Elendor
Beornings, Elves, and Rangers, oh my!
Visiting with the Rangers and Elves on a military assistance visit, surprise, emotion, drama, and all else occur.
Sort Date: no date set
Location: Imladhris
Description: Elendor - Monday, August 25, 2008, 10:57 AM
Open Meadow - Crossroads
Dimly around you you can make out forest to the north, the bulk of the House to the south, and cliffs rising up to the west. In the center of the meadow is a large tree. The colours of the meadow are all washed into the deep indigos and blacks of night.
Morning has drifted into late morning, and late morning is nearly easing into the noon hour, but not quite. After having had a lengthy conversation with the ellon Galharth, Lithiugelir now walks towards the old Oak tree. He is not alone, but with another man of simular height and coloring, though Rhifaroth's tattooed skin and scarred, weathered features and thinness set him apart from his distant cousin.
The harper is speaking in a low voice and gesturing with his hands to the other man, then motions to the tree as though beckoning the other man to take a seat. Lith does as well, glancing around as he settles himself.
Arthamon appears shortly after. His cloak is drawn tightly about his broad form. The brooch that he has long cared for hangs crookedly as jingles as he strolls towards Harper and Seeker. Turning to Rhifaroth, his smile broadens and he sits down. "Friend Rhifaroth. How do you fare this day?" Next he turns to Lithiugelir and bows his head. "Lith, there is something I wished to ask you? Can you spare a moment?"
There are a series of low slung, earth-colored tents pitched somewhat back from the oak, in the meadow, and by them stands Mobeorn, stretching and looking about, hair tossled and stuck with a few pieces of grass as if the beijabar has been sleeping in the meadows. He ywans, watches the approach of Lith and "Seeker," and then heads their way.
Rhifaroth has not come empty handed. He takes a seat at the base of the old oak tree and has a writing kit with himself, including a small, smooth board to lay in his lap upon which he now draws out and arranges parchment and an inkwell.
The scarred and tattooed Dunadan whom 'Wanderer' addresses first, tips his head back to study the new arrival, but Rhifaroth does not know Arthamon. He distinctly frowns at the stranger, a Ranger or not, and by his body language does not encourage over friendliness with the wary, distrustful look he gives Arthamon. Infact, Rhifaroth studies the other cautiously, but says nothing in return to the greeting.
Lithiugelir had just taken a seat himself, but now makes to get himself back up again, "Of course, Wanderer. My ear is yours..." and glancing back to Rhifaroth, the harper adds quickly, "I'll only be a moment. Please excuse me - I will not go far."
Then, stepping towards Arthamon, he gestures to go to the far side of the broad Oak's trunk. A nod is passed to Mobeorn as that one is seen starting in their general direction.
As Lithiugelier heads to speak to Arthamon, Mobeorn pauses--obviously not wanting to intrude on a conversation between the two men. This leaves him somewhere between the oak tree and Beorning campsite--looking between the two. He frowns briefly, considering, then walks toward the oak tree, but stays out of earshot, trying to be polite. "Morning, or afternoon," he grins briefly greeting Seeker as he nearas that man. Still, though, he hesitates, not about to intrude on the injured man, either.
"I forgot that Rhifaroth does not know me by name," Arthamon whispers to Lithiugelir, "I did introduce myself to him a couple days ago, but he did not seem to notice...anyway, I just had a question for you." Before coming behind the tree he turns and smiles at Mobeorn. "Hail Mobeorn of the Beornings," he says warmly before disappearing on the far side of the tree.
The starry late night sky above the cliffs is mostly clear with light, puffy clouds scattered about. The Misty Mountains loom against the sky in the east, shadows against the stars. Occasional clouds float across the waxing crescent moon as it hangs over the valley. Its glow makes the cliffs all around stand out in the night, and they seem to illuminate the valley all the more.
Rhifaroth's gaze slips to Mobeorn and studies that tall, tall man. Tall even compared to the Dunedain. For the moment, the tattooed man seems sharp and focused, aware of what is going on around himself. At the other's vague but polite greeting, Rhifaroth inclines his head politely in turn but says nothing.
Now that inkwell, parchment, and quill are laid out upon the writing board in his lap, Rhifaroth now directs his hands to draw forth the last things from his writing kit. A small Bree made clay pipe, a pouch of tobacco, and a freshwater clamshell with a hinge. Within a moment, the spicy smell of pipeweed, as yet unlit, begins to scent the near air as a few pinches are carefully packed and tamped into Rhifaroth's pipe.
Though he is missing a finger on his right hand, the man is clearly right handed and seems to be having no particular difficulty.
Nodding, the Harper joins Arthamon and asks in a low voice, "What's on your mind, friend?"
Voices drifting on the breeze act like honey to a bee and a figure tip toes around a tent. And then another tent. And then another tent. Almost. The final tent, closest to the conversation relative to the location of the campsite, offers some resistance to the eavesdropping individual whose skirts do not seem to want to co-operate. At least not with the person. As if in planned and rehearsed concert, the gown snags on a tent stake, sticking out far too much and quite sneakily from the side of the natural and mobile home dwelling.
"Rrrrmm!" a voice grunts before its owning lips come into certain introduction with the ground beneath. The effort of the fall was strong enough that the tent decided to elaborate on the loud, obnoxious and dramatic scene just now occurring. Fortunately for the individual, it was a personal tent, and not that large. Unfortunately, there was likely little the unknown stranger could do to retract the unintended circumstance. So much for grace and elegance in the presence of classy folk.
'Wanderer' smiles and speaks softly. "" He looks suspiciously from side to side, then lays his gaze back on Harper.
It is good that Arthamon has come aside with him and keeps his voice low for Lithiugelir holds up a hand to the other man, his own voice a whisper, "Watch your tongue. There are strangers here in the Valley, friend."
