(Archive) Dancing Along the Edge of Truth

Elendor - Tuesday, January 08, 2002, 8:46 PM

--------------------------------Isengard Time---------------------------------

Real time is: Tue Jan 08 18:54:05 2002 - Elendor time is

Before Dawn on a Clear Spring Hevensday, March 30, 3025

Old South Road - Dunland <>

The grey highlands pass by to the east, and beyond the Misty Mountains. The road is hard packed, but given to gulleys where the rains cut deep slashes across it. Grim stones rise from the earth here and there. It is too dark around you to make out much of anything.

The sky is clear and the stars shines brightly. The before dawn spring air is warm and dry around you. The moon is waning gibbous.

Contents:

Tahrodn

Small Camp(#19074aehntM)

Obvious exits:

 East leads to Dunland <>.

 South leads to Old South Road - Dunland <>.

 North leads to Old South Road - Dunland <>.

 [Tahrodn(#6174)] The day has newly dawned, the sun is dim in the sky and the air is frigid this morn. The March air blows over the Old South Road like a scornful old man, barking its discomfort at everyone in its way. There is little escape for such in the current season, but at least one does not seem to mind as much as others.

Standing at the outskirt of the camp, the man that happened upon the camp a day ago watches the sky fade from dark to light. His hood is cast from his head, the warm breathes merging with cold air, causing a gray cloud of air seen from his mouth.

The flap of a small tent set slightly aside from the others slowly rises as Lady Aearwen peeks out at the dawn. Yawning behind one hand, she slowly steps out from the protection of her tent and draws a dark cloak over her shoulders. Long wisps of auburn hair are slightly untamed this morning, as the noblewoman has not drawn it into a tidy chignon as usual. Walking to the dwindling fire she plucks a few twigs from a pile of firewood and throws them on the embers. Stooping to watch the twigs catch fire she glances around curiously at those already up.

 [Tahrodn(#6174)] Peering across Dunland, across the rolling hills and high grass, the 'nameless' man gives no attention to that of the camp. The brown cloaked figure steps toward the southern direction before stopping suddenly, and with a jerk he draws forth the long and curved blade. Holding it with both hands, he points the tip in the direction he is facing, south. Unlike the withdrawal of the sword, he makes another movement, slow and exaggerated. Lifting the sword over his head, the man mutters several words quite incoherent to those not close by. Again he makes a fast motion, driving the blade into the partially froze ground.

Turning slowly on her heels, Aearwen watches this nameless man and his swordplay. The cerulean eyes of the beauty follow the graceful lines of the sword as it thrusts and parries with an invisible opponent. One brow raises sharply as the blade is driven into the partially frozen ground, her words a bit droll as she says, "I should think it will take a whet stone a few hours of work to once again sharpen the tip so that it may pierce your enemies easily. Rising to her feet the noblewoman approaches the -stranger-, one hand motions to the blade as she inquires, "May I?"

 

[Tahrodn(#6174)] Without turning, the stranger's voice retorts, "If you wish. I am not sentimental over a piece of steel like some." He shrugs afterward, pulling the hood over his head as he does so, his gaze ever fixed toward the south, and Dunland. Stepping past the blade, he allows Aearwen to handle it by moving out from between the sword and the camp.

Nodding her head at the curious man, Aearwen waits until he has stepped back from the weapon before she deftly pulls it from the partially frozen ground. A bit of dirt clings to the tip and just as carefully she wipes the soil upon the hem of her leather riding skirt. Measuring the weight of the weapon with one hand, then the other, a smile curves her lips as she remarks, "There is sentiment and then there is respect. I choose the latter." Quickly, the blade slices through the air in a whistling motion as Aearwen tests the sword of the stranger.

 [Tahrodn(#6174)] He turns, finally, at the sound of the blade cutting through the air. "A curved blade," the man notes, taking a step toward Aearwen. His arm lifts, point toward the design, "You see. Quite uncommon." For some reason, he smiles to that, "As are many things here." The smile turns into a chuckle, drawing his hand back toward his side. "It is not often that woman go about traveling through Eriador. From your complexion you are not Dunlending, I would say. You do not seem to stumble with Westron either." His smile and laughter slowly fades, "Quite admirable qualities."

