Rivendell -- Strange as news from Bree

Front Yard

A few trees stand here, just in front of the Last Homely House. A pleasant meadow filled with gaily colored wild flowers stretches off to the north and west. Not far behind the house the trees close in to form a pleasant wood. The grass here is not so thick as the grasses further out in the valley, but several flowering plants grow in higher patches around nearby trees. Two paths lead away from the house, one southwest and one north. Down the steep bank to the south is the shore of the Bruinen.

Obvious exits:

North leads to Open Meadow - Crossroads.

Front Porch leads to Front Porch.

Southwest leads to The Valley Shore.

================== Eldarin Calendar ===================

IC time is: Late Morning < About 10:16 AM >

IC day is: Orbelain

IC date is: 41 Ethuil

Moon phase: First Quarter

Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.

IC year is: Loa 20 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor

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RL time:Tue Jul 08 15:05:37 2008

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Elendor time is: Late Morning <11:18:12 > on Monday of Spring - May 22, 3044

Spring this year, it seems, is late in its coming. Though in warmer lands the sun would be already beaming, it is snowing in Imladris. Steady flurries whisk by and are lost to the wind, or rest upon the ground and are trodden upon.

From the shelter of the House a tall figure walks, head unbowed by the descending snow. A contrast against the white oblivion, he is draped in a black cloak, which is already dusted with white -- as are the tents spread here upon the front yard of the last homely house.

In the lee of one of those tents a cloaked figure pauses to shake itself, sending snowflakes flying. The motion dislodges the hood, revealing a head of roughly braided red hair and grimacing features. "Ugh," a woman's voice mutters. "Thought it was supposed to be always summer where the elves dwell?"

Pulling a sour face, the speaker lifts a hand to draw up her hood again - and catches sight of the dark cloaked figure. "Good morning," she offers, adding under her breath a little ungraciously, "if you call it good."

Another figure is abroad this day among the snowfall, though while he wears a heavy woolen cloak of his own he seems not ill at ease in the chill. Aragorn of the Dunedain smiles softly to himself as he strides up from the Valley shore. Catching sight of Halla, or rather hearing her words it seems, he chuckles to himself and calls out in greeting.

"Another morn of beauty, and another complaint, my lady? Come now.. can these surroundings truly be so poor compared to your village?"

Soft footsteps from the house, coming across the porch as they approach. As Rochwen appears from the house, she pauses from sight of the snow. A delicate shake of her head, and she pulls on a cloak carried in her arms, before stepping down the porch and into the yard.

The first figure pauses at the greeting, tilting his head. "It is not an ill morning," he replies mildly. "If you wish to enter the House, there are many fires burning, and warm mead as well."

Glancing at the Man as he comes from the shore, Elathrad falls silent, dipping snow-dusted head in greeting.

"Hmmph," is the woman's response as she turns grey-green eyes on the approaching Ranger and reluctantly shakes her head, dislodging a few more snowflakes. "It's not the surroundings, it's this wretched weather. And the mornings," she adds. Her grumbling subsides as another slender figure emerges from the House to join them. Guests should not complain /too/ much, after all.

As the first elf addresses her she tilts her head, and that sour expression is replaced by the beginnings of a grin. "Ahhh. I might, at that. Need a breath of air first, though."

"Bitter are the passes of the Hithlaeglir their peaks sharp and ill. Yet the folk of the Anduin Valley undaunted complain not for the chill," intones Aragorn then, the smile remaining upon his lips as he arrives by the tents. "So it has been said in this Valley, west of those passes, but now it seems these words are too kind?"

Rochwen walks carefully across the yard, not bothering to draw up her own hood as it snows. She raises a hand to catch a few flakes, before letting them fall to her sides. "Good day," she says, as she draws closer.

"Ah, Rochwen," Elathrad calls softly, raising his head, "greetings."

Stepping lightly between the arranged tents -- hardly a print in his wake -- he approaches the elleth. "We are leaving soon for the journey," the ganneldan says. "I hope you are prepared?"

"Uh - I-" Halla's features redden a shade as she bites down firmly on her tongue, seemingly in no mood to appreciate the couplet.

The elven woman's greeting provides a welcome diversion. "I'll bow to the general concensus that it's a good morning," she concedes to the company at large, before querying blankly, "Journey? In this weather?" Her raised eyebrows say it all.

