Mushed raspberries

                              Breelands Weather                              
The twilight summer air is very hot and dry around you. The sky is clear and the moon shines brightly. The moon is above the horizon and in its last quarter phase.

The Chetwood
There is a large clearing in the trees here, a few hundred meters on each side. The clearing is in the shape of a rough oval, longer in the east-west direction than it is north-south. At the eastern side, the surrounding pines and thickets are thin enough that a faint trail can be made out. On all other sides the plant life appears to be impassable. Blinking fireflies fill the air about the clearing... Thousands of the insects flash on and then off... The scene is breathtaking. The last quarter moon seems a poor cousin to this beautiful display. The clearing is surrounded by a wall of towering pines and deep thicket. The barrier is thin enough in the east to allow passage, but thick enough in all other directions to stop all but the smallest of creatures.
Contents:
Brandebras
Rhifaroth
Nauthcel
Ered-Luin Encampment
Dwarven Camp
Obvious exits:
North, East, and West


[Frarin] Morning over the Chetwood is no better than the night. The air is so still and hot that it is almost stifling, and dry enough to parch the lips. Night at least, however, brings the relief of an absent sun and there is no such good fortune now. The clear sky is blue and yellow as the rising sun beats down upon the wood and those unfortunate enough to be in the open. The only relief this morn is that the sun has yet to reach its zenith. Long shadows are still cast about the ground.

But trees are not the only forms to cast a shadow today. In this large clearing within the forest there are grouped an array of small tents and resting ponies. About the camp wander also numerous dwarves and even a tall man or two. But few are there in this gathering who walk unhindered, without a limp or slouch, or without the supplies of one tending to such injuries. Indeed, many of the folk do not walk at all, but rest at the edge of the wood where it meets the clearing or else beneath one of the tents, most of which are opened at both ends to allow a meagre flow of fresh air.

One of those dwarves who does not walk, or indeed move much at all, is the silver merchant Frarin. He has been moved somewhat, carefully carried to the relative cover at the edge of the wood to protect again the relentless sun, though there is a makeshift tent over his head at well. But he moves very little, laid flat as he is, with only a rolled blanket to prop his head up. He is clad in a dusty green tunic that looks slightly to short for him and his left arm is bound at his side. For now, he sleeps relatively peacefully, shallow breaths raising his chest now and again, though any careful inspection might reveal the said chest to be marred by a sunken depression.

[Brandebras(#25187)] Out in the woods there is rustling. The twittering birds do not seem alarmed - perhaps it is merely a badger made restless by the summer heat, or an unusually clumsy deer? But then the sounds become clearer: the pitter-patter of running feet, the snap of twigs and slap of leafy branches, interspersed by an occasional breathless whimper. A pair of jays rise up in alarm, fluttering and calling wildly.

[Frarin] From the centre of the camp comes one dwarf clad in a red uniform of sorts. Indeed, with the end of a knee-length chain mail hauberk poking from beneath his short surcoat and a heavy war hammer at his side, he seems to be a soldier of the dwarves. But at the moment he is not on guard, for he bears no helm and carries a tin bowl of some yellow broth instead of his weapon.

Hal son of Halim, a Master Defender in the ranks of the dwarves, moves carefully through the long grasses of the grove so as not to spill his burden. His direction is towards the open tent where lies the broken silver merchant, but his steps slow as a pair of birds take suddenly to the air and the patter of soft feet comes from the wood surrounding. The soldier halts, one hand going to the hammer at his side, alarmed eyes suddenly prodding the depths of Chetwood.

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    There are no tall ones about to be seen. In fact, it seems that the Rangers have been quite absent of late except to come and go briefly. Even the elf Giliath has been absent for the most part. Only Rhifaroth remains, unable to travel well, yet.

    The man is somewhere off in the edge of the wood again, along that western trail's edge. He has managed to cut a second staff to begin patiently fashioning a second crutch.

    At the sound of some disturbance, the man's hands hold off their work of stripping bark, and he turns his head to listen.