And, still making his point by speaking in low Westron so that his words to not carry, the harper then says, "I will go to Bree, of course. Things are a foot there. And yourself?"
A glance he spares also for those who are nearest, keeping his words for Arthamon alone.
The scent of the pipeweed makes Mobeorn's nose tickle, and one large hand goes up to his face to rub at his twitching nose. "Never did understand why folks would want to breathe in smoke with that stuff," he addresses Rhifaroth, watching the man carefully take out pipeweed. "Take my friend over there, the harper Lith. Loves that pipeweed, though I say the stench of it gets in your nose and stops you from smelling the orcs where they're hiding." He snorts a little at that.
Noise from the Beorning camp draws his attention, of course, and he looks up at the sound of a grunt. Amusement grows steadily on his face as he watches the Beorning woman get more and more entangled with the tent. "Allis..." he shakes his head, trying not to laugh as woman meets ground. "Dressing up fancy to try to impress the elves, likely. Are you all right, lass?" he then calls.
The whisperings of the two Dunedain drift to Mobeorn's ears, more than likely, but the beijabar doesn't seem to notice the conversation at all.
Mobeorn's speech about pipeweed regains the seated Dunadan's attention. Rhifaroth looks at the other and then smiles just a little bit with amusement.
There is an interruption in his pipe preparation as a woman trips and falls on her face, over by the tents. A black brow arches for a moment but as she seems to have come to no real harm, Rhifaroth goes back to what he was doing. The clamshell contains a smoldering coal packed in saw dust. This he uses carefully to tip a tiny fragment of into his pipebowl to light his tobacco.
A moment later, the first puffs of sweet Old Toby can be seen to rise up into the air from the man. Rhifaroth glances back to the two Rangers but he really can't see them on the other side of the tree. So he leans back and begins to enjoy his pipe while he waits.
The tent parts, and Ailis stands up, straightening her gown, with a huff, her face flushed in embarrassment. "I-uh.." she starts, noticing that she had, in fact, been discovered. The woman begins to walk towards Mobeorn with a rather odd and very rapid shuffle of her feet, keeping her hands at her side, and her torso barely moving. She quickly stands behind him and, like a child behind her mother's skirts, she peers out, nervously, almost sniffling.
Wanderer nods and seems to be relieved. He smiles and nods. "... ... ... ... ... ... Bree ... well. ... ... ... has ... ... ... ... about ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... .... ... know ... ... ... for ... ..., ... ... ... .... ... happened ... ... during ......imprisoment?" Curious eyes wander towards the direction of Rhifaroth and he frowns.
Lithiugelir turns his own head to look around the tree towards where the seated man rests and is now smoking his pipe. The Harper raises a dark brow himself at the alluring scent of the pipeweed, a particularly fine strain of leaf if his nose is right.
Glancing back to Arthamon, Lith motions to the other to come, "Join us. I am trying to find something of that out myself. Though perhaps you and I would do well to ask his wife, or the healer Rochwen, for details. I am informed that 'Seeker' remembers little of it."
Having kept his voice very low for Arthamon, Lith now turns and speaks up, "Come, join us Wanderer. Perhaps you may ask him a thing or two, yourself."
The smile from Rhifaroth, however brief, encourages the Beijabar. "Seeker, right? You gave me your name the other day, and I think I forgot to introduce myself. Mobeorn, kin to Grimbeorn, Laird of the Anduin Valley. Came here unexpectedly, as it were, but it's good--needed to ask the elves for their aid."
Mobeorn stares as Ailis walks over, a hand scratching at his chin as he watches her walk. "You're not going to wear that silly thing when we cross the Pass again, are you lass?" he then asks her. "Likely as not you'll trip on your skirts instead of hewing orc heads," he says, rolling his eyes as the woman hides behidn him. "And this here is Ailis," he tells Rhifaroth, "though as you can see, she's not much for meeting new folk."
Ailis squawks as Mobeorn introduces her, and hides behind him, again, peering out behind the other side. She doesn't respond to his question and essentially ignores his existance, save for the fact that he presents a wonderful object to hide behind. The woman watches the two men, only one eye visible behind Mobeorn's large person.
A nod is Mobeorn's reply to the question of who he is, himself. Drawing on his pipe, Rhifaroth closes his eyes for a moment as Mobeorn rumbles through the rest of it. When he does open his eyes, he turns his head faintly and looks off across the clearing north of the tents, towards the pastures there. A few horses are visible, grazing in the autumn light amid tall, drying grasses.
In that pose, the man stays, smoke curling up faintly from his forgotten pipe. Rhifaroth's eyes seem to be looking at the horses, or perhaps unfocused. Has the man slipped away?
Arthamon nods and smiles at Mobeorn and Ailis. "Good day friends. I trust you are both well?" he asks casually, sitting down next to Rhifaroth. He pauses, then sighs, then speaks warmly.
He whispers to Rhifaroth: "Good day Rhifaroth. You might not remember, but we met a couple days ago. You may not remember much of what I want to ask you, but...what do you remember about a woman named Cordelia?"
With Rhifaroth's gaze slipping off to the horses, Mobeorn drops his chatter, turning to speak quietly to Ailis instead. " By the Bear, Lass! Nothing and noone is going to hurt you in the valley of the elvenkind. You can be certani of that. Strange that you're shy and scared here, but on the pass, you'll right defend yourself!" He shrugs to the Beorning woman, then looks back as Lith and Arthamon approach.
'Good day. I trust ....all....is well?' That said to Lith, with, of all things, an apologetic look.
Lith gives Mobeorn a warm smile, and then notices the young woman with the Beijabar, inclining his head politely in greeting to her as well, "Good afternoon."
When Arthamon has taken a seat and speaks low to Rhifaroth but gets no response at all, the harper frowns. He bends down and says softly so that Arthamon can hear, "I think we've lost him. Seeker? Seeker can you hear us?" There is still no response.