A slender finger runs along the curved edge of the blade as the noblewoman says, "Perhaps the curve of the blade is common -here-, but I have seen others in another place with such curved blades. Loathsome, heavier weapons, granted, but none the less, still carrying the graceful curve." Laughing softly in response to the man's words, Aearwen remarks, "I would garner there are not many women that dare to travel through Eriador, instead preferring the simplicity of embroidery and tea in the parlor." Tipping her head she murmurs, "I shall accept your comment in good taste as is your blade." With that she slices the blade once more through the air, a quick thrust and stab, the metal flashing in the sunlight.

 [Tahrodn(#6174)] "Indeed," answers the stranger, "You speak of goblin-kind." Taking another step toward the woman, he extends his hand, palm high. "And no, the blade is not common throughout Eriador." He awaits the return of the blade, "But, as you are not, I am not ... common. As so many others through these miserable lands." He quickly grows silent, "The scenery almost makes one forget about it all."

Answering vaguely, Aearwen offers, "True. Those of the goblins are also curved, but I speak more along the lines of those that the Southrons carry." A white handkerchief is withdrawn from the depths of a pocket in her skirt and one hand shines the curved blade before she offers it back to its owner. Glancing at the man again, her eyes study him for a moment before she says, "I would be interested in knowing exactly -who- you are and why such a fuss was raised when you entered the camp"

 [Tahrodn(#6174)] He receives the blade, taking it by the hilt, and while tossing his cloak from his side, he slides the blade back into its scabbard. "Oh. That." He shrugs, "I stole a woman that Vardaen took a fancy to once. Never has been able to forgive me I guess." He grins, "He is Dunlending, after all. They have a difficult time letting go of petty things such as that."

[Vardaen(#20419)]

Riding at the fore front of a small group comes Vardaen. He returns from the east, behind him comes the wagon of good Daniel promised, as well as a small group of Stag Laoch loyal to Daniel. The small group rolls down the last rise, Vardaen riding on ahead. Comming to the edge of the camp he dismounts quickly, crossing to those gathered. "Bullshit Tahrodn..." he shouts to the man, "You took nothing of value from anyone except for the Master. Quit your lies."

The tinkling of laughter sounds akin to the ringing of a silver bell as Aearwen shakes her head, "You seek to throw me from my path of inquiry. Good parry, oh nameless one." Gazing at a rabbit as it bounds across the barren ground she says, "I should hardly think the loss of a woman reason enough to ....did you say Dunlending?" The arrival of Vardaen stills her words as Aearwen turns to him, "Pray tell. Who is this Master? And what did he take?" Her voice holds scorn as she says, "You men speak in such riddles, do either of you know the truth from a lie?"

[Tahrodn(#6174)] "Vardaen," he turns, looking toward the name he speaks. "I did not say I took anything of value." Upon his face, a grin remains poised, "I am nameless, for now," he agrees, "But I hold title." Looking back from Vardaen, he gestures toward Vardaen, "I am called ... the Master of the Marshes." The title is old, perhaps a decade, and have not been heard upon these lands in such a timespan. He starts off on a new tangent quickly, "Now, Vardaen's 'rules'," he says, chuckles shortly, "Says we cannot speak of that. And we actually agree on something, for once."

Vardaen stands still for a moment. "We agree on two things... /she/ wasn't worth anything." Rubbing his brow, he removes some grit and grim from it, the wagon rolls closer to the camp nearly here. "Aearwen, either you play your role well, or you haven't not been paying attention. I hope it is the former. Either way we will be setting out very soon. Once Daniel and I can talk, and square up some details, we will all be leaving." With a look to Tahrodn, "If you are truely comming with us, you will need a name. I will not refer to you as the master of anything. Your father may have been the self-stlyed Lord of the Barrow Downs, but you are not him, not even close to his twisted bit honor-bound mentality."

Quickly boring of the talk about things she neither understands nor is interested in, the noblewoman reaches for her hair and easily divides the long mass into three long strands and begins to weave her hair into a tight braid. When finished, Aearwen reaches into her pocket and withdraws a brightly coloured ribbon of blue and ties off the end. Satisfied that she is at least partially groomed, the woman whistles softly to herself as she half listens to the talk of Vardaen and his -friend-. At the mention of something interesting she says, "the self-styled Lord of the Barrow Downs. Now -that- sounds like a story that is worth hearing"

 [Tahrodn(#6174)] Again, the 'nameless' shrugs, "Indeed, not worth anything. Either way, I think you have my parentage quit mixed. I know nothing of a Lord of the Barrow Downs, and I do know who my father is." He rolls his eyes, "Unlike many I know," he comments, "I suppose the wise of age is correct," he says, waving a hand through the air. "A name ... a name," he ponders, his train of thought interupted by Aearwen. "Oh. That is nothing. A spook story invented by Dunlendings."

