we might venture to ask where it is being kept. I should not want to go sneaking about among these folk they are suspicious enough as it is. Still, Mobeorn might allow us to look at it, as the knowledge shall aid his people as well. Now truly do I wish to return quickly to the high pass, before all evidence of this strange beast has been carried off or swept away." So saying, he falls silent, gaze resuming is casual scan of the tavern.
[Morfinion(#26663)]
"We shall ask to see it anon," Morfinion says with a nod, "And once I have looked at it I will send word to take back with you to Strider. For I wish to search the lands about the Vale for a few days ... and I will hopefully be able to see if this orc who walks in the sunlight has left a sign."
[Thulion(#28108)]
"That will be best, I think. If Strider thinks there is cause to worry, then like as not we shall see each other soon again," Thulion offers a grim smile to the elder Ranger, then sighing, leans forward in his seat. "Which, I admit," he adds in a quiet voice, "Would make me glad indeed, to travel with the Silvertounged." His gaze flickers, momentarily bright, to his companion. "But now I shall have a look about, I think. We shall find each other soon, to ask of the creature's weapon. Until then, fare well." Rising after a pause, he slips through the growing crowd of the tavern towards the door.
Players: Thulion,Morfinion,Mobeorn