With an apologetic glance to Arthamon, the harper reaches out a hand to Rhifaroth's shoulder and at first gently, then more firmly, squeezes and then shakes the tattooed man gently, "Seeker?"
Celemir comes from the northwest along the valley path.
Celemir has arrived.
"Oh, uh.. " Ailias starts. Mobeorn's words cause her to breathe deeply and she starts to offer greeting, "h-h-.." and falters. In true womanly fashion, the woman studdenly looks almost angry and she looks up at the towering figure of Mobeorn and glares.
Arthamon's greeting to her results in another squeak, but this time it seems more to be an attempt at words, than the previous fear. Fortunately for Ailis, she's still feeling a little anger at her companion and she steps forward, and very sternly and determinedly says: "Hello." And offers a quick a nod, holding her chin up, proudly. Her attempt at crossing her arms belies her strength, as her arms are nervously missing each other in the attempt. She gives up in a huff and steps around Mobeorn, standing in front of him and executing a stern deep intake of air and an equally determined exhale.
With Lith's firm fingers digging a little into his shoulder, the tattooed man seated with the pipe blinks and turns his head back to the man shaking him gently. Withdrawing the pipe from the corner of his mouth, Rhifaroth frowns, "What?" He asks, aloud. The baritone voice is rough and raspy, but that simple word he can form, apparently.
Lithiugelir says, "Poor thing, Mav-temp. :>"
You say, "Yeeaahh.. Mav-temp has some is-sues. :D"
Arthamon smiles and repeats his previous greeting to Rhifaroth. When he comes to the part about Cordelia, he pauses, then gathers enough willpower to speak. "..., ... ... ... ... ... ... woman ... Cordelia?" his voice is barely a whisper. His infamous piercing eyes have softened as they look upon the man.
With a bit of a smile, Lithiugelir gestures to Arthamon to repeat his question to Rhifaroth. Seeker watches the gesture and turns his head to look at the other Ranger, expectant of something.
Standing back up, Lith glances back over to the Beornings, perhaps amused. But he makes eye contact with Mobeorn and makse a thin smile to his friend for ... eh, what they are trying to deal with here.
As Ailis moves in front of him, Mobeorn struggles hard to not just laugh outright at the woman's anger. He rolls his eyes a little to Lith, mouthing the word 'women.' But the sound of Rhifaroth's voice ends his humor, Mobeorn growing quiet and serious.
One hand is placed on Ailis's shoulder, and words in Eothrik are whispered to her. " The man they speak to is badly injured somehow. Not right in the head, attacked somehow. Or something."
Rhifaroth +whispers to Arthamon, "
Listening to ... ... ..., ... ... ... ... ... ... to him, ... ... ... ... the ... ... ... a .... ... ... ... ... ... ..., Rhifaroth then ... close and ... something ... ... raspy, nearly inaudible ... back. ..., ... ... whisper ... ..., ... he need not ... ... ... ... ... ... produce ... and ....
"She in Bree ... not to be trusted. Dangerous."
Listening to Arthamon's whispered question, the other man now seated close to him, the tattooed man eyes the stranger warily for a moment. His pipe in his right hand, Rhifaroth then leans close and whispers something in his raspy, nearly inaudible voice back. Apparently, he can whisper as well, if he need not actually engage his vocal chords to produce volume and inflection.
"She in Bree ... not to be trusted. Dangerous."
Ailis looks up at Mobeorn and softens, furrowing her brows, " "Might I help?" " her words are very soft and quizzical and a new persona seems to overcome her: stronger, self-confident the air of a woman entering a comfortable realm.
Celemir's arrival from the northern pastures occured a short time ago, though he has kept his distance and waited in patient silence. Brilliant blue eyes amidst the golden glow of his face move between the Men gathered upon the meadow. A peircing gaze of ageless thoughts and subtlties. Quiet steps stir his frame now, as the elf makes his way across the lush carpet of grass disturbing not a single blade with his passage.
Arthamon nods solemnly, glad to get a response. He does not want to overwhelm the man, so he moves back and smiles. He leans in towards Lith and whispers, "He answered me at least. I will ask no more now. He clearly finds the subject difficult to talk about." The Ranger turns his head at the approach of the elf before turning back to Rhifaroth and smiling. "Thank you," he whispers.
Someone is approaching from the south, from the direction of the House. One of the healers, an older ellon by the name of Maulathron, to those who know him. Spotting Lithiugelir, to whom Rhifaroth was given over to, the ellon comes up and clears his throat, "Please excuse my interruption, but this man's wife is asking for her husband. I am to take him back to the House. It is time for his lunch with his family."
Stern hazel eyes slip over all who are gathered here, and expects no argument to his request.
Lithiugelir stands at once and nods to the newest arrival from the Healing Hall, "Of course, sir. We can continue our discussion this afternoon, perhaps?" A glance to Arthamon to confirm their getting back with Rhifaroth later. Then, the Harper reaches for Rhifaroth's arm as though to help the other man up.
Rhifaroth looks at Arthamon for a long moment, studying the other's face. And he frowns just a little bit. Then taking his arm OUT of Lith's grasp, the injured man puts his pipe back into his mouth to free up his hands, putting his writing kit back away, unused. Then, getting to his own feet and giving the harper an unreadable look that might suggest he can get himself up quite fine, thank you very much... Rhifaroth then turns without formality, and moves to accompany Maulathron back to Hir Elrond's House.
Mobeorn hmms quietly to a question that Ailis has asked him in Eothrik. " I don't think so, lass," he answers quietly. " The elves are trying to heal him, and they have more resources and talent for that tahn we do." The Beorning man watches impassively as Rhifartoh makes to leave.
An apologetic look to Arthamon, then Mobeorn, Lithiugelir smiles thinly and trots off to catch up with Rhifaroth and the healer. After all, he wishes to speak with Muirgheal as well himself.