Vardaen laughs, "Ah yes, still you pretend that you don't know who you are. You've read his book, you know well enough Tahrodn. If not, I am sure of it. Atleast you look like him if nothing else." He sits by the fire, "Let me tell you this Lady, if not for Tet'nak the "Lord of the Barrow Downs" things in Dunland would be far different. My work would have been completed years ago, and Orthanc would rule this country in peace and civility. They would bow to the Tower..." he adds a side note, "...and that would mean to the Steward in Gondor."

[Tahrodn(#6174)] "Oh Vardaen," mockingly cries the other man, "Please. We both know Tet'Nak never existed. You use Dunlending mythology to fabricate crazed ideas about the Master's loyal subject." With a quick glance to the woman, he says, "Dunland is a crazed bunch, I am not sure they ever could be ruled without war. But Vardaen has tried, for long has he tried, and still it roams wild. I tried, and succeded for a time. Vardaen jealousy ruined that, and I returned to Enedwaith until I was called upon once more by the Master to serve."

Vardaen stands back up, "That's enough Tahrodn. I may be your elder, but I'm not senile! I still have enough left in me to send you back home with a sore bottom, like any misbehaving child deserves." He points to Tahrodn, and motions for him to get up and come closer. "Either you listen to me, and hold your lieing tongue, or you can march yourself right back /home/ and forget about this little redemtion trip of your. Understood?"

Watching the conversation with a little more interest as Orthanc and Gondor are mentioned within a breath of each other, the noblewoman rests upon the stump of a tree. Drawing a dagger from somewhere beneath the fold of her skirts she idly tosses it at the trunk of a nearby tree taking aim at a knot in the middle. The dagger whistles through the air and bites into the bark, the blade quivering before it comes to a complete rest. Aearwen rises from her seated position and walks to where her dagger is, easily withdrawing it from the bark, her eyes fall upon the men as they continue their talk.

Shrugging one shoulder she offers to the nameless one, "I know little of Dunlending and her peoples. And as far as Vardaen's mission, I know not what that truly comprises. I am simply along for the ride, per the request of Saruman."

[Tahrodn(#6174)] Lift both hands, 'the nameless one' beckons Vardaen's halt. "Easy there, Vardaen. Do not strain yourself." He gives Aearwen a short glance, coyly faking shock, "I wish you would not play school master. I recall the last time we ... played ... you ended up with the sore bottom." He sighs, "Whatever. He ignores Vardaen, turning from him completely, "I can teach you the lore of these lands, if you wish it," the young man offers. "I think it may serve us all well before our trip is through."

[Vardaen(#20419)]

The wagon rolls into camp, the men come in seeking Daniel. Vardaen shakes his head to Tahrodn, "Careful boy, or you'll be dead before this trip is over." He crosses towards the wagons, "Lady, listen well to his fairy tales, but do not trust them. Of course now that the goods are here, we can set out." He shouts to the camp, "We leave in the morning, be ready!" He joins the new arrrivals in checking the goods, and finishing up the details.

Again the ornate handled blade whistles through the air as Lady Aearwen takes aim at the knot in the tree. *Thunk* The blade bites sharply into the trunk as a smile plays across the lips of the noblewoman. Again, she retrieves the dagger, one finger carefully tracing the carvings of horses and dragons upon the hilt. To the nameless one she offers, "I should like to hear the lore of these lands....be they fairy tales or true." Nodding to Vardaen she says, "The morning shall not come soon enough, I grow weary of this barren place" Perching atop the tree stump she turns her gaze to the stranger, eagerly awaiting tales of lore.

 [Tahrodn(#6174)] "End up dead?" gasps the younger, "Is not that something." He sighs, "What hostility. You would think him Dunlending or something," he winks at Aearwen. "But, Vardaen is right about one thing, we need to set off soon. Dunland is not hospitable to travelers." He turns, heading toward the tents without word.