[Brandebras(#25187)] The rustling grows louder ... Suddenly a small figure bursts into the clearing, wild-eyed and dishevelled. The hobbit's curly hair is filled with broken bits of twig, his face is scratched and his trousers ripped, and a button is missing from his buttercup-yellow waistcoat. Over his arm is a wicker basket that is still half-filled, its contents now a red pulpy mess.

The hobbit's panic-filled eyes widen at the sight of all these tents and dwarven figures, but momentum carries his short legs on regardless, taking him on a course toward the prone Frarin - just as well that soup-bearing figure has stepped forward to block his path. The hobbit's arms windmill furiously as he tries to halt. "Help!" he gasps, the sound a near-squeak. "A t-troll!"

Above their heads, the morning sun streams down bright and warm. The two squawking jays circle once above the clearing, then settle once more on their chosen branch.

[Z'hrina(#21413)]
    "Troll?!" calls an excited voice from the dwarven camp. The voice belongs to another of those who limp, but the mention of trolls seems to have gotten it moving as quickly as injuries will allow. "Where?" He is, of course, not dressed for battle, though his war hammer is at his side. Bending to the ground, he snags it up and scans the horizon. "Where is it?"

[Frarin] The effect that the dishevelled hobbit has on the camp of dwarves is momentous. Who knew that such a squeaky little voice could cause such an uproar? For indeed, as the first dwarven voice rings out the clearing to question the poor hobbit, the entire camp begins to move. Those healthy enough stand and reach suddenly for near-at-hand weapons.

With the unexpected noise, Frarin's eyes flicker open sleepily from beneath his tent and his head rolls curiously to one side. Hal's eyes narrow and his brows come swiftly together as he steps towards the hobbit, his soup sloshing dangerously in the bowl. "Where? And how close? Speak quickly!"

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    Hearing the shouting and ensuing racket that only Dwarves are capable of making, Rhifaroth frowns and manages to drag himself back up to his feet using a near tree. He picks up his crutch and begins to limp and hobble out of the trees into the west path, and then into the clearing, "Are you folk daft? It's daylight - no trolls about during the day."

    The man does seem a touch annoyed, looking around.

[Z'hrina(#21413)]
    The first dwarf to cry 'troll' appears a bit dubious at the man's suggestion that it is daylight, and thus no trolls are about. The expression on his face alters slightly, then falls to one of ... disappointment? Slowly, the hammer falls to the ground at his feet and he mutters. "Eh, right. Daylight." Then he tightens his grip on the hammer again. "What better time to hunt 'em out, eh? We kin find *their* camp, kill 'em while they sleep!" He looks around the camp eagerly, as if a child being offered an unexpected gift.

[Brandebras(#25187)] "Out there-" The hobbit, having succeeded in coming to a stop before Hal's precious soup was spilt, twists his head this way and that as though trying to decide in which direction he had come. Eventually he settles on sweeping a shaking hand in a semicircle above his head. "I was p-picking berries, and this- this horrible sh-shadow came out of nowhere, and I ran as fast as I could ... You won't let it eat me?" The bright brown eyes that seek out first Hal and then Danir are pleading.

The sceptical human voice that cuts across his tale leaves him open mouthed. "B-but-" Slowly his breathing calms. "Am I safe, then?" Danir's mutterings seeme to leave him a bit uncertain about that.

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    There is a ... hobbit in the camp! A brightly colored little waif of a hobbit that is at once familar to the tattooed and scarred man's pale grey eyes. Rhifaroth frowns, standing up straight on his good right leg and shifts the crutch to eye the lad, "Brand ... bras, something like?"

    With a glance around the Dwarven camp, at folk who should know better than to get all riled up over a troll in the middle of the bright, sunshiny morning, he sighs as he looks back at the Hobbit, "Yes, you are likely safe enough, if the Dwarves don't eat you, lad."