Rhifaroth has left.
Arthamon watches the two Rangers disappear, then turns kindly to the others. He looks from Celemir to Mobeorn to Ailis and grins. "So I have heard that your groups are departing shortly. Your company will be missed," he whispers, drawing his cloak tighter around him.
Ailis looks back to Mobeorn and sighs, " "I see.. I wish him well." " She turns to Arthamon and smiles, seemingly feeling more herself. She hasn't even noticed Celemir's presence, yet. " It's been good.. to.. meet your folk," she almost whispers to him, bashfully.
Ailis looks back to Mobeorn and sighs, " I see.. I wish him well." She turns to Arthamon and smiles, seemingly feeling more herself. She hasn't even noticed Celemir's presence, yet. 'It's been good.. to.. meet your folk,' she almost whispers to him, bashfully.
"We all do, Lass," Mobeorn answers Ailis, nodding to her. "Why are you both whispering?" he then asks loudly, glancing around and spotting Celemir. "Is there soem secret here to keep?"
"Mobeorn, kin of Grimbeorn?" Celemir asks, his voice carrying strong and clear though he raises it not at all as he closes to the group. The rangers departure seeming to him as good a time as may come to enter the conversation.
A brightly clad elleth walks briskly towards Arthamon as he is about to speak. She does not even regard the others. She smiles and takes the Ranger's hand. "Come with me," she orders, "You are needed in your Quarters right away." Arthamon shrugs, and without a farewell, he follows the elleth across the meadow and back towards the mighty House of Elrond.
Ailis sighs as the company parts and figures that the excitement of new people is over. She is quite wrong. Mobeorn's statement immediately sends her brain afret. Obviously, there is someone else present. "It's a... a...." she blurts out, realizing that their newly arrived conversation partner is a Quende! And a female of the same walks by! Oh glorious sight! "Look!" Never before had the Beorning healer ever seen one. She'd been essentially hiding away in their campsite, far more preoccupied with her occupation and its application to the combat wounded than meeting the mysterious members of land. Ailis begins fixing her dress absently flattening out the skirt, and then fixing her unfixable mass of hair, and smiling in what could be constrewed as graceful, but visually exudes stupidity.
At the sound of his name, Mobeorn turns. "Aye, that's me. What can I do for you?" he answers simply, taking in Celemir with a quick glance.
A gentle dip from Celemir's waist bows before the great bear of a man, though the golden haired eldar's step neither falters nor slows for the motion. He speaks in light tones which dance with a gentle patient music even as his cloak shifts in colour to better match the shadows and lights of the grass behind him. "I have heard that you and your people shall journey eastward with us over the pass." he begins. "I have also heard of the ill fate that befell your village when the enemy swept forth from the woods upon your boarder."
"Aye..." Mobeorn replies rather hesitantly, "both of these statements are true. We leave at dawn tomorrow, or so I was led to believe. And your name, sir? Have we met?" He scratches his chin and gives the elf a look filled with curiousity. "Met so many folk in the Hall of Fire the other night. Forgot all their names by now."
"Ailis!" The woman cries, as if the elf had asked her the question, instead of Mobeorn asking the elf. Her brows stand up high on her forehead and her eyes are open extremely wide. She steps forward, "I, uh... well...nice to meet you!" The words rush out of her mouth in batches and she turns and looks at Mobeorn with an expression that speaks of her realization of foolishness.
"We have not." Celemir assures in soft cadence as he draws near and his steps slow to a halt a respectful distance from Mobeorn and his companion, turning his gaze upon the woman and a gentle soothing smile curling to his lips as he bows first before her, and then once again to Mobeorn "I am Celemir, or so you will hear me named in days to come. Though the folk of Imladhris know me better as Linnduin. I am come ahead of our journey to speak of the Rhovannion and of the threat which now boldly roams there."
"Ahh...I understand," Mobeorn nods. He grins briefly at Ailis, putting a large hand on her shoulder. "Ailis is a healer of our lands, and has had much work this journey, I'm afraid. Though I escaped injury when we were attacked, by the blessings of the Great Bear. But what would you speak of specifically? Which threat--for I hear there are many."
Ailis' expression turns grateful as she glances at Mobeorn and turns back to Celemir. She smiles, softly and humbly. The mention of threat draws her attention upward toward the elf, and her mind briefly circles around the realization that she's surrounded by some very tall people, and she's rather short herself. This is made obvious by her looking at Celemir and back to Mobeorn, and then to Celemir and back to Mobeorn. She shakes her head and returns to the conversation, "Aye... is there more to worry about? Where is it headed?" her words are accompanied by furrowing eyebrows.
A kindly smile and a new warmth fills Celemir's face as he looks upon Ailis. "It is a pleasure to meet a new generation of the woodsman." this glow fades as his gaze turns back to Mobeorn. "The lands on which your people are settled are ancient and filled with secret places long forgotten by mortal men. Great evils sleep in the mountains, and others stir in the forest which you know as Mirkwood. Orcs and trolls, and fouler things." he lets the words, resonant with dark tones trail off. "Yet there are other powers you might summon in times of need."
Mobeorn's face darkens. "We know of the evils. Full well, yes. Orcs that walk in the sun. One-eyed trolls, though that one has fallen. But...what of these other powers? What do you mean?"
Ailis' mouth is open in a slight grimace and a fearful expression fills her face. She leans over to Mobeorn and grabs his arm for comfort. Her eyes close and she holds back tears the woman had seen far too much of this in her lifetime. Getting hold of herself, she asks, "And say they come.. will you help?" looking at Celemir's face, earnestly.