The Dunadan also seems surprised by the mention of a journey, but as he tilts his head it seems he has other reasons than the weather. "Aye, mellon," says he then, looking from Elathrad to Rochwen, bowing his raven locks in greeting and smiling all the more. "You are set to take a trip? Might I ask what drags you away from our promised race?"

A careful nod is given to Elathrad. "I am," she says. She then looks to Aragorn with a half-smile, "I think there might be time for our race before those going on the journey are to depart. I wouldn't want to miss the chance to test my mare's swiftness."

"The Bardic Congress is near the Havens this time," Elathrad says to the Dunadan, and to Rochwen. "We leave in six days -- though I was not aware a race was promised, we will wait if more time is needed."

Nodding to Halla: "The weather may be to our advantage, if our enemies avoid the road."

"Mmm. If you don't freeze to death," Halla mutters, caught between incredulity and scorn. "Don't you /feel/ this chill?" She sighs, and tugs the hood of her cloak a little further forward, so that her scowl is hidden in its shadow. "I hope Mobeorn has more sense."

This brings a laugh from Aragorn, and he shakes his head. "Somehow I do not think Mobeorn will be in any rush to hear elven poetry, my friend, so fear not! You shall not have to brave such a journey just yet, I wager." Turning to Rochwen and Elathrad then, the Dunadan smiles on and adds: "Aye, it is not just the friends of Elrond that choose to walk rarely in winter..."

And just as he says this, there to the north a new figure can just about be seen. Tall for a man, as indeed is Aragorn himself, the approach of the new fellow is distant as yet but made all the more visible by the white blanket around him.

The Dunadan peers and squints into the distance, ere he raises an eyebrow gently.

"I do not think we would need to delay the departure," Rochwen says, smiling, "I would not want everyone to miss the beginnings of the Congress for but one elleth." Her smile widens a touch at Halla's comment, and she laughs softly.

"The destination is worth the cold," Elathrad replies to the Beorning with a small smile, ere turning away. "You must excuse me -- further preparations await."

Bowing lightly to those present, the ganneldan steps softly toward the shore.

"Poetry?" Halla's face may be hidden, but the disgust that echoes in her tone is plain enough. Rochwen's gentle laughter and Elathrad's smile only seem to irk her further, for she goes on, "It's all words, words, words here! Folk of too many words shouldn't be heard. Hmmph." She gives a satisfied nod at the appalling attempt at rhyme, far too self-absorbed to notice the newcomer's approach. "And goblins still walk in winter," she adds in afterthought as she scuffs at the snow with one booted foot.

"They walk with cold feet as do we," replies Aragorn softly. "Though I would rather face them with the promise of summer sun in the morning, right enough." His eyes then flit back to the approaching figure, only to narrow and sniff with interest. "Now this is unexpected..."

Having drawn a little closer, it is clear that the new fellow is clad in a grey cloak, and that dark hair spills down his back in like manner to Aragorn's own.

Rochwen falls quiet after a moment, tilting her head in interest at the approach of the stranger. A curious glance toward Aragorn. "Unexpected, mellon?"

"Huh?" Halla's head jerks up at the ranger's comment, and she peers into the snow to see what he is talking about. She lets Rochwen's far more eloquent words ask the question.

"Aye," answers the Dunadan, and he sniffs anew ere he adds, "I know this fellow, as you might guess, but last I heard he was abroad near the Breelands. I wonder what business has brought him back to us. The Hare does not bound idly, nor does he choose his destinations on a whim."

As the approaching figure draws closer still, he seems to catch sight of the others, and his pace quickens. A hand is raised in greeting, even as the snow begins to crunch under his feet.

"Bree?" Rochwen asks, her interest seeming to grow twofold at the mention of the place. She watches the unknown figure approach a bit more attention.

Halla blinks at that. "Bree?" she echoes Rochwen blankly, then returns to watching the approaching man. "Looks like you'll find out business here soon enough," she comments to Aragorn. "And he doesn't smell that bad," she adds disparagingly under her breath, before falling silent as the fellow comes within earshot. Were she more polite, she would leave the ranger and his kin alone to discuss their business, but ... Halla is not.