[Frarin] That sudden initial panic at the mere word 'troll' subsides quickly, and rather bashfully as dwarves go, at Rhifaroth's annoyed shout. The tension begins to deflate, but several of those near enough to hear the hobbit without him shouting still appear discontent. Frarin says nothing from his makeshift bed, though that does not seem a option anyhow. Hal, on the other hand, has rather a lot to say.

"If daft be alertness, then aye, we be daft," he calls back to Rhifaroth, equally annoyed. And turning to the hobbit, the blunt soldier does little to ease Brandebras' fear. "No, you are not safe, Master Hobbit. There is not a stone or tree safe in the country as things now stand." He points a merciless finger at the poor fellow. "Did you not even look behind you to see what the shadow was?"

[Brandebras(#25187)] Rhifaroth's recognition seems dissipate the last of the hobbit's panic, for he nods and then draws himself up proudly. "Brandebras Bywater, messenger and errand-runner. And I know you - you're the man with the drawings-" he lifts a muddy hand to rub at his own face, catches himself, and substitutes, "Mister Rhifferth. What are you doing out here?"

Alas, he doesn't have time to wait for an answer, for Hal's questioning catches him off-guard. "I just ran," he admits, but then adds defensively, "I did look, sort of. It was big, and knotty, like a t-tree." The words trail off and he stares down at his feet, all covered in mud and burrs. Poor hobbit.

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    The man mutters something under his breath that might sound like, "Probaby -was- a tree." but it's not loud enough to be clear. Admittedly, Hal is right that they should all the same be cautious and alert. Rhifaroth inclines his head to that Dwarf's wise words and shifts to turn and look back in the direction the Hobbit came scampering from, but he makes no further comment.

    Not the least to answer Brandebras's question about what -he- is doing out here.

[Frarin] Well that does it. The lingering tension dissipates entirely at the hobbit's stammer and weapons are sheathed and thrown back into belts. A great deal of mutinous muttering about 'these silly Breelanders' goes up around the camp as dwarves return to their wounded comrades.

Hal for one looks displeased and irritated, and is too busy throwing an unhappy scowl at the unfortunate Brandebras to notice Rhifaroth's acknowledging nod. "Oh come now, Master Hobbit," Hal grumbles, still irritable, the hand upon his war hammer going to his hip. "Do you know what this company has been through? We've /seen/ a troll, I'll tell you something. And we make sure it /is/ a troll before we get all riled about it."

[Brandebras(#25187)] Brandebras' head snaps up at Hal's words. "Then - there /are/ trolls about? Old Granddaddy Nuthatch said he'd heard strange noises in the forest, but I thought he was just making it up-" He starts trembling again, and stares wordlessly at the prone Flarin. "Wh- what happened?" He hunches his shoulders - suddenly this camp doesn't feel such a good place to be after all. Those tents look so flimsy!

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    The injured man lets out a sigh, scraping a hand through his dishevled hair to sweep it from his battered face, "Don't get your breeches in a twist, young Brandebras. With fifty or more armed dwarves about, you are probably as safe here... as you would be in Bree, just now."

    What an odd thing to say, considering the topic of trolls and whatnot. And all the obviously injured here, including this man.

    All the same, Rhifaroth sees little point in panicing the youth, "Now why don't you tell us what you are doing so far out and about?"

[Z'hrina(#21413)]
    When it appears that nobody will take his suggestion seriously, Danir allows the grip on his hammer to fall slack again and lowers it to the ground. Puffing out his chest, he affects a new stance and mutters under his breath towards the dwarf nearest him, "Leave it to hobbits." Towards the hobbit in question, Danir looks and also asks, "What are you doing out here, lad?"
The old soldier dwarf says nothing to Rhifaroth, only taking his bowl of broth in both hands again. "Nothing good," is Hal's only reply to the hobbit's nervous question, spoken out of the frustration of long stress rather than any desire to spook Brandebras, but that does not make the effect any less unsettling.

He leaves off the hobbit to Danir and starts again towards Frarin, who gives Hal only a tired look, too weak to contribute anything to the situation.