"Do not despair..." Celemir offers in all-together more comforting tones, his words resonant with conviction and the wisdom of an Age. "A forest lies to the east of the Dimwalt Vale." Celemir elaborates, sensing that he has, at least, Mobeorn's interest. "There slumbers the same power which drove the enemy from the Rhovannion in ancient days and held the goblins of Caradhras from the plains." he smiles then. "It may yet be roused again when the need is grave. The Enemy's memory is long. And he is fearful of it."
At this, Mobeorn shakes his head. "Dimwalt Vale? Where is that and what kind of power are we talking about?" The shapechanger, is, after all, young--from the looks of it only in his mid 20s. He seems suspicious of magic.
" Ailis!" A voice calls from the encampment. 'I must go,' the woman whispers. She offers an odd bow-curtsey movement to the elf and slaps Mobeorn on the arm, " let me know what ye need.." she says with a squeeze before taking slow steps away from the pair, and then wiping her face. With her back turned to them, it's hard to tell, but it's likely she was wiping a tear. She *humphs*, breathes deeply, and then takes off for the encampment in a run, grabbing her uselessly lovely dress in her hands, and pulling it up to her knees, allowing for more movement, the sound of crying following her.
Open Meadow - Crossroads
Dimly around you you can make out forest to the north, the bulk of the House to the south, and cliffs rising up to the west. In the center of the meadow is a large tree. The colours of the meadow are all washed into the deep indigos and blacks of night.
Morning has drifted into late morning, and late morning is nearly easing into the noon hour, but not quite. After having had a lengthy conversation with the ellon Galharth, Lithiugelir now walks towards the old Oak tree. He is not alone, but with another man of simular height and coloring, though Rhifaroth's tattooed skin and scarred, weathered features and thinness set him apart from his distant cousin.
The harper is speaking in a low voice and gesturing with his hands to the other man, then motions to the tree as though beckoning the other man to take a seat. Lith does as well, glancing around as he settles himself.
Arthamon appears shortly after. His cloak is drawn tightly about his broad form. The brooch that he has long cared for hangs crookedly as jingles as he strolls towards Harper and Seeker. Turning to Rhifaroth, his smile broadens and he sits down. "Friend Rhifaroth. How do you fare this day?" Next he turns to Lithiugelir and bows his head. "Lith, there is something I wished to ask you? Can you spare a moment?"
There are a series of low slung, earth-colored tents pitched somewhat back from the oak, in the meadow, and by them stands Mobeorn, stretching and looking about, hair tossled and stuck with a few pieces of grass as if the beijabar has been sleeping in the meadows. He ywans, watches the approach of Lith and "Seeker," and then heads their way.
Rhifaroth has not come empty handed. He takes a seat at the base of the old oak tree and has a writing kit with himself, including a small, smooth board to lay in his lap upon which he now draws out and arranges parchment and an inkwell.
The scarred and tattooed Dunadan whom 'Wanderer' addresses first, tips his head back to study the new arrival, but Rhifaroth does not know Arthamon. He distinctly frowns at the stranger, a Ranger or not, and by his body language does not encourage over friendliness with the wary, distrustful look he gives Arthamon. Infact, Rhifaroth studies the other cautiously, but says nothing in return to the greeting.
Lithiugelir had just taken a seat himself, but now makes to get himself back up again, "Of course, Wanderer. My ear is yours..." and glancing back to Rhifaroth, the harper adds quickly, "I'll only be a moment. Please excuse me - I will not go far."
Then, stepping towards Arthamon, he gestures to go to the far side of the broad Oak's trunk. A nod is passed to Mobeorn as that one is seen starting in their general direction.
As Lithiugelier heads to speak to Arthamon, Mobeorn pauses--obviously not wanting to intrude on a conversation between the two men. This leaves him somewhere between the oak tree and Beorning campsite--looking between the two. He frowns briefly, considering, then walks toward the oak tree, but stays out of earshot, trying to be polite. "Morning, or afternoon," he grins briefly greeting Seeker as he nearas that man. Still, though, he hesitates, not about to intrude on the injured man, either.
"I forgot that Rhifaroth does not know me by name," Arthamon whispers to Lithiugelir, "I did introduce myself to him a couple days ago, but he did not seem to notice...anyway, I just had a question for you." Before coming behind the tree he turns and smiles at Mobeorn. "Hail Mobeorn of the Beornings," he says warmly before disappearing on the far side of the tree.
The starry late night sky above the cliffs is mostly clear with light, puffy clouds scattered about. The Misty Mountains loom against the sky in the east, shadows against the stars. Occasional clouds float across the waxing crescent moon as it hangs over the valley. Its glow makes the cliffs all around stand out in the night, and they seem to illuminate the valley all the more.
Rhifaroth's gaze slips to Mobeorn and studies that tall, tall man. Tall even compared to the Dunedain. For the moment, the tattooed man seems sharp and focused, aware of what is going on around himself. At the other's vague but polite greeting, Rhifaroth inclines his head politely in turn but says nothing.
Now that inkwell, parchment, and quill are laid out upon the writing board in his lap, Rhifaroth now directs his hands to draw forth the last things from his writing kit. A small Bree made clay pipe, a pouch of tobacco, and a freshwater clamshell with a hinge. Within a moment, the spicy smell of pipeweed, as yet unlit, begins to scent the near air as a few pinches are carefully packed and tamped into Rhifaroth's pipe.
Though he is missing a finger on his right hand, the man is clearly right handed and seems to be having no particular difficulty.
Nodding, the Harper joins Arthamon and asks in a low voice, "What's on your mind, friend?"
Voices drifting on the breeze act like honey to a bee and a figure tip toes around a tent. And then another tent. And then another tent. Almost. The final tent, closest to the conversation relative to the location of the campsite, offers some resistance to the eavesdropping individual whose skirts do not seem to want to co-operate. At least not with the person. As if in planned and rehearsed concert, the gown snags on a tent stake, sticking out far too much and quite sneakily from the side of the natural and mobile home dwelling.