Nodding solemnly to Halla, replies: "It does seem that way." He raises his hand then to return the greeting, and cries out: "Hail, Hare, and welcome back to Imladris! What brings you hither?"

"Hail, Strider!" comes the answering call, and as he draws closer the one so named as the Hare can be viewed more clearly. He is young, hardly thirty summers having creased into his brow, yet while hale and spry he wears a heavy air about him. The snow parts from his feet all the more as he arrives, and he bows his head to each in turn.

"I bring news. I would that I had happier tidings for you, friend," he adds, after a quick glance at Halla, "after so long a parting, but it is not so. The man known as Seeker has gone missing."

The elleth, whose mood had been rather pleasant until now, quickly sharpens. Her blue-gold eyes are alert, her stance changes. "Seeker? What has happened?" she inquires, her voice perhaps revealing some manner of familiarness with the name. She pauses suddenly, though, and looks to Aragorn aplogetically for the outburst.

For once, Halla is without a grumble. She stands quiet, grey-green eyes taking in the worn state of the messenger.

Once again the man known as the Hare pauses to look Halla over, but at a silent nod from Aragorn he clears his throat. "Seeker settled in Archet, with his lady and their children.. but in the last week or so there has been no sign of him. His wife fears for him, and my own is searching Bree with Giliath as we speak. There are whispers of strange folk abroad, dark men with dark purpose... we thought best to send for aid... though I had no hope you yourself might be here, brother."

Aragorn stirs then, glancing to the Beorning ere he shakes his head. "The folk of Grimbeorn know a little of our ways, Hare -- you need not guard every word. But you bring ill news indeed -- I had only just heard of the wedding!"

The Dunadan looks to Rochwen. "You also know the man Seeker?"

Halla, lingering on the sidelines, at last ventures to speak. "The folk of Beorn also know that sometimes bad news is better heard without strangers. I'll leave you folk to your business." She nods first to Aragorn, then to Rochwen, looking a little abashed.

"There's mead in the hall, and a warm fire there too," she tells the fellow known as the Hare. "Looks like you could use it." Amazingly, the gruff words are spoken without irony - there is even a trace of sympathy. Then off she stomps through the snow. As she disappears out of sight a final muttered, "Blasted unnatural weather," drifts back on the breeze.

Blue-gold eyes, filled with concern, turn toward Aragorn. "Yes, I do," the healer admits, "He and his wife sheltered here this past winter. I helped bring their children into the world, and promised Seeker I would watch over his lady while he was gone in Bree the rest of the season. I spent many a day with them," a pause, a glance down at her boots before she looks back up, "I consider them good friends, nearly like family."

"They say elven hearts are moved easily to friendship," says Aragorn then, "but rarely so when it is with one of the Edain. Your friendship honours him, lady, and speaks much on his behalf. This riddle will be solved, I promise you that, for it seems that I myself must break tryst and leave ere we can race. Pardon me on that score, I pray, and we shall do all we can to find Seeker. It is yet to be hoped there need be no rescue...?" he adds, arching an eyebrow towards the Hare.

The other man shakes his head gently, and clenches a fist. "The suspicion is he has been kidnapped, lord. I fear our swords may be needed after all."

The elleth wraps her cloak around her, her fingers tightening at the words she next hears. "If Seeker is in need of help, let the race be forgotten and forgiven," she says, her worry growing, "What of his wife, Muirgheal? And the children? Do you know what has come of them?"

"They are safe," replies the Hare then, who watches Halla's departure with a steely yet not unkind eye. "They lodge with friends, and as far as we know their hiding place has not been discovered. Indeed, there is little reason to believe they are a target for whoever is behind these deeds Annaiel thinks it is Rhifaroth's southern life that has gotten him into trouble."

"As was feared when first we took him into our company," remarks Aragorn then, meeting the other man's eyes. "Trouble has a way of following those who wander often, as we of all folk should know well know. If his dealings before his arrival here endanger others, I shall be not pleased, Lominhur. A guest does not bring darkness to the doorstep of his host."

The Hare, now revealed to be Lominhur, bows his head at this.