[Brandebras(#25187)] With all that attention on him, the hobbit visibly cringes and, still trembling, struggles to give a coherent answer. "I- I was up in Archet with a message to say Torebras want more wood - building stalls for the Fair, you know - and I remembered a place in the woods where you get good raspberries ..." He stares down at his basket, and the mushy red mess that's all that is left in there, and his lip trembles. "And then I saw something, and I ran, and ..." His words have been getting less and less coherent, and his legs wobbling more and more. Suddenly the exhausted hobbit crumples to the ground, fainted clean away.

[Frarin] Before Hal reaches Frarin, the old soldier seems to reconsider his foreboding words and his steps slow. The hobbit's trembling words seem to actually have the effect of garnering a sliver of pity from him. Turning back with an effort at a smile, Hal coughs. "Sensible, Master Hobbit, to be wary of the wild. Do you see that lad over yonder?" he says, pointing towards a dwarf clad in blue, standing near a campfire. "He'll serve you up a bowl of stew if you ask proper. No more of this troll business, aye?" And that's that. Hal nods once and continues on to the prone Frarin with the silver merchant's meagre meal.

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    There is a frown from the tall man as he watches the young hobbit pass right out and flop onto the ground - likely as not to have heard Hal's words offering the stew. Pale, silvery grey eyes glance up at the bright, soon to be stifflng hot sun, then to the lad, "Well, we better get him into some shade."

    Not bothering to ask the dwarves to be kind to the poor Brandebras, the man turns to go back into the trees to cut some shady branches which can be propped right over the lad where he lays. Rhifaroth isn't much in the mood to be dragging more folk about over the ground just yet.

A little while later


[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    It is late morning now, heading on towards the nooning hour. The sun is well nigh zenith but the day is not yet nearly as hot as it will be in a few more hours.

    Rhifaroth has retired to the shade at the edge of the trees, not far from where Brandebras was left laying. Having errected a few shady branches to shade the as best as he may, using a few stones to set them, the man is now sitting up working on his second crutch. His tattooed hands work quietly, having nothing else to do anyway, lashing on the second crutch top's padding. Once the lower grip is added, the man will finally be able to get around a bit more easily.

[Brandebras(#25187)] Brandebras stirs. Perhaps it's that bee that has just zoomed past his nose, perhaps it is just that it's a very long time since breakfast, and longer still since supper ... whatever the reason, the prone hobbit suddenly yawns, rubs at his eyes and rolls over. "Hot. Too many blankets," he mutters and rolls over. When his outstretched hand finds not cloth, but a roughly set branch, he sits up /very/ quickly.

[Frarin] As the sun journeys towards it's highest point, beads of sweat gather on Frarin's brow. The dwarf sits now with his back against the smooth skin of a small tree, bundled blankets gently placed between him and the tree to keep his back as straight as possible and restrain him from slouching. The extra measure seems hardly necessary, however, for the silver merchant appears to make every effort not to slouch he blanches everytime his mind wanders and his shoulders begin to hunch.

His rough, browned face is now unusually pale as he sits with sleeves rolled up. The bound left arm hangs from a sling at his side, but he is otherwise nearly completely still save for his roving eyes, the effort at sitting up seeming to command all of his attention.

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    Rhifaroth's glance flickers up at the Hobbit's sudden movement. Almost at once he glances back at what he is doing, wrapping a thin piece of leather lacing he has cut, around a bit of rolled cloth over the end of the crutch's arm support. After a momement he begins to tie it off, not looking back up, "Welcome back, Brandebras."

    Frarin's new position has been noted, but the man has made no attempt to reapproach the other since the other day.

[Brandebras(#25187)] Brandebras squints towards Rhifaroth, screws up his features in thought then slowly turns his head to peer round the Dwarven camp, his brown eyes wide and wondering. Then, to the world at large, he queries, "Where am I?"
A sharp intake of breath passes between Frarin's clenched teeth as his unharmed right arm reaches up to rub the beads of sweat of his brow. The effort seems to cost him more than he had hoped, for he succeeds only in touching the hand to his right temple before it drops gingerly to the earth. His gaze drops to the nearby hobbit, whom he regards even as perspiration gathers beneath his dark eyes.