"Rrrrmm!" a voice grunts before its owning lips come into certain introduction with the ground beneath. The effort of the fall was strong enough that the tent decided to elaborate on the loud, obnoxious and dramatic scene just now occurring. Fortunately for the individual, it was a personal tent, and not that large. Unfortunately, there was likely little the unknown stranger could do to retract the unintended circumstance. So much for grace and elegance in the presence of classy folk.
'Wanderer' smiles and speaks softly. "
It is good that Arthamon has come aside with him and keeps his voice low for Lithiugelir holds up a hand to the other man, his own voice a whisper, "Watch your tongue. There are strangers here in the Valley, friend."
And, still making his point by speaking in low Westron so that his words to not carry, the harper then says, "I will go to Bree, of course. Things are a foot there. And yourself?"
A glance he spares also for those who are nearest, keeping his words for Arthamon alone.
The scent of the pipeweed makes Mobeorn's nose tickle, and one large hand goes up to his face to rub at his twitching nose. "Never did understand why folks would want to breathe in smoke with that stuff," he addresses Rhifaroth, watching the man carefully take out pipeweed. "Take my friend over there, the harper Lith. Loves that pipeweed, though I say the stench of it gets in your nose and stops you from smelling the orcs where they're hiding." He snorts a little at that.
Noise from the Beorning camp draws his attention, of course, and he looks up at the sound of a grunt. Amusement grows steadily on his face as he watches the Beorning woman get more and more entangled with the tent. "Allis..." he shakes his head, trying not to laugh as woman meets ground. "Dressing up fancy to try to impress the elves, likely. Are you all right, lass?" he then calls.
The whisperings of the two Dunedain drift to Mobeorn's ears, more than likely, but the beijabar doesn't seem to notice the conversation at all.
Mobeorn's speech about pipeweed regains the seated Dunadan's attention. Rhifaroth looks at the other and then smiles just a little bit with amusement.
There is an interruption in his pipe preparation as a woman trips and falls on her face, over by the tents. A black brow arches for a moment but as she seems to have come to no real harm, Rhifaroth goes back to what he was doing. The clamshell contains a smoldering coal packed in saw dust. This he uses carefully to tip a tiny fragment of into his pipebowl to light his tobacco.
A moment later, the first puffs of sweet Old Toby can be seen to rise up into the air from the man. Rhifaroth glances back to the two Rangers but he really can't see them on the other side of the tree. So he leans back and begins to enjoy his pipe while he waits.
The tent parts, and Ailis stands up, straightening her gown, with a huff, her face flushed in embarrassment. "I-uh.." she starts, noticing that she had, in fact, been discovered. The woman begins to walk towards Mobeorn with a rather odd and very rapid shuffle of her feet, keeping her hands at her side, and her torso barely moving. She quickly stands behind him and, like a child behind her mother's skirts, she peers out, nervously, almost sniffling.
Wanderer nods and seems to be relieved. He smiles and nods. "... ... ... ... ... ... Bree ... well. ... ... ... has ... ... ... ... about ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... .... ... know ... ... ... for ... ..., ... ... ... .... ... happened ... ... during ......imprisoment?" Curious eyes wander towards the direction of Rhifaroth and he frowns.
Lithiugelir turns his own head to look around the tree towards where the seated man rests and is now smoking his pipe. The Harper raises a dark brow himself at the alluring scent of the pipeweed, a particularly fine strain of leaf if his nose is right.
Glancing back to Arthamon, Lith motions to the other to come, "Join us. I am trying to find something of that out myself. Though perhaps you and I would do well to ask his wife, or the healer Rochwen, for details. I am informed that 'Seeker' remembers little of it."
Having kept his voice very low for Arthamon, Lith now turns and speaks up, "Come, join us Wanderer. Perhaps you may ask him a thing or two, yourself."
The smile from Rhifaroth, however brief, encourages the Beijabar. "Seeker, right? You gave me your name the other day, and I think I forgot to introduce myself. Mobeorn, kin to Grimbeorn, Laird of the Anduin Valley. Came here unexpectedly, as it were, but it's good--needed to ask the elves for their aid."
Mobeorn stares as Ailis walks over, a hand scratching at his chin as he watches her walk. "You're not going to wear that silly thing when we cross the Pass again, are you lass?" he then asks her. "Likely as not you'll trip on your skirts instead of hewing orc heads," he says, rolling his eyes as the woman hides behidn him. "And this here is Ailis," he tells Rhifaroth, "though as you can see, she's not much for meeting new folk."
Ailis squawks as Mobeorn introduces her, and hides behind him, again, peering out behind the other side. She doesn't respond to his question and essentially ignores his existance, save for the fact that he presents a wonderful object to hide behind. The woman watches the two men, only one eye visible behind Mobeorn's large person.
A nod is Mobeorn's reply to the question of who he is, himself. Drawing on his pipe, Rhifaroth closes his eyes for a moment as Mobeorn rumbles through the rest of it. When he does open his eyes, he turns his head faintly and looks off across the clearing north of the tents, towards the pastures there. A few horses are visible, grazing in the autumn light amid tall, drying grasses.
In that pose, the man stays, smoke curling up faintly from his forgotten pipe. Rhifaroth's eyes seem to be looking at the horses, or perhaps unfocused. Has the man slipped away?
Arthamon nods and smiles at Mobeorn and Ailis. "Good day friends. I trust you are both well?" he asks casually, sitting down next to Rhifaroth. He pauses, then sighs, then speaks warmly.
He whispers to Rhifaroth: "Good day Rhifaroth. You might not remember, but we met a couple days ago. You may not remember much of what I want to ask you, but...what do you remember about a woman named Cordelia?"
With Rhifaroth's gaze slipping off to the horses, Mobeorn drops his chatter, turning to speak quietly to Ailis instead. "
'Good day. I trust ....all....is well?' That said to Lith, with, of all things, an apologetic look.