Some of the unease in the elleth leaves, but yet some remains, like a shadow over her. "I am glad to hear they are well and safe," she says softly, "But I know firsthand that Muirgheal might yet worry herself to sickness with Seeker's absence." She is quiet a moment, listening as they speak. "I know not of Seeker's past, only what I've seen while he yet stayed here." A sigh escapes the elleth, "I have hope this this will turn out for the better, yet...my heart will be heavy till yet I can pass by Bree with those on the road to the Bardic Congress, and see for myself."

"On our way, we shall leave signs that your trackers might read," assures the Dunadan, with a touch of softness. "We shall discover how Muirgheal fares, and find a way to direct you to her. With luck, there is naught to fear on her account, even with the danger to her husband."

He sniffs then, and looks sharply to Lominhur to ask: "With breakfast inside you and a time to rest, can you be ready to leave again ere the night falls?"

"Of course, lord," nods the Hare then, straightening his back. "I shall seek out the stablemaster even before the kitchens."

=== Elathrad's DESC ==========================================================

He is tall and slender, after the manner of his kind his movements are languid and effortlessly flowing.

Long years tame sharp features, gentling a proud, high forehead, quelling a thin mouth given to speech and easy smiles. His eyes are a pale, distant grey: deep as wells, bright as stars, and perpetually hooded, as if he were constantly weary. His hair is dark as ink, coursing in a thin tail down his back.

The garments he wears are finely woven, made of grey wool cut in an antique style. Upon his entire form he bears no ornament or jewel. But a great mantle, aged black fading to brown, sits heavy upon his shoulders.

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=== Halla's DESC =============================================================

A tall, lanky woman in her middle years, straight and supple as a tree, with long limbs and calloused palms. Her flame-red hair has been pulled back into an unruly braid, from which a few tendrils escape to wreath her face. This is oval, its complexion chafed and roughened by many years of sun and wind, and spattered with many freckles, which have welded into a solid mass across her long, straight nose. Eyes the grey-green of forest moss peer out beneath two strongly defined brows.

She is clad in a long tan-coloured tunic over a shirt of undyed wool, laced at the neck, and breeches of rust-brown. The only splash of colour in her garments is the woven belt at her waist, a melting of orange, blue and green, on which her valuables pouch and eating-knife are slung. The sturdy wooden-soled boots that protect her feet suggest that she travels regularly over rough terrain. Slung over her shoulder is a simple woodsman's axe.

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=== Aragorn's DESC ===========================================================

The man before you is tall, that much is clear. A good few inches seperate him from what one would think of as the norm for the men of Eriador, and he stands proudly with his back straight. What is not clear is what features he has, for they are masked by the shadow of a deep cowl his clothing likewise wrapped in the cloth of a heavy cloak. Sturdy walking boots can be seen where this cloak ends, and from his sleeves sprout rough hands, but aught else is hidden by his garb, which surely is designed to brave the harshest of weather. From within his hood a keen gaze twinkles amiably whenever the light catches it, but even so, the point of a scabbard peeks out by the side of his knees suggesting that this fellow is perhaps not one to catch in a darker mood.

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=== Rochwen's DESC ===========================================================

Petite...very petite.

This might be the very first thought to come upon laying sight on this elleth, for when compared to others of her kind, she proves tiny in comparison. Nevertheless, she stands with a strong stance, a welcoming half-smile played across a heart-shaped face. Her skin is pale, and eyes a bright and innocent blue, with flecks of gold in them hinting at hidden mischief. Straight hair of a dark auburn falls to just above her collarbone, framing slender shoulders.

Her clothing is simple, yet elegant. Her legs are clad in light gray breeches, while sturdy boots of a dark leather are laced to just below her knees. The tunic she wears is a rich dark blue, and long fingers peek out from under long bell sleeves. The neckline is a gentle oval, and the sleeves are slit along one side up to the elbow, revealing a nearly white shirt layered underneath. The hemming on both has been done is copper thread, with tiny designs of oak trees, horses and stars portrayed. A belt of the same leather as the boots rests low on her hips, bearing a pouch for hold things, and a small knife for everyday tasks requiring a sharp edge.

She wears no jewelry, save a necklace, though it is barely visible as she has tucked most of the length beneath her shirt. From was little can be seen, it is delicate and golden, with stones the color of seawater woven through it. Even from a distance, it appears to be old perhaps even older than the elleth whose neck it rests upon.

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