"Among...the dwarves..." says Frarin quietly and with an effort, his usual deep grumble now more gravelly and strained. And he adds, with a touch more sympathy than Hal had several hours before, "Master...Hobbit."

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    About to give some probably sarcastic answer, the man glances up as the thinks he hears Frarin's voice. Or some whispery, weazing version of sound that could have come from him.

    Shifting the new crutch that isn't entirely functional yet, Rhifaroth manages to get to his feet, keeping his weight off his bad leg as usual. Using both crutches now, though the one isn't entirely finished, he begins to ease out of the shade of the trees and out towards the Dwarven camp - towards Frarin, specifically.

    A glance is spared for the hobbit, but no comment. Once he has drawn close to Frarin, Rhifaroth stands up straight on his good leg and lays his right forarm over the tops of both of his crutches before himself, looking at the Dwarf.

    "I was wondering if we would ever hear your rumble again, Frarin."

[Brandebras(#25187)] At Frarin's response Brandebras turns his head to regard the injured dwarf, wincing at the other's battered state. "You look like you took a pretty bad tumble," he comments sympathetically, then reiterates, "But /where/ am I? Where's here? I remember running, and then I was here, and then ... my basket?!" He scrambles to his feet, blinking groggily.

[Frarin] The silver merchant attempts to straighten his posture even more than before, as if to take any pressure possible off of his broken chest and mid-section. This movement brings another wince, another sharp, shallow breath, but does seem a partial relief. The approach of the hobbled Rhifaroth is acknowledged more by Frarin's eyes than anything, for while they flick up to the man, he does not make the effort to tip his head back lest it disturb his precarious immobility.

"If...you can...call it...that," he says in that same halted, strained voice. The index finger on his right hand points up towards Rhifaroth himself, though the hand remains on the ground. "And...you?" he asks quietly. Frarin manages a weak smile towards Brandebras, but refrains from making the effort of a response.

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    Rhifaroth turns his strangely marked face back towards the young hobbit, "Brandebras, you are in the Chetwood, not far from Combe and the East Road. You thought you saw a troll, remember?"

    With a glance up at the bright blue sky as though seeking patience from Manwe himself, the man then redirects his attention to Frarin, "I'm all right - getting about some now. Going to head for Bree shortly, I think." Rhifaroth gives the Dwarf a looking over then adds, "One way or another, this will be over very soon. They are within one day's hard march of the town, if they put their minds to it."

[Brandebras(#25187)] Brandebras casts wildly around until his gaze falls on his basket, sitting untouched beside the makeshift shelter. "There it is!" He beams happily, and stretches out a hand as though to lift it, then quickly pulls it back. A couple of wasps describe lazy circles about the handle, while the buzzing within suggests that some of their fellows are already enjoying the bounty it contains. "Oh." The hobbit heaves a long sigh.

Only then does he respond to Rhifaroth. "Which way is Combe?" he asks first, but hard on the heels of that comes another question. "Marching to town - are you all coming to the Fair, then? It'd be nice to have some more visitors." His rosy face radiates enthusiasm (and a little perspiration - it is hot, after all).

[Frarin] Frarin gives a barely perceptible nod at the man's dark words. "They will," he manages with a quiet grunt, fingers of his right hand impatiently tapping the dirt. A long breath escapes him as his eyes flick towards the hot summer sky, perhaps willing the sun to disappear. "Bree..." he rasps after a long moment, a grumble at the base of his throat revealing some deep thought.

He drops his gaze and gives Brandebras a meaningful look that penetrates beyond the constant grimace in the dwarf's face. "Not all...visitors...welcome," he strains, giving a shallow nod. "Unwelcome company."

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    Dark mood is ... turned to wry humor with a small effort, as the man looks back at the young, innocent Hobbit. It might be a kindness to preserve that innocence, if possible, "Why ... yes, indeed we would like that very much." Looking rather meaningfully at the injured Dwarf, Rhifaroth adds with a firmness to his voice, "Wouldn’t we, master Frarin?"