Lith gives Mobeorn a warm smile, and then notices the young woman with the Beijabar, inclining his head politely in greeting to her as well, "Good afternoon."
When Arthamon has taken a seat and speaks low to Rhifaroth but gets no response at all, the harper frowns. He bends down and says softly so that Arthamon can hear, "I think we've lost him. Seeker? Seeker can you hear us?" There is still no response.
With an apologetic glance to Arthamon, the harper reaches out a hand to Rhifaroth's shoulder and at first gently, then more firmly, squeezes and then shakes the tattooed man gently, "Seeker?"
Celemir comes from the northwest along the valley path.
Celemir has arrived.
"Oh, uh.. " Ailias starts. Mobeorn's words cause her to breathe deeply and she starts to offer greeting, "h-h-.." and falters. In true womanly fashion, the woman studdenly looks almost angry and she looks up at the towering figure of Mobeorn and glares.
Arthamon's greeting to her results in another squeak, but this time it seems more to be an attempt at words, than the previous fear. Fortunately for Ailis, she's still feeling a little anger at her companion and she steps forward, and very sternly and determinedly says: "Hello." And offers a quick a nod, holding her chin up, proudly. Her attempt at crossing her arms belies her strength, as her arms are nervously missing each other in the attempt. She gives up in a huff and steps around Mobeorn, standing in front of him and executing a stern deep intake of air and an equally determined exhale.
With Lith's firm fingers digging a little into his shoulder, the tattooed man seated with the pipe blinks and turns his head back to the man shaking him gently. Withdrawing the pipe from the corner of his mouth, Rhifaroth frowns, "What?" He asks, aloud. The baritone voice is rough and raspy, but that simple word he can form, apparently.
Arthamon smiles and repeats his previous greeting to Rhifaroth. When he comes to the part about Cordelia, he pauses, then gathers enough willpower to speak. "..., ... ... ... ... ... ... woman ... Cordelia?" his voice is barely a whisper. His infamous piercing eyes have softened as they look upon the man.
With a bit of a smile, Lithiugelir gestures to Arthamon to repeat his question to Rhifaroth. Seeker watches the gesture and turns his head to look at the other Ranger, expectant of something.
Standing back up, Lith glances back over to the Beornings, perhaps amused. But he makes eye contact with Mobeorn and makse a thin smile to his friend for ... eh, what they are trying to deal with here.
As Ailis moves in front of him, Mobeorn struggles hard to not just laugh outright at the woman's anger. He rolls his eyes a little to Lith, mouthing the word 'women.' But the sound of Rhifaroth's voice ends his humor, Mobeorn growing quiet and serious.
One hand is placed on Ailis's shoulder, and words in Eothrik are whispered to her. "
Rhifaroth +whispers to Arthamon, "
Listening to ... ... ..., ... ... ... ... ... ... to him, ... ... ... ... the ... ... ... a .... ... ... ... ... ... ..., Rhifaroth then ... close and ... something ... ... raspy, nearly inaudible ... back. ..., ... ... whisper ... ..., ... he need not ... ... ... ... ... ... produce ... and ....
"She in Bree ... not to be trusted. Dangerous."
Listening to Arthamon's whispered question, the other man now seated close to him, the tattooed man eyes the stranger warily for a moment. His pipe in his right hand, Rhifaroth then leans close and whispers something in his raspy, nearly inaudible voice back. Apparently, he can whisper as well, if he need not actually engage his vocal chords to produce volume and inflection.
"She in Bree ... not to be trusted. Dangerous."
Ailis looks up at Mobeorn and softens, furrowing her brows, "
Celemir's arrival from the northern pastures occured a short time ago, though he has kept his distance and waited in patient silence. Brilliant blue eyes amidst the golden glow of his face move between the Men gathered upon the meadow. A peircing gaze of ageless thoughts and subtlties. Quiet steps stir his frame now, as the elf makes his way across the lush carpet of grass disturbing not a single blade with his passage.
Arthamon nods solemnly, glad to get a response. He does not want to overwhelm the man, so he moves back and smiles. He leans in towards Lith and whispers, "He answered me at least. I will ask no more now. He clearly finds the subject difficult to talk about." The Ranger turns his head at the approach of the elf before turning back to Rhifaroth and smiling. "Thank you," he whispers.
Someone is approaching from the south, from the direction of the House. One of the healers, an older ellon by the name of Maulathron, to those who know him. Spotting Lithiugelir, to whom Rhifaroth was given over to, the ellon comes up and clears his throat, "Please excuse my interruption, but this man's wife is asking for her husband. I am to take him back to the House. It is time for his lunch with his family."
Stern hazel eyes slip over all who are gathered here, and expects no argument to his request.
Lithiugelir stands at once and nods to the newest arrival from the Healing Hall, "Of course, sir. We can continue our discussion this afternoon, perhaps?" A glance to Arthamon to confirm their getting back with Rhifaroth later. Then, the Harper reaches for Rhifaroth's arm as though to help the other man up.
Rhifaroth looks at Arthamon for a long moment, studying the other's face. And he frowns just a little bit. Then taking his arm OUT of Lith's grasp, the injured man puts his pipe back into his mouth to free up his hands, putting his writing kit back away, unused. Then, getting to his own feet and giving the harper an unreadable look that might suggest he can get himself up quite fine, thank you very much... Rhifaroth then turns without formality, and moves to accompany Maulathron back to Hir Elrond's House.
Mobeorn hmms quietly to a question that Ailis has asked him in Eothrik. "
An apologetic look to Arthamon, then Mobeorn, Lithiugelir smiles thinly and trots off to catch up with Rhifaroth and the healer. After all, he wishes to speak with Muirgheal as well himself.
Rhifaroth has left.