    To the other part, the Dunadan motions to the north and west, "That way, lad. Go west, and a bit north, if memory serves. Not far at all."

    Back to Frarin, the man adds in a very low voice, "A certain ... distraction has been set before the host. It will perhaps hold them in place for a while, yet."

[Brandebras(#25187)] Brandebras' bright eyes shift to Frarin. He hesitates only a moment, then states earnestly, "/You'd/ be welcome. The healers like looking after hurt folk. Even if you can't walk, we could get you to the Healers House somehow. They have proper beds there." The cursory glance he gives to the orderly rows of tents speaks volumes.

Turning to Rhifaroth, he nods solemnly. "Thank you, Mister Rhifferth. I suppose I ought to be getting back - I feel awful hungry, though." The words are spoken simply enough, though his features are somewhat bemused - Hobbits do, after all, have quite sharp hearing.

[Frarin] Rhifaroth's kindness is not missed by Frarin. The dwarf's gaze sinks down a moment as his tired mind grapples with the man's words to Brandebras, but as the movement pulls at his shoulders, another grimace passes across the merchant's face. With an effort, that grimace slips into a small smile, which he lifts to the hobbit. "Yes...pleased," he manages. He raises his eyes up and tips his head as if indicating the entire camp. "We dwarves...grumpy...unwelcome visitors....perhaps." The smile is rekindled, though he cannot seem to force the effort to translate the look to his eyes. "But, we'll...come."

Unable as he is to move much, Frarin's head does not shift as Rhifaroth speaks quietly to him, though his eyes do blink wearily towards the man. But without his gaze turned, the dwarf catches the look on the inquisitive Brandebras' features. A rasp rattles forth from Frarin's chest, something like an effort to meaningfully clear his throat.

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    There is a kindly smile for the poor young Hobbit, who has had a frightening day. Rhifaroth's voice is low as he turns back, still leaning his weight upon his good leg, arms crossed relaxed over the top of his crutches, "I'd offer you something, Brandebras, but I must rely on the assistance of my elven friend, Giliath, for my meals just now. Until I can hunt again."

    But, his grey eyes look over the Dwarven encampment and the many cooking fires warming up food for the nooning meal, "Likely enough someone here will be considerate enough to let you have something before you are on your way."

    There is a glance back to the prone Frarin, the man's voice picking up once more a bit of humor to it, "Even grumpy, pricklish Dwarves seem to have a shred of hospitality to non-threatening folk."

[Brandebras(#25187)] "Oh, would they, do you think?" Brandebras' voice has a hopeful note to it as he eyes the nearest cooking fires - regards everything within view, in fact, his brown eyes bright with curiosity.

He does, however, spare another pitying glance for Frarin. "I can see if any of the Combe farmers would send a pony out for you?" he offers, and then his brow creases. Pony ... horse ... "Mister Rhifferth, didn't you have a horse?" he pipes up suddenly.

[Frarin] Frarin nods as Rhifaroth suggests the hobbit seek out something to eat from one of the dwarven cooking fires. But at Brandebras' pitying offer of a pony for him, a touch more colour leaves the dwarf's already pale face and he gives a small shake of his head. "Couldn't ride...like...this," he gasps with the same shallow, interspersed breaths.

Dark eyes flick up again as Frarin looks to Rhifaroth, partly because of the hobbit's inquiry about the horse, partly because of the man's own comment. Another weak smile passes over Frarin's face. "Indeed," he says. "And those...who...help us." This last halting sentence may be an attempt to continue the wry humour, but there is also a glimmer in the dwarf's eyes, a probing glance perhaps, as he glances up at Rhifaroth.

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    Brandebras's young, chipper voice draws the Dunadan's attention back to the Hobbit. He hesitates a moment considering the question, "Yes, Elfaron's mine, back at the Prancing Pony's stables." Another of those Sindarin names. But this time the man frowns thoughtfully, considering.