Arthamon watches the two Rangers disappear, then turns kindly to the others. He looks from Celemir to Mobeorn to Ailis and grins. "So I have heard that your groups are departing shortly. Your company will be missed," he whispers, drawing his cloak tighter around him.
Ailis looks back to Mobeorn and sighs, "
Ailis looks back to Mobeorn and sighs, "
"We all do, Lass," Mobeorn answers Ailis, nodding to her. "Why are you both whispering?" he then asks loudly, glancing around and spotting Celemir. "Is there soem secret here to keep?"
"Mobeorn, kin of Grimbeorn?" Celemir asks, his voice carrying strong and clear though he raises it not at all as he closes to the group. The rangers departure seeming to him as good a time as may come to enter the conversation.
A brightly clad elleth walks briskly towards Arthamon as he is about to speak. She does not even regard the others. She smiles and takes the Ranger's hand. "Come with me," she orders, "You are needed in your Quarters right away." Arthamon shrugs, and without a farewell, he follows the elleth across the meadow and back towards the mighty House of Elrond.
Ailis sighs as the company parts and figures that the excitement of new people is over. She is quite wrong. Mobeorn's statement immediately sends her brain afret. Obviously, there is someone else present. "It's a... a...." she blurts out, realizing that their newly arrived conversation partner is a Quende! And a female of the same walks by! Oh glorious sight! "Look!" Never before had the Beorning healer ever seen one. She'd been essentially hiding away in their campsite, far more preoccupied with her occupation and its application to the combat wounded than meeting the mysterious members of land. Ailis begins fixing her dress absently flattening out the skirt, and then fixing her unfixable mass of hair, and smiling in what could be constrewed as graceful, but visually exudes stupidity.
At the sound of his name, Mobeorn turns. "Aye, that's me. What can I do for you?" he answers simply, taking in Celemir with a quick glance.
A gentle dip from Celemir's waist bows before the great bear of a man, though the golden haired eldar's step neither falters nor slows for the motion. He speaks in light tones which dance with a gentle patient music even as his cloak shifts in colour to better match the shadows and lights of the grass behind him. "I have heard that you and your people shall journey eastward with us over the pass." he begins. "I have also heard of the ill fate that befell your village when the enemy swept forth from the woods upon your boarder."
"Aye..." Mobeorn replies rather hesitantly, "both of these statements are true. We leave at dawn tomorrow, or so I was led to believe. And your name, sir? Have we met?" He scratches his chin and gives the elf a look filled with curiousity. "Met so many folk in the Hall of Fire the other night. Forgot all their names by now."
"Ailis!" The woman cries, as if the elf had asked her the question, instead of Mobeorn asking the elf. Her brows stand up high on her forehead and her eyes are open extremely wide. She steps forward, "I, uh... well...nice to meet you!" The words rush out of her mouth in batches and she turns and looks at Mobeorn with an expression that speaks of her realization of foolishness.
"We have not." Celemir assures in soft cadence as he draws near and his steps slow to a halt a respectful distance from Mobeorn and his companion, turning his gaze upon the woman and a gentle soothing smile curling to his lips as he bows first before her, and then once again to Mobeorn "I am Celemir, or so you will hear me named in days to come. Though the folk of Imladhris know me better as Linnduin. I am come ahead of our journey to speak of the Rhovannion and of the threat which now boldly roams there."
"Ahh...I understand," Mobeorn nods. He grins briefly at Ailis, putting a large hand on her shoulder. "Ailis is a healer of our lands, and has had much work this journey, I'm afraid. Though I escaped injury when we were attacked, by the blessings of the Great Bear. But what would you speak of specifically? Which threat--for I hear there are many."
Ailis' expression turns grateful as she glances at Mobeorn and turns back to Celemir. She smiles, softly and humbly. The mention of threat draws her attention upward toward the elf, and her mind briefly circles around the realization that she's surrounded by some very tall people, and she's rather short herself. This is made obvious by her looking at Celemir and back to Mobeorn, and then to Celemir and back to Mobeorn. She shakes her head and returns to the conversation, "Aye... is there more to worry about? Where is it headed?" her words are accompanied by furrowing eyebrows.
A kindly smile and a new warmth fills Celemir's face as he looks upon Ailis. "It is a pleasure to meet a new generation of the woodsman." this glow fades as his gaze turns back to Mobeorn. "The lands on which your people are settled are ancient and filled with secret places long forgotten by mortal men. Great evils sleep in the mountains, and others stir in the forest which you know as Mirkwood. Orcs and trolls, and fouler things." he lets the words, resonant with dark tones trail off. "Yet there are other powers you might summon in times of need."
Mobeorn's face darkens. "We know of the evils. Full well, yes. Orcs that walk in the sun. One-eyed trolls, though that one has fallen. But...what of these other powers? What do you mean?"
Ailis' mouth is open in a slight grimace and a fearful expression fills her face. She leans over to Mobeorn and grabs his arm for comfort. Her eyes close and she holds back tears the woman had seen far too much of this in her lifetime. Getting hold of herself, she asks, "And say they come.. will you help?" looking at Celemir's face, earnestly.
"Do not despair..." Celemir offers in all-together more comforting tones, his words resonant with conviction and the wisdom of an Age. "A forest lies to the east of the Dimwalt Vale." Celemir elaborates, sensing that he has, at least, Mobeorn's interest. "There slumbers the same power which drove the enemy from the Rhovannion in ancient days and held the goblins of Caradhras from the plains." he smiles then. "It may yet be roused again when the need is grave. The Enemy's memory is long. And he is fearful of it."
At this, Mobeorn shakes his head. "Dimwalt Vale? Where is that and what kind of power are we talking about?" The shapechanger, is, after all, young--from the looks of it only in his mid 20s. He seems suspicious of magic.
"
Players: Beornings, Quendi, Quende, Arnorian, Dunedain, Imladhris