    "He would be handy, just now... but, I doubt master Acelen would give him up easily. I've been gone from Bree ..." Another hesitation to consider, "More than two months now?" Humor then lights his pale eyes, "I expect I owe that man a small sum in boarding fees by now."

    Frarin's last comment draws Rhifaroth's attention, just for a moment, a glance of his own gaze for the Dwarf. But he says nothing.

[Brandebras(#25187)] "But you can't just stay here," Brandebras protests to Frarin, clearly appalled. "We - Breefolk - don't stay out in the Chetwood after dark. What if there's trolls?" Like the tree-shaped one he himself fled from? But the young hobbit does look genuinely concerned.
"I can take a message to the stablemaster for you," he offers Rhifaroth absently.

[Frarin] Even as gruff as the dwarf's face is under normal circumstances and as drawn as it is under present circumstances, Frarin actually manages to gives the hobbit a look of appreciative gratitude. Again a thin smile emerges from his grimace. "Sensible...not after dark," he strains. "Tomorrow...perhaps...Not now...can barely...sit up."

As if to make his point, he restraightens again. A bead of sweat rolls down from his brow. He says nothing more to Rhifaroth and does not direct his gaze up again for the moment, continuing to look towards Brandebras. "We will come...but...not now. No." The last word contains more sentiment than the entirety of the last sentence, as if the thought of jostling about in the back of a wagon is too much even for Frarin to imagine at the moment.

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    The tall man looks back at the Hobbit as Brandebras speaks of darkness and trolls once more, then makes offer to carry a message. Something occurs to the man and he nods his head once, "Actually, a message... Do you know Toby Appledore or his espoused, Lucille?"

    Rhifaroth watches the young neffew of the town's Mayor. His right hand leaves his crutches to his left and it goes to pull his small pack around where he can reach it, flipping it open to rummage in it. From a pouch inside of his pack, Rhifaroth pulls out not one, but two silver coins. He flips these towards the young Hobbit, "Keep the silver penny for yourself, lad, and give the silver dime to Acelen. Tell him where you saw me, nothing more."

    Then the man adds, "The message I would have you take to Toby Appledore is only that I am alive. Will you do this for me, young Brandebras?" There is, for the moment, no comment to Frarin.

[Brandebras(#25187)] "Tomorrow," Brandebras agrees to Frarin, turning away swiftly in an attempt to hide his pitying expression.
He listens carefully to Rhifaroth's speech. "I know Toby - by sight, anyway. He's not very talkative. But I'll tell him or Ms Ivybrook if I see them." He nods as though to commit the message to memory, before reaching out to take the coins. "And I'll give this to the stablemaster. He smiles almost reassuringly up at the tattooed man. "Now I think I better get some food, it's a long long way back to Combe." He nods at the odd pair he's been conversing with, and moves away toward a fire with an enticing-smelling pot hung above it.

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    "Brandebras... not -if- you see them, seek Toby out at once. Or Lucille - they have a house in lower, east Bree - a stone house. Leave them a note shoved under their door, if you must. But please, let them know as soon as you can. It is ... important to me. Please." Rhifaroth adds quietly with serious voice, "And Acelen, promptly. If you do, I'll gladly pass you another silver penny when I am back. Yes?"

[Frarin] The dwarf nods after Brandebras as the hobbit departs in search of something to eat. He glances up as Rhifaroth presses the issue of his message more seriously, but says nothing for the time, only looking to the hobbit.

[Brandebras(#25187)] Brandebras, already half-way to the fire, turns back to Rhifaroth looking slightly hurt. "I've said I'll deliver your message to the stablemaster," he reiterates. "I keep my word. And I can leave Mister Appledore a note." Relief is writ plain on his round face that he won't have to face the moody Toby Appledore in person (well, unless he's unlucky).

He seems about to continue on his way, then hesitates and at last blurts out, "Thank you to you folks for looking after me. I really did think it was a troll." Cheeks red and head downturned, he moves off to lift his spirits with a cheering cup of soup.

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 

There is a curt nod for the young hobbit ere Bradebras has entirely turned away. The man smiles a little, thinly, "Good lad."

[Frarin] After the hobbit is gone, Frarin manages something like a sigh, but with the look of pain that crosses his face forces the sigh into something more akin to a normal breath. Then his breathing grows shallow and short again. "Good lad," he says quietly in that same strained, gravelly voice. "If only..." The additional comment drifts off, this time apparently from a lack of desire to continue it rather than an inability to. "Well, we go...to Bree. Then...we see."

Frarin's gaze falls again, though this time it seems to be from frustration instead of weariness, for the shadows deepen around his mouth and gaze. His right hand lifts slightly, waving vaguely towards himself. "Not so bad...if...I weren't...so...useless." The last word is fairly spat, and the effort costs Frarin another pang of pain.

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    From where he stands near to Frarin, lightly leaning upon his two cruches to shift his weight upon his good leg to ease it, Rhifaroth turns his head back to the Dwarf. There is a hint of compassion in his tone, "Frarin, you have company in that sentiment. I shall not be fighting again, any time soon myself."

    Glancing back at the noonday fires, then back to the injured Dwarf, the man adds in a low voice, "I'll bring you some broth to sip, if I can. Or ask for it, lest I spill it about. Then you should sleep some, if you are able." Grey eyes look about for Thari, "Perhaps some willow bark tea, for pain, if Thari has some or I can gather it - if she allows."

[Frarin] A frustrated scowl is directed at the ground at first, as if Rhifaroth's attempt to comfort Frarin's sense of helplessness has little impact. But the silver merchant has not the strength to remain angry, it seems, for he soon lifts his gaze and straightens uncomfortably, nodding appreciatively. "War...has tragedy...beyond death, as well," he rasps, coughing lightly.

To the man's offer, Frarin nods again. He blinks slowly, tired but also thoughtful. His gaze goes up, this time his head as well as his eyes, and the dwarf looks fully at Rhifaroth. "Thank you," he says simply, meaningfully, a hint of the old rumble pushing past the difficulty of speaking. Then his eyes flick down to the ground again as if suddenly weary beyond the pride of a stiff upper lip. His shoulders slouch and the familiar pained expression returns.

[Rhifaroth(#27282)] 
    There is that hint of an almost sad smile to the man again. Something a little less rough, a little more relaxed to him, of late than before maybe. He shifts the crutches to under his arms and prepares to move off to see about that soup. "Well, I've been something of a burden on ... these Ranger folk, and others, a good deal myself the past six months. I've appriciated their efforts, when they could have let me die. Several times, now."

    And then Rhifaroth moves off, to ask about that soup, and of Thari so that Frarin might have something to ease his pain a little.

    Indeed, the man isn't gone very long before he comes back and then settles himself stiffly down upon the ground just inside the shade of the tarp's shadow, not far from Frarin. He lays his crutches aside and takes off his small pack, setting it where he might lean against it. Then he glances back at the Dwarf, "Thari'll bring both. Rest a bit and she'll come soon, master Frarin."

    So saying, Rhifaroth leans himself back to lay his own head against his pack to rest a bit - the heat of the day is now rising, and there is not much else worth doing but sleeping through it, if one can.

[Frarin] The man returns from his errand and Frarin offers a brief nod, eyes already half closed as the heat of the afternoon and the effort of talking take their toll on the dwarf. His shoulders begin to hunch forward, which bring his eyes snapping painfully open. Taking a decisive breath, he gently presses the back of his head against the tree behind him and uses his good right arm to gingerly manuver himself.

A harsh, muffled grunt accompanies the tightening of Frarin's jaw, but he manages to ease himself back into a lying position, where the risk of falling painfully forward in sleep is no more.

Blinking sleepily, the silver merchant drifts gradually into unconsciousness, waiting for neither soup nor a medicine against pain before he allows his eyelids to shut against the coming of the noon sun.